He's faced the dark Lord again and again, as a baby, as a child, as a sullen teenager. Every time he has lived. Every time people edge away from him just a little bit more. They begin to think him theanthropic. They forget he is just a boy. They push him ahead, they call him a demon, they call him a savior. They never call him Harry.
The merpeople push him up from the depths, Dumbledore carries him back to the castle, and that night Gryffindor Tower sinks under the weight of the one who would have called him love.
All the color has drained away.
Ron saw the body. He can't say Harry. He saw the body once, waterlogged and pale like a blind fish. He said, "Where are his glasses? He can't see without his glasses," and while the teachers looked at each other, trying to decide what to say, he turned and was quietly sick down the front of his robes.
"Sorry," people say, vapid and weak. "We didn't know." Ron wants to scream that he didn't either, he didn't know until it was too late, but his voice is underwater.
Friend is too small a word.
The merpeople push him up from the depths, Dumbledore carries him back to the castle, and that night Gryffindor Tower sinks under the weight of the one who would have called him love.
All the color has drained away.
Ron saw the body. He can't say Harry. He saw the body once, waterlogged and pale like a blind fish. He said, "Where are his glasses? He can't see without his glasses," and while the teachers looked at each other, trying to decide what to say, he turned and was quietly sick down the front of his robes.
"Sorry," people say, vapid and weak. "We didn't know." Ron wants to scream that he didn't either, he didn't know until it was too late, but his voice is underwater.
Friend is too small a word.