Part Two: Gethsemane
Then/I was inspired/now/I'm sad and tired
It seems clear to him now that avoiding Ron and Hermione was the worst course of action possible. He had hoped (though he never dared to admit it) that they would come running to him, begging for his attention and affections, and guess what the problem was until Ron blurts out the answer as a last resort, and his shoulders sag as he gives a slight nod.
Things never seem to work out in reality as well as they do in your head.
Instead, his two best friends keep the distance he had once been desperate to create, conversing with carefully measured sentences like "What did you think of Professor McGonagall's lesson today?" and "I can't stand the weather. It's simply dreadful." He answers similarly or offers a question of his own, and they manage to keep the conversations this way for nearly two weeks. It is, of course, Hermione who breaks the wall and she does so quite efficiently.
"We're here for you Harry. You know that, right? No matter what," she says as she positions herself on his left-hand side on a couch in the common room one balmy evening. She then jerks her head sharply to the right, causing Ron to shuffle from his chair by the window to sit on the other side.
"She's got a point, you see. There's nothing you could say to scare us off now. If Fluffy wasn't enough to keep us away from you..." Ron gives him an awkward but well-meaning smile as Hermione gives his knee a gentle squeeze. As sick of the lying as he is, he can't form the words necessary to be honest.
"I know. Thanks." He gives them his best reassuring grin, and they sit there silent.
That night he wonders how he came to his current situation. How noble the fight against Voldemort seemed to his eleven year-old mind! At that point there was nothing as important as vanquishing the being (he couldn't really call him a man) that murdered his parents, except getting the best of Snape. When Quirrell died he didn't think of it, just chalked it up to getting involved in the wrong crowd—unfortunate but ultimately necessary. Now his is another name on an ever-growing list of casualties, none of which seem justifiable. He would have liked to be able to mourn Cedric properly, but instead was thrust back into the Muggle World, where no one knew his fallen friend or cared about why his death troubled Harry. Instead he is plagued with nightly dreams and a steady stream of guilt. He would have liked to be able to mourn Sirius in any capacity, but his desire for revenge was quickly replaced by reluctant acceptance of his fate, so any thought of his much loved godfather is followed by his own impending sense of doom. Too tedious and melodramatic for his taste, quite frankly. Yet it is now his life, and like it or not, it will happen.
Sixteen was supposed to be an angsty year, but he thinks he has redefined the term.
Then/I was inspired/now/I'm sad and tired
It seems clear to him now that avoiding Ron and Hermione was the worst course of action possible. He had hoped (though he never dared to admit it) that they would come running to him, begging for his attention and affections, and guess what the problem was until Ron blurts out the answer as a last resort, and his shoulders sag as he gives a slight nod.
Things never seem to work out in reality as well as they do in your head.
Instead, his two best friends keep the distance he had once been desperate to create, conversing with carefully measured sentences like "What did you think of Professor McGonagall's lesson today?" and "I can't stand the weather. It's simply dreadful." He answers similarly or offers a question of his own, and they manage to keep the conversations this way for nearly two weeks. It is, of course, Hermione who breaks the wall and she does so quite efficiently.
"We're here for you Harry. You know that, right? No matter what," she says as she positions herself on his left-hand side on a couch in the common room one balmy evening. She then jerks her head sharply to the right, causing Ron to shuffle from his chair by the window to sit on the other side.
"She's got a point, you see. There's nothing you could say to scare us off now. If Fluffy wasn't enough to keep us away from you..." Ron gives him an awkward but well-meaning smile as Hermione gives his knee a gentle squeeze. As sick of the lying as he is, he can't form the words necessary to be honest.
"I know. Thanks." He gives them his best reassuring grin, and they sit there silent.
That night he wonders how he came to his current situation. How noble the fight against Voldemort seemed to his eleven year-old mind! At that point there was nothing as important as vanquishing the being (he couldn't really call him a man) that murdered his parents, except getting the best of Snape. When Quirrell died he didn't think of it, just chalked it up to getting involved in the wrong crowd—unfortunate but ultimately necessary. Now his is another name on an ever-growing list of casualties, none of which seem justifiable. He would have liked to be able to mourn Cedric properly, but instead was thrust back into the Muggle World, where no one knew his fallen friend or cared about why his death troubled Harry. Instead he is plagued with nightly dreams and a steady stream of guilt. He would have liked to be able to mourn Sirius in any capacity, but his desire for revenge was quickly replaced by reluctant acceptance of his fate, so any thought of his much loved godfather is followed by his own impending sense of doom. Too tedious and melodramatic for his taste, quite frankly. Yet it is now his life, and like it or not, it will happen.
Sixteen was supposed to be an angsty year, but he thinks he has redefined the term.