They were gone.
Dead.
Harry Potter stood at the top of the Astronomy Tower, broom in one hand, and snitch in the other, Quidditch Robes swirling in the wind.
160-90, Gryffindor had beaten Slytherin once again.
But none of that mattered. His best friends were gone and they were never coming back. Killed, in a flash of green light.
Green, like Slytherin.
His mother's eyes.
The color of death.
Like the leaves.
Blades of grass.
His own eyes.
The color of life.
He closed his eyes and jumped. Free falling, the cold earth rushed up to meet him. He pulled himself onto his broom, zooming back up at the last second. Tempting death. He wanted to be taken too.
He let go of the snitch; it sped off into the night, hardly flickering in the full moon.
A wolf howled in the distance. Moony? No. Remus Lupin was gone. Peter Pettigrew had killed him. Killed the last of his friends. The last Marauder. He was gone, joined Harry's father and Sirius.
He flew past Hagrid's Hut. No lights were on, Fang was gone. Was he visiting his half brother? No, because Gwarp was gone too. Ran back to the mountains. Why stay if Hagrid was gone? If everyone you cared about died?
Harry saw a black robed figure standing below him. Was it Draco Malfoy? Come to taunt him? No, because Draco was dead as well. Harry knew that all to well. He had killed him. He still dreamt of him. Every night. He talked to him as well. Maybe he was going mad. He laughed. He knew he was. Dead Draco Malfoy was the only one he ever talked to.
But he still flew. Still played Quidditch. Why? He didn't know. He thought Ron would want him too. Hermione always watched, he thought she enjoyed it even if she never said so. Remus said he flew like his father. Sirius had seen him once. Harry had thought he was the Grim. But he had still seen him. And he was proud of him. Hagrid had always loved to see him fly as well. He never missed a match. And Draco.well Draco hated the way he flew. He was always beaten. But he made Harry want to do better. And Harry made Draco want to do better. So he flew. He would always fly.
He looked down at the black robed figure. They were gone. Melted into the night. Just like the snitch.
No light, only darkness. He couldn't win, catch it, it was gone, there was no hope, and he should give up, go back inside.
Then there was light. Tiny, but there, on the other side of the pitch. He flew, fighting to reach it. He could still win. Still fighting. If only he could reach the light.
Wand light. His professor sat astride a broom, wand held high. He held out his hand. Harry reached out. The Snitch fluttered against their joined palms. There was hope. He had someone. They had been there all along. He had never known before. Hiding behind insults. He stared into the onyx eyes. Like empty tunnels, someone had said. Not empty now, he decided. His own were no longer empty either. His professor said they had fallen in hate. Harry said they had just fallen. But they hadn't, not really. They still flew.
Dead.
Harry Potter stood at the top of the Astronomy Tower, broom in one hand, and snitch in the other, Quidditch Robes swirling in the wind.
160-90, Gryffindor had beaten Slytherin once again.
But none of that mattered. His best friends were gone and they were never coming back. Killed, in a flash of green light.
Green, like Slytherin.
His mother's eyes.
The color of death.
Like the leaves.
Blades of grass.
His own eyes.
The color of life.
He closed his eyes and jumped. Free falling, the cold earth rushed up to meet him. He pulled himself onto his broom, zooming back up at the last second. Tempting death. He wanted to be taken too.
He let go of the snitch; it sped off into the night, hardly flickering in the full moon.
A wolf howled in the distance. Moony? No. Remus Lupin was gone. Peter Pettigrew had killed him. Killed the last of his friends. The last Marauder. He was gone, joined Harry's father and Sirius.
He flew past Hagrid's Hut. No lights were on, Fang was gone. Was he visiting his half brother? No, because Gwarp was gone too. Ran back to the mountains. Why stay if Hagrid was gone? If everyone you cared about died?
Harry saw a black robed figure standing below him. Was it Draco Malfoy? Come to taunt him? No, because Draco was dead as well. Harry knew that all to well. He had killed him. He still dreamt of him. Every night. He talked to him as well. Maybe he was going mad. He laughed. He knew he was. Dead Draco Malfoy was the only one he ever talked to.
But he still flew. Still played Quidditch. Why? He didn't know. He thought Ron would want him too. Hermione always watched, he thought she enjoyed it even if she never said so. Remus said he flew like his father. Sirius had seen him once. Harry had thought he was the Grim. But he had still seen him. And he was proud of him. Hagrid had always loved to see him fly as well. He never missed a match. And Draco.well Draco hated the way he flew. He was always beaten. But he made Harry want to do better. And Harry made Draco want to do better. So he flew. He would always fly.
He looked down at the black robed figure. They were gone. Melted into the night. Just like the snitch.
No light, only darkness. He couldn't win, catch it, it was gone, there was no hope, and he should give up, go back inside.
Then there was light. Tiny, but there, on the other side of the pitch. He flew, fighting to reach it. He could still win. Still fighting. If only he could reach the light.
Wand light. His professor sat astride a broom, wand held high. He held out his hand. Harry reached out. The Snitch fluttered against their joined palms. There was hope. He had someone. They had been there all along. He had never known before. Hiding behind insults. He stared into the onyx eyes. Like empty tunnels, someone had said. Not empty now, he decided. His own were no longer empty either. His professor said they had fallen in hate. Harry said they had just fallen. But they hadn't, not really. They still flew.