Disclaimer: The world of JK Rowling doesn't belong to me (damn), and neither do the words of the song I'm using, whose writers I'll find and proclaim. Don't sue me. I, unfortunately, am not that rich.
A/N: Hey! Cheers for checking out the story. Basically, it's a sort of dark-fic, about Harry more or less trying to escape his past, present and future (excuse the cliché), and just how bad Voldemort wants to lure him back. How far he's willing to go to do so. Be warned – it has heavy spoilers for OoTP, the first bit of this story being a direct excerpt. As well, the words in italics are of two types – the type with speechmarks are songwords, while the rest are thoughts. If I haven't put you off by this long introduction, then do keep going. I hope you like this.
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"Come on, you can do better than that!" he yelled, his voice echoing around the cavernous room.
The second jet of light him squarely in the chest.
The laughter had not quite died from his face, but his eyes widened in shock.
Harry released Neville, though he was unaware of doing so. He was jumping down the steps again, pulling out his wand, as Dumbledore, too, turned towards the dais.
It seemed to take Sirius an age to fall: his body curved in a graceful arc as he sank backwards through the rugged veil hanging from the arch.
Harry saw the look of mingled fear and surprise on his godfather's wasted, once-handsome face as he fell through the ancient doorway and disappeared behind the veil, which fluttered for a moment as though in a high wind, then fell back into place.
Harry heard Bellatrix Lestrange's triumphant scream, but knew it meant nothing – Sirius had only just fallen through the archway, he would reappear from the other side any second…
But Sirius did not reappear.
"SIRIUS!" Harry yelled. "SIRIUS!"
He had reached the floor, his breath coming in searing gasps. Sirius must be just behind the curtain, he, Harry, would pull him back out…
But as he reached the ground and sprinted towards the dais, Lupin grabbed Harry around the chest, holding him back.
"There's nothing you can do, Harry – "
"Get him, save him, he's only just gone through!"
"- It's too late, Harry."
"We can still reach him – " Harry struggled hard and viciously, but Lupin would not let go…
"There's nothing you can do, Harry… nothing… he's gone."
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He didn't realize that he was weeping. The tears that cascaded down his handsome face fell from ancient eyes – eyes that had witnessed more terror and shed more tears than any young man should ever have had to face. His unkempt black hair billowed as ever in the breeze, revealing a small, lightning-bolt scar. What had been his blessing, but was now his curse, made him the marked man he was. Made his living nightmares a hideous reality. Made him kneel at the graves of his parents and godfather.
He was only just 17.
"How far would I go
I had to forget all I know
how long would I ride
If I got tired of hiding how I feel."
The night of his 17th birthday saw Harry Potter at a graveyard, wearily surveying gravestones. Two, deprived from him before he could walk and talk, while the other, held close for a short while, only to be withdrawn like some sadistic bait in a crueller game. Why?, Harry found himself wondering, why me?. God, it just didn't make sense. Ever since that night in his fifth year, he knew his purpose. What was expected of him. After all, he was the boy who lived.
The Boy who died.
I wish.
No, there was never going to be an escape. He was doomed before he could say mama. Not that he'd ever had the chance. And it all came down to one man – if he was that at all. Voldemort. Tom Riddle. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. It didn't matter. He would always be the same bastard who had robbed Harry of his life. Who had carelessly, if not joyfully, taken away the lives of thousands, all nameless and faceless, without giving a damn.
Lily, and James. His parents, not that he could say much about them. You know the story. Everyone does. Evil Lord comes, kills, does boom with his wand, and then flees. But little Harry survived. Then there was Sirius, his godfather, and the closest thing to family he'd ever known – no, the Dursleys didn't count. The grief Sirius's death instilled? He could describe that in a million ways. Or then again, he'd probably never find the words to justify it. Sirius had filled the void in Harry's life – if he couldn't have his father, who better than his best friend? But Sirius too was taken, in front of his eyes, which made it worse because Harry remembered. He was compelled to remember, every moment, from the times he sat at the shores of the lake in the middle of the Hogwarts Grounds, watching other kids be happy, and… well, normal – right to the midst of his dreams and nightmares and everything in between. Usually, he woke up in the middle of the night, shaking violently and sweating profusely. Other times, he'd wake up screaming, crying out into the night. Ron, Neville, Seamus, and Dean were used to it by now. And that was the disturbing thing.
"How deep would I climb,
To bury the truth I find
How small I've become
In this burned out blazing sun,
I'm broke and blue."
The wind blew stronger, and Harry embraced his knees to his body, trying to keep warm. It was a cold night, and as the clouds drifted gracefully to reveal a glorious crescent moon, Harry noticed something moving towards him – large, dark, and rather rugged in shape. A dog.
The Grim.
Sirius would have laughed at that one. Big black dogs seemed to take an affinity for Harry, good or bad. Now, another one was watching him. One of the kinds that haunted the cemeteries in old myths and legends, guarding those who lay to rest in the sanctity of the earth. But it slowly turned around and left, not evidently caring whom the hell he was.
If only the whole world was like that.
"Are you ready, Harry?"
He turned around, his eyes meeting those of the ancient man standing before him. Wise, old, and looking every bit of it, Albus Dumbledore peered at the young man beneath him with the same penetrating look he'd gazed with so many times before, as though trying to peer into his mind. Not that he needed to try to do so, but still.
"I… yeah – I'm sure." Harry said, looking not so sure at all. But he knew what that this was what he needed to do. They would hate him for this. Not like they hated Voldemort – no, they were scared of him. But they'd resent Harry after this one. They'd curse him and drag his name into ruins.
But at least it'd be over.
"You had better be on your way soon."
"I know."
Harry picked up his broomstick and stood, turning to the gravestones one last time. He moved forward, touching each one.
"Bye mom, dad. Sirius."
Then he turned to face his headmaster and mentor. The old man sighed audibly and moved forward to put a hand on Harry's shoulder.
"Take care of yourself."
"I will."
With that, and a final look, he mounted his broomstick and kicked off the ground. Dumbledore watched as his body flew past the old willow trees, gaining acceleration, and going deeper into the night. Till finally – he was out of reach.
The Fidelius Charm – An immensely complex spell involving the magical concealment of a secret inside a single, living soul. The information is hidden inside the chosen person, or Secret-Keeper, and is henceforth impossible to find – unless the secret keeper chooses to divulge it.
What a curious little spell. Firstly, used on the Potters, in hope of concealing their location. A second time, on Grimmauld Place, for the same reason. And now, the third, to shield The Boy Who Lived from the world.
'The Boy Who Lived…' Thought Dumbledore
The Boy Who ran away.