The Demons Hidden Within
Chapter 10: Tears
Posted: 5/21/04
~*~*~*~
I used to apologize to the wizarding world. Not that my apologies ever fell upon living ears, but spoken into the lone Hogwarts nights they seemed to at least offer my soul some amount of forgiveness. But that solace was short-lived and never wanted to penetrate into the daylight hours.
Shortly, I stopped whispering the apologies to no one, far from forgiveness. I did not need forgiveness, nor did I deserve it. And why exactly did I want this bitter forgiveness from them? Sure, I was labeled their savior, but no one specific person forced me there, save the being whom I was meant to save them from. How could they be blamed for clutching to a solitary hope and clinging to survival? I would have done the same. Which is why I needed them to know that they were wrong to put any faith in me.
Yet, I remained the Boy Who Lived, where the wizarding world placed all their trust and hope. They took no care to notice my humanity, no thought that I was merely a boy not fit for the task entitled to me; they only cared that I would be their savior.
And I felt like I should apologize to them for their unfound hope in me at the point when I lost hope in myself. An apology because I could not fulfill the purpose that was foretold to be mine. An apology for my inability to perform a task I did not even wish to undertake.
But that time was in my past, no longer did I feel the need to apologize for their own suppositions. I did not need their forgiveness, even if it were suddenly offered to me.
"But he died."
Indeed, he did die. The Harry Potter saved them while none cared to save him. So he did perish in that graveyard – but, I . . . I survived. Harry, just Harry. I weathered the storm, and came out with life still in my veins; for that, they deserved no apology. Or perhaps I was Oedipus, playing with a memory of the past, not Harry quite yet. But did my name matter so, when under it I still remained? No. It merely provided me with the prejudices of the wizarding world, and perhaps from those I could clear "The" from my unwanted title.
Hopeful thinking. Should I not have already realized that hope was forsaken unto me? *The* would always remain, but its context could, perhaps, be changed. As much as I tried to deny it, I couldn't even give up on that blackened hope.
These thoughts coursed through my mind, but still no answer could come from them. They merely plagued my restlessness and made the long Hogwarts' night that much longer.
I walked the halls, hearing those whispers, knowing now to whom the voices belonged. The castle's spirits still eluded me, refused to become clear and tell me their secrets. I knew that trying to hear them would only cause them to retreat farther and cause that ringing in my ears to ring louder. I knew, also, that there would be no benefit in chasing the dead. Yet, I could not break away from their calling; their restlessness permeated into my veins. I put my hand on the cold stone wall and could almost feel their trembling, a faint flicker on the edge of my fingertips.
"Will you just be quiet?" I sighed as I turned the corner. They became stronger then, as if more people had joined the crowd, but none dared to venture forward.
"Stop it!" In desperation, I called towards the shadows.
As the last of the echo traveled down the hall the voices suddenly ceased. A chill went up my spine at the penetrating silence. It felt as if the castle's magic had also retreated along with its dead. The castle had responded to my plea, but I still could not shake off the sense of abandonment. The night, though now silent, seemed much colder.
Reaching inside myself, the darkness still resided. It was not my own, yet it had chosen me as its carrier. In a way, Voldemort had not died that night, not fully at any rate. I contemplated what would happen to accept this bit of him as myself. Would this lead me down the same path as he? Dumbledore, among others, wished me to take that chance. And I, also, knew that it was my only hope. But tonight, I could not grasp it.
Tomorrow I would yet again face the school, now individually. The familiar sense of sunrise came over me, and I turned my steps towards the front doors. Today—Today I would face the school individually.
~*~*~
Andromache Vance spent her lunch in the library. After less than a day of her fellow seventh years, their chatter grated on her hearing. Well, at least she only had Defense Against the Dark Arts left on her Monday schedule. And then the rest of the week, and the rest of the year . . . but that was beside the point. If she made it through the first day, then the rest would follow likewise.
Her N.E.W.T. Defense class should by interesting at any rate. At least she wouldn't have to deal with the hormone-driven males swooning as they entered the classroom, as had happened last year with that incompetent Veela. That episode had caused her to wonder if Dumbledore really was losing his sanity, as the Daily Prophet tended to advertise. This year, she questioned his aging mind even more.
She remembered Harry Potter well enough, though no one else in her year seemed to. When she had arrived at Hogwarts in her first year, she made a point of seeing him and recognizing his scar, excited by the stories of her cousins. Though, she was certain that he had never seen her, she had spied him.
She could never forget the first day she saw him, less than a week into the school year. He sat alone in the library, poring over a book from the restricted section with a large stack next to him. Carefully, she had sat at the table across from him, and he had been too absorbed to notice a Slytherin miming his concentration behind him, let alone a Ravenclaw first year sitting unnaturally close in the large library.
She had tried to concentrate on her Potions homework, but found herself glancing up more and more often, until she finally realized what was wrong. The Boy Who Lived, the very entity of a hero that she had grown up hearing stories of; The Harry Potter sat hunched over a book, head in his hands, tears falling onto the pages. This image so disturbed her that she quickly packed away her books and left for her common room. There she sat next to her fellow housemates, the sight burned in her mind begging to be voice aloud, yet even her first year mind knew that she had spied a piece of Harry Potter that few knew and none could understand. Even Andromache had a hard time accepting that those had been tears falling from his eyes, and she could not understand how such a figure of power could express such emotion. So, she had kept the image to herself, yet every time she had passed Harry Potter in the hall that year it came sharply to mind.
And then came his disappearance two weeks before term ended. She remembered the rumors and she had believed him dead. Dead or irreversible evil, as was told by her Ravenclaw housemates. Nothing else could explain why he didn't return. Yet every time she had thought of Harry Potter being evil she remembered those tears and so she assumed that the other extreme must be true. Harry Potter sacrificed himself in order to save them: A noble deed.
Now that he was obviously still alive, a twinge of fear came. Could there be any truth from those rumors? Yet again, though, the image of teardrops came.
She stared down at the Daily Prophet in front of her proclaiming, "Harry Potter at Hogwarts." The headline was the only piece of the article not interlaced with opinions. She found it amazing that people above twelve could actually consider the wizarding paper to be actual news. And yet . . . If Harry wasn't evil, then why had he left? Why, after Voldemort's second fall, had he not returned to the general populace where he would be considered their hero? Even her Ravenclaw mind could not wrap around any solid conclusion.
The bell rent through her thoughts, and with a jolt, she packed away the Prophet and pushed pass a group of twittering firsties, on her way to Defense. Perhaps there, some answers could be found.
~*~*~*~
A/N: There should be another scene (the NEWT class), yet I wanted to get this posted this weekend. Numerous reasons account for the horrendous delay, not least of which was a research paper that caused me to shun the sight of a word document. I now have a deadjournal (username whitemudloser) if you have any inclination to know any more of about high school drama.
Musical Obsession: Incubus
Next Chapter: NEWT Defense class, Snape
Thanks and Sunny Saturdays to the reviewers: Aredhel Tasartir, Kelei, EriEka127, john, Andromeda Snape-Malfoy, kears, Amber-and-Ash, Kristine Thorne, SilverKnight7, Lady Lightning, chips challenge
Chapter 10: Tears
Posted: 5/21/04
~*~*~*~
I used to apologize to the wizarding world. Not that my apologies ever fell upon living ears, but spoken into the lone Hogwarts nights they seemed to at least offer my soul some amount of forgiveness. But that solace was short-lived and never wanted to penetrate into the daylight hours.
Shortly, I stopped whispering the apologies to no one, far from forgiveness. I did not need forgiveness, nor did I deserve it. And why exactly did I want this bitter forgiveness from them? Sure, I was labeled their savior, but no one specific person forced me there, save the being whom I was meant to save them from. How could they be blamed for clutching to a solitary hope and clinging to survival? I would have done the same. Which is why I needed them to know that they were wrong to put any faith in me.
Yet, I remained the Boy Who Lived, where the wizarding world placed all their trust and hope. They took no care to notice my humanity, no thought that I was merely a boy not fit for the task entitled to me; they only cared that I would be their savior.
And I felt like I should apologize to them for their unfound hope in me at the point when I lost hope in myself. An apology because I could not fulfill the purpose that was foretold to be mine. An apology for my inability to perform a task I did not even wish to undertake.
But that time was in my past, no longer did I feel the need to apologize for their own suppositions. I did not need their forgiveness, even if it were suddenly offered to me.
"But he died."
Indeed, he did die. The Harry Potter saved them while none cared to save him. So he did perish in that graveyard – but, I . . . I survived. Harry, just Harry. I weathered the storm, and came out with life still in my veins; for that, they deserved no apology. Or perhaps I was Oedipus, playing with a memory of the past, not Harry quite yet. But did my name matter so, when under it I still remained? No. It merely provided me with the prejudices of the wizarding world, and perhaps from those I could clear "The" from my unwanted title.
Hopeful thinking. Should I not have already realized that hope was forsaken unto me? *The* would always remain, but its context could, perhaps, be changed. As much as I tried to deny it, I couldn't even give up on that blackened hope.
These thoughts coursed through my mind, but still no answer could come from them. They merely plagued my restlessness and made the long Hogwarts' night that much longer.
I walked the halls, hearing those whispers, knowing now to whom the voices belonged. The castle's spirits still eluded me, refused to become clear and tell me their secrets. I knew that trying to hear them would only cause them to retreat farther and cause that ringing in my ears to ring louder. I knew, also, that there would be no benefit in chasing the dead. Yet, I could not break away from their calling; their restlessness permeated into my veins. I put my hand on the cold stone wall and could almost feel their trembling, a faint flicker on the edge of my fingertips.
"Will you just be quiet?" I sighed as I turned the corner. They became stronger then, as if more people had joined the crowd, but none dared to venture forward.
"Stop it!" In desperation, I called towards the shadows.
As the last of the echo traveled down the hall the voices suddenly ceased. A chill went up my spine at the penetrating silence. It felt as if the castle's magic had also retreated along with its dead. The castle had responded to my plea, but I still could not shake off the sense of abandonment. The night, though now silent, seemed much colder.
Reaching inside myself, the darkness still resided. It was not my own, yet it had chosen me as its carrier. In a way, Voldemort had not died that night, not fully at any rate. I contemplated what would happen to accept this bit of him as myself. Would this lead me down the same path as he? Dumbledore, among others, wished me to take that chance. And I, also, knew that it was my only hope. But tonight, I could not grasp it.
Tomorrow I would yet again face the school, now individually. The familiar sense of sunrise came over me, and I turned my steps towards the front doors. Today—Today I would face the school individually.
~*~*~
Andromache Vance spent her lunch in the library. After less than a day of her fellow seventh years, their chatter grated on her hearing. Well, at least she only had Defense Against the Dark Arts left on her Monday schedule. And then the rest of the week, and the rest of the year . . . but that was beside the point. If she made it through the first day, then the rest would follow likewise.
Her N.E.W.T. Defense class should by interesting at any rate. At least she wouldn't have to deal with the hormone-driven males swooning as they entered the classroom, as had happened last year with that incompetent Veela. That episode had caused her to wonder if Dumbledore really was losing his sanity, as the Daily Prophet tended to advertise. This year, she questioned his aging mind even more.
She remembered Harry Potter well enough, though no one else in her year seemed to. When she had arrived at Hogwarts in her first year, she made a point of seeing him and recognizing his scar, excited by the stories of her cousins. Though, she was certain that he had never seen her, she had spied him.
She could never forget the first day she saw him, less than a week into the school year. He sat alone in the library, poring over a book from the restricted section with a large stack next to him. Carefully, she had sat at the table across from him, and he had been too absorbed to notice a Slytherin miming his concentration behind him, let alone a Ravenclaw first year sitting unnaturally close in the large library.
She had tried to concentrate on her Potions homework, but found herself glancing up more and more often, until she finally realized what was wrong. The Boy Who Lived, the very entity of a hero that she had grown up hearing stories of; The Harry Potter sat hunched over a book, head in his hands, tears falling onto the pages. This image so disturbed her that she quickly packed away her books and left for her common room. There she sat next to her fellow housemates, the sight burned in her mind begging to be voice aloud, yet even her first year mind knew that she had spied a piece of Harry Potter that few knew and none could understand. Even Andromache had a hard time accepting that those had been tears falling from his eyes, and she could not understand how such a figure of power could express such emotion. So, she had kept the image to herself, yet every time she had passed Harry Potter in the hall that year it came sharply to mind.
And then came his disappearance two weeks before term ended. She remembered the rumors and she had believed him dead. Dead or irreversible evil, as was told by her Ravenclaw housemates. Nothing else could explain why he didn't return. Yet every time she had thought of Harry Potter being evil she remembered those tears and so she assumed that the other extreme must be true. Harry Potter sacrificed himself in order to save them: A noble deed.
Now that he was obviously still alive, a twinge of fear came. Could there be any truth from those rumors? Yet again, though, the image of teardrops came.
She stared down at the Daily Prophet in front of her proclaiming, "Harry Potter at Hogwarts." The headline was the only piece of the article not interlaced with opinions. She found it amazing that people above twelve could actually consider the wizarding paper to be actual news. And yet . . . If Harry wasn't evil, then why had he left? Why, after Voldemort's second fall, had he not returned to the general populace where he would be considered their hero? Even her Ravenclaw mind could not wrap around any solid conclusion.
The bell rent through her thoughts, and with a jolt, she packed away the Prophet and pushed pass a group of twittering firsties, on her way to Defense. Perhaps there, some answers could be found.
~*~*~*~
A/N: There should be another scene (the NEWT class), yet I wanted to get this posted this weekend. Numerous reasons account for the horrendous delay, not least of which was a research paper that caused me to shun the sight of a word document. I now have a deadjournal (username whitemudloser) if you have any inclination to know any more of about high school drama.
Musical Obsession: Incubus
Next Chapter: NEWT Defense class, Snape
Thanks and Sunny Saturdays to the reviewers: Aredhel Tasartir, Kelei, EriEka127, john, Andromeda Snape-Malfoy, kears, Amber-and-Ash, Kristine Thorne, SilverKnight7, Lady Lightning, chips challenge