Disclaimer: As much as I wish I could call the Harry Potter boys my own, I fear J.K. Rowling is responsible for them. Not me.
Involves: Lots and lots of angst, slash, suggestive themes.
Author's Note: I'm not sure how long I'm planning on this story being. But it will be kind of drawn out, I want to make room for lots of detailing. So, if something isn't clear right away, chances are that I'll get around to explaining it more thoroughly later on. I really hope you enjoy it! This is basically my first fanfiction, so lots of reviews would help! wink wink Thanks!
Chapter 1
A few glass stars twinkled at him as he laid, back pressed into lush green strands that cradled and sunk under his body. Harry closed his eyes, fearful that those delicate jewels above him may break under the weight of his stare. The lawn in back of the Dursley's house was cool and soothing, accompanied by a mild breeze.
The lids shielding the fragile sky fluttered open again after a moment and redirected their gaze to the moon. It was full, it seemed to be on the verge of falling off its perch in the heightened darkness. It was as a gigantic, cratered, Christmas ornament drooping on a limb of the tree, a ring of pallor suspended in the atmosphere, a spectral over-seer of all things. It vaguely reminded him of the ghosts that vigilantly patrolled his school.
Tomorrow, he was to start his sixth year at Hogwarts.
Apprehension mingled with abhorrence in his mind. Curiosity with strangling confusion. And above all other emotion, guilt. To explain it would be impossible. To put this self-loathing into words would render him irreparable. So, he made sure not to speak of it, tried not to even think of it. But it was there. Undeniably, it dwelled in his every thought, taking shelter in every spare space in his being. A hole was bored inside him, a large one at that. Something had once lived there quite comfortably...but now the only thing that had managed to attain residence within him was the overwhelming blame...
Harry was fragmented, battling against himself, trying to defend his honor, his judgment, his very virtue.
You did NOT murder, Sirius. Stop acting as if you had.
Well, of course, not directly. But my actions served the same purpose as placing breadcrumbs on a pathway for him to follow. I led him to his destruction. For that, I am accountable, in dubiously.
But you didn't know any better! You can't be held responsible....you could never have guessed that Voldemort would use you like that...
WAKE UP! Think about the title 'Dark Lord' for a second. Think about all those he's had killed or tortured. Do you think a man like that is incapable of lying, of using deceptive methods to get what he wants? Do you think his conscience ached after he murdered Mum and Dad? I daresay not! He bases his entire regime on the principle that you can never stoop too low!
Harry was losing the fight quite miserably. All logic pointed to the conclusion that he had preassigned Sirius' fate. He lost his only family as a result of his own stupidity. Loathing was not the correct word to describe exactly how Harry had regarded himself all summer; it wasn't strong enough.
At the start of vacation, Harry eagerly awaited the first letters he would receive from his friends. He needed their advice. He needed to know that they still cared. All that had happened caused him to forget. He was so desperate for those lines of empathy, of understanding, the words that spelled out 'I love you and I know how to help you!'. However....no such letter was ever delivered. Ron and Hermione wrote, of course, but they spoke of nothing, save tedium. Harry did not care to know that the two of them were now dating. He was equally disinterested in Fred and George's thriving business and the article about them in the Daily Prophet.
Harry was alarmed to see that they had entirely averted the subject of his grief. It seemed insensitive, unappreciative. But more letters continued to arrive and they also read in said fashion. Eventually, Harry made an assumption as to what their reasoning was behind this cruelty.
They had no words to offer him. They never knew a suffering as great as his. They probably guessed that whatever sympathy they could supply was not enough to comfort him without sounding like they were simply regurgitating empty paragraphs of pity. It had reached the point when they had no idea how to console him anymore.
That prospect left a slow sinking feeling in Harry. He estimated all his organs had slipped about 5 inches downward. His feet began to press further into the ground.
He wouldn't mention any of this to them though. It would voice the awkwardness he already felt and infect them, as well. Besides, in addition to making them feel worse, it would put the old routine into motion.
Hermione would hug him, tears brimming in her eyes, whimpering some pointless sentiments about how everything will resolve itself in time. This, of course, was probably the last thing he needed to hear. A few blind words, positively saturated with pity were not going to win him over. That had been what she'd attempted to avoid after all.
Ron, however, would take on a familiar uneasiness as soon as he learned that Harry had a problem. He would leave all the talking to the girl, nodding fervently in agreement every so often and darting sharp, but fleeting glances of concern at Harry.
It was far too predictable. Harry wished that they would show some sign of behavior that was irregular from the norm. Perhaps if they just held him in a soundless embrace...
He lost focus and let himself fall into a dream.
The next morning, Harry woke, picked up the newspaper from the front stoop and shuffled a bit drowsily into the house. The Dursleys were already having breakfast. He deposited the paper on the kitchen table and went upstairs to dress and gather his things.