Disclaimer: The Goddess Rowling owns all.
His Role as a Saviour
"Why is it always me? Why do I have to kill everyone?" Harry asked himself, tears falling slowly onto the ground. He was sat in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, the ghost long gone, probably spying on prefects somewhere. His gaze fell to the object in his hand, a picture of his parents and his godfather smiling happily at him. A fresh wave of grief welled up inside him. "Sirius, why did u have to die, why did i let Voldemort trick me?" He slowly put down the photo and picked up his blade. It was one he had stolen from Potions a few weeks ago.
Crying freely now, he raised his left arm, and undid the concealment spells he always wore. Instantly rows of scars appeared, some months old, remnants of the Tri-Wizard tournament, whilst others were fresh, only days old. It was his punishment, you see. He was a freak, a worthless child who killed everybody around him, a murderer.
Gently he placed the blade against his wrist, and with a few quick slices, blood ran freely against his robes. He could feel the release immediately, the tension slowly leaving his body. He had stopped crying now. He watched the blood drip down his hand, felt the morbid fascination that always crept upon him at these moments. As always, he wondered what it would be like if he did go too far. To be happy, and not have a murdering Dark Lord after you. At least his friends will be safe, they wouldn't have to bother with him anymore. Yet the safety he offered just being alive couldn't be discounted.
He knew his duty, damn Dumbledore, and damn the Order. All they cared about was that he would be in a fit state to fulfill his destiny, not really caring that he was breaking apart inside. That infernal prophecy was always on his mind, he couldn't escape it "...either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...". How the hell could he, a 16 year old wizard beat the biggest dark lord since before Grindelwald himself? It was completely and utterly hopeless.
Yet nobody cared. He played his part to prefection. Quidditch star, model student, with just the right touch of mischief that fooled everybody into thinking he was still their "Golden Boy". If maybe one person cared to look through the mask, they would see he was a weak, lonely boy who tried so hard to live up to everybody's expectations.
With a quick glance at the Marauder's Map, he saw the pale blue dot that represented filch turn round the corner. Quickly, he dived underneath his invisibility cloak, and huddled there silently. He patiently waited, for what felt like eternity, till he saw the dot move to the other side of the castle. With the release of a breath he hadn't realised he was holdling, he cast quick healing and cleaning charms. He gathered up everything, then recast the concealing spells.
Checking the map was clear, he headed off back to Gryffindor Tower. He knew he wasn't alright, not in the least, but it was enough to get him through the morning, gave him the strength that he would need to continue playing his part. Oh yes, he knew his role in this war, the part he played as Dumbledore's pawn. Nobody wanted to see their little saviour on the edge, so the mask went back on, and he slowly drifted to sleep, welcoming the nightmares he knew that would come.
His Role as a Saviour
"Why is it always me? Why do I have to kill everyone?" Harry asked himself, tears falling slowly onto the ground. He was sat in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, the ghost long gone, probably spying on prefects somewhere. His gaze fell to the object in his hand, a picture of his parents and his godfather smiling happily at him. A fresh wave of grief welled up inside him. "Sirius, why did u have to die, why did i let Voldemort trick me?" He slowly put down the photo and picked up his blade. It was one he had stolen from Potions a few weeks ago.
Crying freely now, he raised his left arm, and undid the concealment spells he always wore. Instantly rows of scars appeared, some months old, remnants of the Tri-Wizard tournament, whilst others were fresh, only days old. It was his punishment, you see. He was a freak, a worthless child who killed everybody around him, a murderer.
Gently he placed the blade against his wrist, and with a few quick slices, blood ran freely against his robes. He could feel the release immediately, the tension slowly leaving his body. He had stopped crying now. He watched the blood drip down his hand, felt the morbid fascination that always crept upon him at these moments. As always, he wondered what it would be like if he did go too far. To be happy, and not have a murdering Dark Lord after you. At least his friends will be safe, they wouldn't have to bother with him anymore. Yet the safety he offered just being alive couldn't be discounted.
He knew his duty, damn Dumbledore, and damn the Order. All they cared about was that he would be in a fit state to fulfill his destiny, not really caring that he was breaking apart inside. That infernal prophecy was always on his mind, he couldn't escape it "...either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...". How the hell could he, a 16 year old wizard beat the biggest dark lord since before Grindelwald himself? It was completely and utterly hopeless.
Yet nobody cared. He played his part to prefection. Quidditch star, model student, with just the right touch of mischief that fooled everybody into thinking he was still their "Golden Boy". If maybe one person cared to look through the mask, they would see he was a weak, lonely boy who tried so hard to live up to everybody's expectations.
With a quick glance at the Marauder's Map, he saw the pale blue dot that represented filch turn round the corner. Quickly, he dived underneath his invisibility cloak, and huddled there silently. He patiently waited, for what felt like eternity, till he saw the dot move to the other side of the castle. With the release of a breath he hadn't realised he was holdling, he cast quick healing and cleaning charms. He gathered up everything, then recast the concealing spells.
Checking the map was clear, he headed off back to Gryffindor Tower. He knew he wasn't alright, not in the least, but it was enough to get him through the morning, gave him the strength that he would need to continue playing his part. Oh yes, he knew his role in this war, the part he played as Dumbledore's pawn. Nobody wanted to see their little saviour on the edge, so the mask went back on, and he slowly drifted to sleep, welcoming the nightmares he knew that would come.