Part Four: This Street That Man This Life
This life has its victories/but its defeats tear so viciously—Cowboy Junkies
One week later, Ron and Hermione have yet to speak to him. They wait for him in the common room before classes and meals, sit beside him while they complete homework, and travel to Hogsmeade without a word. He is pleased that they refuse to abandon him while complying with his wishes. It's a small victory, but enough to give him hope that perhaps there is life after he fulfills his duty.
The routine continues on, and he thinks it might last for good until dinner one evening. He's poking at his shepherd's pie when the pain hits, so unexpected that when he tries to rest his head on the table, it lands smack in the middle of his plate. He doesn't exactly care, because by then he's screaming at the top of his lungs. He falls backward only to be caught by Ron, who gently lays him down while Hermione waves her hands up and down as she frantically explains the situation to the newly arrived Professor Dumbledore. He leans over and retches underneath the table, the bile bitter on his tongue. He hears the thunderous roar of footsteps as they race away from the scene. He can't blame them. Finally the pain subsides enough that he is lying on his back. He feels cool fingers wiping the food from his face, and a loud gasp.
"What?" he mumbles. He tries to put his hands on his forehead in a lame attempt to alleviate some pain, but someone is holding him down.
"Fetch Professor McGonagall immediately," he hears Dumbledore whisper to Hermione. "Tell her it is happening."
"What? Professor, this is my fate," he lets out a whimper, and blushes furiously. The pain was worse than ever before, but he tries to pride himself on strength. He has nothing else left.
"Your scar, Harry...it's...it's burning black," Ron fumbles.
"I didn't think it'd be so soon," Dumbledore explains as he helps him sit up. "I meant to explain it to you, but..."
"It doesn't matter now," he snaps, pulling away from his friends. "Where?"
"You know." Harry wants to reply crudely, but he finds that he does indeed know exactly where he is supposed to be. He runs his hand through his hair, then runs to his room. He grabs his wand and looks in the mirror. His scar is indeed black, darker than midnight. He refuses to stare, just turns away and walks out the door, into a mass of people.
He sees Dumbledore and Ron and Hermione and Professor McGonagall and Lupin, and the faces stretch on and on and on until they all blur together. He shakes his head.
"This is my battle. My fate." My defeat, he thinks silently.
"Do you really think Voldemort would appear without his Death Eaters?" Dumbledore says gently. "We're coming. Now go."
He begins to walk, though he doesn't know the way. He knows he'll end up there, that somehow it is not far. They traipse behind him, but he refuses to acknowledge them. He can't help but feel responsible for leading them into death and despair. He wants to beg them all to go away. He doesn't, and when part of him feels relieved, a bigger part knows that in needing them, he is already partly defeated. He doesn't care.
This life has its victories/but its defeats tear so viciously—Cowboy Junkies
One week later, Ron and Hermione have yet to speak to him. They wait for him in the common room before classes and meals, sit beside him while they complete homework, and travel to Hogsmeade without a word. He is pleased that they refuse to abandon him while complying with his wishes. It's a small victory, but enough to give him hope that perhaps there is life after he fulfills his duty.
The routine continues on, and he thinks it might last for good until dinner one evening. He's poking at his shepherd's pie when the pain hits, so unexpected that when he tries to rest his head on the table, it lands smack in the middle of his plate. He doesn't exactly care, because by then he's screaming at the top of his lungs. He falls backward only to be caught by Ron, who gently lays him down while Hermione waves her hands up and down as she frantically explains the situation to the newly arrived Professor Dumbledore. He leans over and retches underneath the table, the bile bitter on his tongue. He hears the thunderous roar of footsteps as they race away from the scene. He can't blame them. Finally the pain subsides enough that he is lying on his back. He feels cool fingers wiping the food from his face, and a loud gasp.
"What?" he mumbles. He tries to put his hands on his forehead in a lame attempt to alleviate some pain, but someone is holding him down.
"Fetch Professor McGonagall immediately," he hears Dumbledore whisper to Hermione. "Tell her it is happening."
"What? Professor, this is my fate," he lets out a whimper, and blushes furiously. The pain was worse than ever before, but he tries to pride himself on strength. He has nothing else left.
"Your scar, Harry...it's...it's burning black," Ron fumbles.
"I didn't think it'd be so soon," Dumbledore explains as he helps him sit up. "I meant to explain it to you, but..."
"It doesn't matter now," he snaps, pulling away from his friends. "Where?"
"You know." Harry wants to reply crudely, but he finds that he does indeed know exactly where he is supposed to be. He runs his hand through his hair, then runs to his room. He grabs his wand and looks in the mirror. His scar is indeed black, darker than midnight. He refuses to stare, just turns away and walks out the door, into a mass of people.
He sees Dumbledore and Ron and Hermione and Professor McGonagall and Lupin, and the faces stretch on and on and on until they all blur together. He shakes his head.
"This is my battle. My fate." My defeat, he thinks silently.
"Do you really think Voldemort would appear without his Death Eaters?" Dumbledore says gently. "We're coming. Now go."
He begins to walk, though he doesn't know the way. He knows he'll end up there, that somehow it is not far. They traipse behind him, but he refuses to acknowledge them. He can't help but feel responsible for leading them into death and despair. He wants to beg them all to go away. He doesn't, and when part of him feels relieved, a bigger part knows that in needing them, he is already partly defeated. He doesn't care.