The Merchant of Hogsmeade.
H/L, R/H, G/S … post 7th Book.
Disclaimer: As per usual, the character belong to JK. Rowling. The idea comes from Shakespeare. This is a non-profit organisation. Thank-you very much for stopping by. Nice to meet you.
Author's note: I should NEVER be allowed to refer to the master … dammitt.
Don't ask question's about this little ... invention. I just wrote it in about an hours and I'd never thought of the idea before. So it's pretty unstructured and the idea is not very rounded off or anything. But still please review. I'd really really love ya to!!
In sooth, I know not why I am so sad;
It wearies me; you say it wearies you;
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff't is made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn;
And such a want-wit sadness makes of me
That I have much ado to know myself.
Alas.
Harry swayed … swayed was perhaps not the right word. He wobbled, stirred, tumbled … towards the kitchen table. Luna giggled and pulled him towards her.
Hermione sighed, the depressive stages of her intoxication beginning to take place.
Ron sat on the floor emerged in an attempt to place both legs over his shoulder. Seamus bubbled that it was impossible, Ginny claimed that she had seen Chinese peasants do it on the telwision at Hermione's house.
They laughed mostly. It was fun. Life was fun. What else can be said after you finish school;
Remarkable freedom. Cheap Alcohol in every cupboard. Empty pizza boxes squeaked in protest as mould began to fester among the abandoned pineapple. Boxes of parchment containing 7 years of hard and not-so-hard work lay smouldering and abandoned in the corner of the room.
Alas.
Harry lay awake. The sound of Luna's heart was amplified throughout the still night.
His head throbbed, as it did much these past days.
Perhaps Hermione was right. No, not perhaps, Hermione was right.
Harry was depressed. Harry was confused. Harry couldn't sleep, or think, or eat.
Harry was suppose to be happy. He did after all save the world. He was after all a 18 year old male with a thin blonde girlfriend. It would make sense for Harry to be the most ego boosted, immature, half-starved crazed weasel upon this planet.
Harry laughed silently. Maybe depressed was not the word but psycho.
Hermione said it was a state of the mind. But wasn't that the problem? The state of Harry's mind. Did it have a state? Harry believed that it acted upon its own accord, a free ranging, wild heart mind. Untameable. Forcing Harry to dwell in the regions of his memory that terrified him the most;
Sirius.
Percy. Percy. Percy.
Voldemort. Don't go there buddy.
Sirius.
Hedwig soared through the open window, confronting Harry with an accusing stare. Hedwig was the best friend that Harry had, not that his other friends were bad, but they weren't all good.
Ron; that was not a good topic. Hermione said that Ron was depressed too, as you would be. Harry could understand, but what do you say to a friend whose family was betrayed by their brother and resulted in his mother and brothers death?
Hermione; Harry had never really been able to talk to her. There was a logic reason for everything. But Harry wanted to scream, to cry, to rip tiny pieces of him so slowly that the hurt on the outside would suffocate the hurt on the inside. That was not logical. Hermione did not understand. "Stop being silly Harry."
Sirius; he was dead.
Luna; She understood Harry, they had a connection. They made sense. But can you sit down and tell your girlfriend that you thought the world was crashing, that the trees outside were indeed purple and that the toilet winked at you? Perhaps not. Perhaps she would never sleep with him again. Shit.
Lupin; he wad dead.
So Hedwig it was. And Hedwig was vury happy about that. Harry Potter's best friend! What an Honour! Harry was Hedwig's trophy.
Alas.
Ron placed a kiss on Hermione's forehead. That spot was reserved for special people, he guessed that to Hermione he was special.
She pulled the covers over them, the wind was a bit chilly. They were naked after all.
He smiled and tried to think of her. Tried desperately to not think of his mother, or Percy. The fucking Bastard. He closed a fist around Hermione's hair.
"Ow!" she squeaked indignantly.
"Sorry" he murmured into her hair, releasing his hand. No matter what, he could not take his fury out on her. She was perfect, unscarred, lucky.
She kissed his chest. That meant that it was ok. That he was going to be ok. If he had her, nothing could destruct him. He was invincible.
Alas.
Ginny let the freezing water of their shower run over her. The icy tinge stung her skin but made her feel alive. Water was funny in that way.
She let it wash Seamus off her. Tried to make it wash away what was inside too. She scrubbed really hard to make it take the pain way. For some reason it did not work.
Funny, that.
Alas.
Antonio, a rich merchant of Venice, is sad in mind but cannot tell why.
Sound familiar?
[Exeunt.