Confessions of a Dangerous Mind
Had it come to this? Waiting, alone once more, in the shadows? He had not been this way since he was eleven, cowering in his own space in a cupboard under the stairs. But that was different; that was fear. This was something more intense, more powerful...this was something dangerous.
He could hear them calling his name, their voices hanging frozen in the brittle air. But what did they matter? He was not in danger; not yet, anyway. He just wanted to be alone. He needed to think.
The vast stretch of green before him was cast with the glowing flames of twilight. The sun, itself, was nothing but a great explosion of power sinking low behind a thin horizon. A fierce wind blew through his hair, digging its way into his skin and chilling his very bones. He ignored it. It did not compare to the cold encasing his heart.
"Harry," someone cried, their voice desperate with worry. But why should he answer? Let them suffer with the knowledge of his stolen life, lying in a meadow and waiting to be discovered. Let them think that he had fallen at the hand that ached to kill him from the moment he was born. Let them worry, it would not be long. He just needed to remember him.
He stared up into the sky, half shrouded with darkness yet splashed with the fighting colors of the day. The night was blue, such a dark blue that it was black. Black like his hair, black like his eyes. It was Black like his name. Harry could feel the pain in his chest.
There were times when he still recalled that moment when his godfather fell through the veil, his face completely surprised at the spell Bellatrix had thrown at him. But it plays differently in his mind. It is slower, more dramatic. The way his eyes were devoid of any fear would be legendary for him, and the way he sacrificed his life for a boy he had scarcely known for three years would be unforgettable.
But still.
This was not something he wanted to remember, no matter how important it was for him to do so. There were many times when he had actually fallen headfirst into the memory and had imagined that he was back in the Department of Mysteries, fighting a battle he thought he would never win. And on those occasions, he had come so close to breaking. And to break would be a deathly sin.
He was not what everyone thought him to be. He was not the kind- hearted, gentle and courageous hero that he had played for five years. That was a different Harry. But this Harry, the one standing alone on the moor and staring up into the sky, was the real him; and this one was dangerous.
It was not revenge that crossed his mind—that would have been a thought produced by human nature. No, his soul held a darker hue than that. It was hatred; pure, undiluted hatred that surged through every fiber of his being. It was a hatred so pronounced that Harry had fantasized of a blood-thirsty revenge that he would more than likely enjoy. He wanted to kill...he wanted death.
"Harry, there you are," someone called from behind, their voice undeniably relieved. Harry heard footsteps come closer and soon the face of his best friend, Ron Weasley, was at his side. "Didn't you hear any of us calling? We've been worried sick!"
Harry didn't answer. He just stood there, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and the wind blowing through his hair.
"Hey, are you okay?" Ron asked, stepping closer to him. But Harry wanted to be alone.
"Go away," he said.
Ron frowned, refusing to back down. "No, of course you're okay. You're always okay. Silly of me to think otherwise."
Harry closed his eyes, fighting back the rage that was strangely building up inside of him. "I said go away."
"No. I'm getting fed up with this game, Harry. Every time someone turns away you run off like a little kid and get us all worried over nothing! What's wrong with you?"
Harry didn't answer.
"Ron, stop," Hermione said, her shadow appearing from over the hill. Harry didn't have to turn around and look at her to know that she wasn't herself either.
"No," Ron said, ignoring her. "I don't care if he's depressed over his godfather! Acting like this is dangerous Hermione. He needs to stop."
"You can't help it," she said. "He needs to finish this on his own." And Harry felt the first swellings of emotion after a long and endless void. He praised Hermione for her defense, thankful that she was there to try and keep Ron at bay.
"Finish this my arse," Ron snapped, turning away from her. "Harry, get back in the house!"
"I said go away, Ron."
"No!" He reached forward then, grasping his shoulder in attempts to drag him back to the house. But it didn't happen in such a way. The small contact immediately went haywire, and Harry's mind was quickly thrown back in time.
In a flash, the sight of spells flying across the amphitheatre rose before his eyes, and he panicked terribly. He reached inside his robe, grasping the slender piece of wood that had saved his life more than once before. He ignored the shouts of "Harry! Harry, what are you doing?", hearing them as shouts in the distance. The wand was before him, the tip was pointed at the closest body...a Death Eater.
"You killed my godfather," he hissed. "Now die a traitor's death."
"Harry!" Ron cried, backing away frantically. "Harry, it's me!"
"Crucio!" he bellowed. The spell exploded from his wand tip and hit Ron in the chest, hard. He fell to the ground, screaming in pain, his body twitching and his eyes screwed shut from the agony.
"Harry James Potter!"
Harry turned to the side, completely devoid of any emotion. Hermione stood next to him, her hand on his arm and her eyes filled with worry and earnest. "It's Ron," she said curtly. That was all. It was enough.
Harry's eyes snapped over to his best friend, his cries suddenly splitting the air in two. In a blind panic, Harry heaved his wand hand away and broke the spell, the life coming slowly back into his eyes. Ron stopped crying out, silent tears trickling down his face. Frantic, Harry fell to his side, helping him to a sitting position.
"Ron," he whispered, too ashamed for words. "Ron, I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry..."
Ron only leaned against his knees, breathing hard and staring at the ground. "Harry," Hermione said quietly from behind them. "Harry, that as an Unforgivable Curse."
"I know," he said, resting his forehead on Ron's shoulder. "I know. I'm sorry Ron."
"You used the Cruciatus Curse," Hermione repeated.
Harry drew a shuddering breath, pounding his fist lightly onto Ron's arm. "I know. I didn't mean too. I'm sorry."
"Harry, you're dangerous."
Harry looked up abruptly then, staring back at her. His eyes were slitted, and the blazing green of emeralds were leaping with flames of rage. "What did you say?" he demanded. Hermione furrowed her brow.
"What?"
He rose to his feet, facing her squarely. "What did you say?" he repeated. Hermione shrugged helplessly at him. She backed away as he advanced on her, her eyes involuntarily flickering to the wand still clutched in his hand. Boldly, she reached out and grasped him by his shoulders, staring him in the face.
"I didn't say anything, Harry. Please...what's happening to you?"
"I'm not dangerous," he hissed.
"I didn't say you were," she replied. They stared at each other a long time, Hermione determined to break this strange exterior Harry had conjured over the past months. She succeeded.
In an act of deep desperation, Harry broke down, pulling her into a great embrace and burying his face into her soft hair. "I don't know what's happening to me," he said, his voice muffled.
"You're ill," she answered, noticing his cold body and rubbing his arms. "You have to stop sneaking out in the evenings."
"Okay."
"You're dangerous."
Harry stiffened. "Who said that?" he asked again. Ron stood up behind him.
"You're hearing voices," he said sternly. "Like Hermione said, you're ill."
"Because you're dangerous. Dangerous Harry Potter, destined to betray and be betrayed himself."
Harry broke from Hermione's arms then, looking at his two friends, and then bolting down across the moor.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The face beyond the face beyond the face. You have known one, now you know two. Only one more yet to go. But we have time. We'll always have time in the garden.
Had it come to this? Waiting, alone once more, in the shadows? He had not been this way since he was eleven, cowering in his own space in a cupboard under the stairs. But that was different; that was fear. This was something more intense, more powerful...this was something dangerous.
He could hear them calling his name, their voices hanging frozen in the brittle air. But what did they matter? He was not in danger; not yet, anyway. He just wanted to be alone. He needed to think.
The vast stretch of green before him was cast with the glowing flames of twilight. The sun, itself, was nothing but a great explosion of power sinking low behind a thin horizon. A fierce wind blew through his hair, digging its way into his skin and chilling his very bones. He ignored it. It did not compare to the cold encasing his heart.
"Harry," someone cried, their voice desperate with worry. But why should he answer? Let them suffer with the knowledge of his stolen life, lying in a meadow and waiting to be discovered. Let them think that he had fallen at the hand that ached to kill him from the moment he was born. Let them worry, it would not be long. He just needed to remember him.
He stared up into the sky, half shrouded with darkness yet splashed with the fighting colors of the day. The night was blue, such a dark blue that it was black. Black like his hair, black like his eyes. It was Black like his name. Harry could feel the pain in his chest.
There were times when he still recalled that moment when his godfather fell through the veil, his face completely surprised at the spell Bellatrix had thrown at him. But it plays differently in his mind. It is slower, more dramatic. The way his eyes were devoid of any fear would be legendary for him, and the way he sacrificed his life for a boy he had scarcely known for three years would be unforgettable.
But still.
This was not something he wanted to remember, no matter how important it was for him to do so. There were many times when he had actually fallen headfirst into the memory and had imagined that he was back in the Department of Mysteries, fighting a battle he thought he would never win. And on those occasions, he had come so close to breaking. And to break would be a deathly sin.
He was not what everyone thought him to be. He was not the kind- hearted, gentle and courageous hero that he had played for five years. That was a different Harry. But this Harry, the one standing alone on the moor and staring up into the sky, was the real him; and this one was dangerous.
It was not revenge that crossed his mind—that would have been a thought produced by human nature. No, his soul held a darker hue than that. It was hatred; pure, undiluted hatred that surged through every fiber of his being. It was a hatred so pronounced that Harry had fantasized of a blood-thirsty revenge that he would more than likely enjoy. He wanted to kill...he wanted death.
"Harry, there you are," someone called from behind, their voice undeniably relieved. Harry heard footsteps come closer and soon the face of his best friend, Ron Weasley, was at his side. "Didn't you hear any of us calling? We've been worried sick!"
Harry didn't answer. He just stood there, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and the wind blowing through his hair.
"Hey, are you okay?" Ron asked, stepping closer to him. But Harry wanted to be alone.
"Go away," he said.
Ron frowned, refusing to back down. "No, of course you're okay. You're always okay. Silly of me to think otherwise."
Harry closed his eyes, fighting back the rage that was strangely building up inside of him. "I said go away."
"No. I'm getting fed up with this game, Harry. Every time someone turns away you run off like a little kid and get us all worried over nothing! What's wrong with you?"
Harry didn't answer.
"Ron, stop," Hermione said, her shadow appearing from over the hill. Harry didn't have to turn around and look at her to know that she wasn't herself either.
"No," Ron said, ignoring her. "I don't care if he's depressed over his godfather! Acting like this is dangerous Hermione. He needs to stop."
"You can't help it," she said. "He needs to finish this on his own." And Harry felt the first swellings of emotion after a long and endless void. He praised Hermione for her defense, thankful that she was there to try and keep Ron at bay.
"Finish this my arse," Ron snapped, turning away from her. "Harry, get back in the house!"
"I said go away, Ron."
"No!" He reached forward then, grasping his shoulder in attempts to drag him back to the house. But it didn't happen in such a way. The small contact immediately went haywire, and Harry's mind was quickly thrown back in time.
In a flash, the sight of spells flying across the amphitheatre rose before his eyes, and he panicked terribly. He reached inside his robe, grasping the slender piece of wood that had saved his life more than once before. He ignored the shouts of "Harry! Harry, what are you doing?", hearing them as shouts in the distance. The wand was before him, the tip was pointed at the closest body...a Death Eater.
"You killed my godfather," he hissed. "Now die a traitor's death."
"Harry!" Ron cried, backing away frantically. "Harry, it's me!"
"Crucio!" he bellowed. The spell exploded from his wand tip and hit Ron in the chest, hard. He fell to the ground, screaming in pain, his body twitching and his eyes screwed shut from the agony.
"Harry James Potter!"
Harry turned to the side, completely devoid of any emotion. Hermione stood next to him, her hand on his arm and her eyes filled with worry and earnest. "It's Ron," she said curtly. That was all. It was enough.
Harry's eyes snapped over to his best friend, his cries suddenly splitting the air in two. In a blind panic, Harry heaved his wand hand away and broke the spell, the life coming slowly back into his eyes. Ron stopped crying out, silent tears trickling down his face. Frantic, Harry fell to his side, helping him to a sitting position.
"Ron," he whispered, too ashamed for words. "Ron, I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry..."
Ron only leaned against his knees, breathing hard and staring at the ground. "Harry," Hermione said quietly from behind them. "Harry, that as an Unforgivable Curse."
"I know," he said, resting his forehead on Ron's shoulder. "I know. I'm sorry Ron."
"You used the Cruciatus Curse," Hermione repeated.
Harry drew a shuddering breath, pounding his fist lightly onto Ron's arm. "I know. I didn't mean too. I'm sorry."
"Harry, you're dangerous."
Harry looked up abruptly then, staring back at her. His eyes were slitted, and the blazing green of emeralds were leaping with flames of rage. "What did you say?" he demanded. Hermione furrowed her brow.
"What?"
He rose to his feet, facing her squarely. "What did you say?" he repeated. Hermione shrugged helplessly at him. She backed away as he advanced on her, her eyes involuntarily flickering to the wand still clutched in his hand. Boldly, she reached out and grasped him by his shoulders, staring him in the face.
"I didn't say anything, Harry. Please...what's happening to you?"
"I'm not dangerous," he hissed.
"I didn't say you were," she replied. They stared at each other a long time, Hermione determined to break this strange exterior Harry had conjured over the past months. She succeeded.
In an act of deep desperation, Harry broke down, pulling her into a great embrace and burying his face into her soft hair. "I don't know what's happening to me," he said, his voice muffled.
"You're ill," she answered, noticing his cold body and rubbing his arms. "You have to stop sneaking out in the evenings."
"Okay."
"You're dangerous."
Harry stiffened. "Who said that?" he asked again. Ron stood up behind him.
"You're hearing voices," he said sternly. "Like Hermione said, you're ill."
"Because you're dangerous. Dangerous Harry Potter, destined to betray and be betrayed himself."
Harry broke from Hermione's arms then, looking at his two friends, and then bolting down across the moor.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The face beyond the face beyond the face. You have known one, now you know two. Only one more yet to go. But we have time. We'll always have time in the garden.