Disclaimer: I do not own anything that is included in this story, except the plot, and the characters that you do not recognize. Everything else belongs to J.K. Rowling!!!

My Trivial Mind Written by: Auburn Lily

Prologue:

I am very foolish.

I despise myself for all of the mistakes that I have made, mistakes that have cost so many lives. All of the people that I have ever loved have died, and I blame myself for it all.

I am full of the utmost abhorrence for myself, as much as anyone could ever muster.

Only Harry will live. I commend myself for dying for him; now Voldemort is not able to touch him, or anyone else, for that matter. But my only son's life will be made into a living hell because of it.

I have no control over anything anymore, even myself.

James is dead; everyone is dead.

And now that I have died, everything is answered for me.

I loathe that.

So many answers are lying at my feet, but I can not use them.

I can not touch them.

They are not mine to use.

They are nobody's to use.

People are senseless when it comes to actually living.

These are the times when I have no faith in God, as a Holy Being.

I love God, and I believe in him with all of my heart. But there have been a few incidents in my life, which have warranted my questioning of that faith.

I wonder how God can allow people to wander so far astray, so far away from where they ought to be, where they can be.

And now I know my life was laid before me, a deceitful path, which hid so much. It was shaded, quiescent. It was so beautiful in the beginning, with smooth, paved stone, lined with unruly wildflowers, and birds that sang. With cascading waterfalls, and crystalline lakes, which quenched the roots of trees that were only just beginning to grow. The sky was always clear, devoid of any somber, murky storm cloud. And it was always speckled with diamonds on an inky-blue canopy.

But this path lied to me; it was only a front. The smooth stone that led me so gracefully soon turned to gravel, which was uneven and unsupportive of my feet. I fell a few times, scrapping my adjoined limbs in the process. There were no more wildflowers, but black lily's and dead grass. Birds no longer sang; crickets chirped and the sky was no longer a back-lit canopy with holes punched through. It was gray, with sounds of moaning thunder in the distance.

This mutating path eventually turned to mud, with a boiling sky overhead. Icy rain fell on me, sleety and slushy, piercing my face, drenching my hair, chilling me to the very depths of my bone marrow. And the only relief I was offered was a rose that had broken through the caked mud, a rose that had been there all along, to show me hope, and to show me love.

It was absolutely beautiful, with many more buds yet to bloom. A deep, crimson red it was, with elegant, ivy-green leaves and a thick stem. Dew clung to the petals, like teardrops would cling to my eyelashes, and I instantly fell in love with it. Even after I picked it for myself, it never died. It bloomed over and over again. And that was my tunnel to boundless faith, gorgeous grace, unwavering trust, and complete, unconditional love.

And that was when I realized that the path I was following was not the one I had wanted to follow. It was not the path that God had wanted me to follow. But he could do nothing about it. I had chosen what I wanted to be, not of my own free will, mind you. I had offered my hand blindly to the first person who offered it, and he led me down the left branch of the fork in the road, not the right one.

And I had been in utmost agony, until I found my rose.

And everyone's past comes back to haunt them. Mine came back more often than not. And this was how my mistakes had so vividly cut into my skin, and into my heart.

And this was how my mistakes had so cruelly, unmercifully, chopped my life apart.

For the mistakes that I made were not common mistakes. And they were most certainly not the sort of thing you could back out of. I tried to, and I have paid the price with my life, and all of the lives of the people that I love. And even people that I didn't know had to pay with their lives.

And even though I am here, in Purgatory, which is supposed to be devoid of any emotion, I am feeling the heavy weight of guilt that is all mine to bear.

And I am looking around myself now. This place is vacant, all except for the receptionist behind the desk, who is avoiding my stare. I assume that Death does not drop off all of his clients in the same room, for than they would be granted that wish of conversation. And I know that Death does not wish us to converse. He wishes us to relive the past happenings of our lives, so we can decide (not that it would matter in any way, because the choice is not ours to make) where we truly belong, Heaven or Hell.

My surroundings are not ones of comfort, or despair. Purgatory is filled with shades of gray. Not black, nor white, which people so foolishly believe are symbols of corruption and purity?

Purgatory does not wish to offer false hope.

I am sitting in a plastic, gray chair, which is quite uncomfortable, to say the least, and I am thirsty.

However, I know I am not to leave this chair. I am not permitted access to anything, except the torment my mind offers me in reliving my life.

I do not wish to do this.

It will take a very long time, and I have no place to be as of now. I wish to think of other things.

Such as James, and all of the people that I love. They are all in Heaven, I am absolutely sure of it. They have no reason to be anywhere else. Their souls were never in turmoil. The deeds that they did were never balanced, between good and evil. All of the good that they ever did easily out- weighed the evil. I know it.

I am absolutely sure of it.

And I wonder how they all are.

I wonder if they are thinking of me.

For I most certainly am thinking of them.

And I love them.

And they deserve to be in Heaven.

And I deserve to be here.

I know I do, and I have known ever since that fateful day that I would never be granted into Heaven with open arms.

And although I know that God loves me, and I love him, there is far too much agitation and disarray boiling, bubbling, bursting to leave my brain and to leave my heart.

And I never deserved to have the friends that I had. They should not be died. And I still hate myself, for all of the heart-ache that my asinine mind caused.

I hate the fact that I searched and searched for true love; I went to endless means to find it, to make it mine. And I thought that I had found it; but all I found then was pain... agony... death.

And I was so foolish not to realize that it had always been right under my sniveling nose, where I had refused to look, because of my petty pride.

And I deserve to be groveling for forgiveness, from anyone who is willing to take it. I know that I do not deserve anything of the sort.

And yet I wish that I could do it all over again, because even though some people say that we don't learn from our mistakes, God knows that I have learned from mine.

I hate the fact that even though I was so smart when it came to books, and things that never mattered, I was never granted the most important thing a witches mind has to offer her: common sense.

I have always lacked that important quality. I have never had too much logic swimming around in my brain. I had never needed it before. Most people did the thinking for me, or I learned it all in books. I knew that I needed books, to make up for the hole in my brain. Most people told me what I needed to do. And now I regret that, because I could never really think for myself, and I still can't.

And when I needed logic the most, it failed me so grievously. I was not strong enough to save myself, and in doing so, I caused the horrid downfall of so many others.

I could not think that fateful night. I was not all together. I am sure I had been drugged, and I know the Imperious Curse was placed upon me.

And I know that spell can be fought.

And I feel able to vomit just thinking that I did not acquire the strength of mind needed to overcome it.

And that was when it happened, when I was so foolishly in love with someone, something that was never there. I had been tricked, and I cry wasted tears on it now, for I know I can not erase what I had done.

But, if given the chance, I would do it all differently, and somehow I know that it would turn out so much better. Everybody would be alive, I would be alive.

I would not be here, in this emotional abyss.

I would be with James, the only person I have ever loved.

I would be with Gwendolyn, and Celia and Annette and Sirius, and Remus, and even Peter.

But most of all, I would be with my Harry, the one whom I died for, the one whom I love more than life itself, as my child, as my flesh and blood, as my one.

And I know now that he is somewhere crying for me. I know that he needs me. And I need him, more than he will ever know.

But I can not have him.

And I know that I do not deserve to have him.

He is my angel, the piece of me that still lives.

I can feel him; I can feel whatever he does.

And I know that the only thing that I ever did for him was offer my protection; the bond that we have is undying.

And I can feel him breathe, I can feel him cry, I can feel his heart beat with the same rhythm as mine.

And I know that he will grow up with my eyes, and James' hair.

And I know that people will say he looks so much like James, except for his eyes.

They will say he has my eyes.

And they are right. He does have my eyes.

And I have his eyes. And I see everything that he sees. I can see it now. He is in the dark, in the cold, on a doorstep, awaiting years and years of utter torment.

And I can feel what he feels. He feels empty, and oh so cold.

And I feel hollow, vacant, like a cold, black void, unable to feel, to cry, to love. And I feel phlegmatic, and stoical. And I know that is how some people saw me. Most don't know of the sick betrayal I made. But some do, and they thought me to be cold, and indifferent to everything, before I came here, of course.

And I feel the cold that he feels; it's a lonely kind of cold; the cold one may feel when they know that no one on Earth loves them anymore.

And I will always feel what he feels. It will haunt me forever, until he dies. And I know not whether I will be able to see him even then. For I do not know where I will go, or where he will go.

The only thing I know is that he will be like James, like his father. He will be exactly like James, in character.

And that is the only thing I would ever wish of him.

And I love him so much. And I miss him so much.

He was always full of comfort, even though he could barely talk.

And he was all that I needed when I mourned the fresh death of a loved one.

But I can not have him.

And I do not deserve to have him.

Sometimes I wonder what drives people to their actions.

Whether it is always the people around them, or some unknown force, pushing and pulling at that person's strings.

And I don't know if people usually learn from their mistakes. I hope to God that they do, because that is what mistakes are for. So that people will learn, and never make the same ones again. But I don't think that this holds true. Because although people make the same mistakes over and over and over, they never seem to learn. And other people make those same mistakes.

It is like an undying cycle, a sick cycle, which no one is brave enough or strong enough to fix.

And I was weak.

I probably still am.

For I hate reliving all of the mistakes that I made. I made so many, I can't count. And they were all so foolish, worthless mistakes.

And it is so funny how people think after they make a mistake. They think it would have been so easy to avoid. To not have done. But they forget how they felt before they made the mistake. And they forget about it over time.

And they make the same mistake over and over and over again.

Unless they are strong enough to remember, and to not make the fatal mistake again.

And I still hate myself; I will always hate myself.

And the only reason I will relive my life is because I must, before I am able to move on.

Other wise I wouldn't.

And I would stay locked here forever, forced to relive it again and again.

And the memories are so vivid.

And it didn't really start until my sixth year.

Everything before that is a blur, and doesn't really matter.

Everything led up to, and fell in my sixth year.

All of my whimsical thoughts, and trivial desires were the cause of this.

And one most keep in mind that whimsical thoughts and trivial desires only stem from whimsical hearts and trivial minds.