Title: Knowledge
Author: Skt
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: Few swear words, no big spoilers
Word Count: Approx. 1000
Summary: The real victory is getting up again.
A/N: Part 3 in a series that starts with Preemptive Strike. You should really read the other 2 or you'll be confused. This came from 2 songs, literally written in about 12 minutes as I played them both a couple of times. Killradio's "Do You Know?" and The Used "The Taste of Ink" are great songs. Not betaed, so I'm sorry about any and all mistakes.
The only thing Harry could think about was the fact that he had such few thoughts. From all he had heard, he had assumed that his life would flash past his eyes. Instead he found he was too tired to do anything besides think about not thinking.
The corner of his mouth lifted in the parody of a smile at the thought, and he thought he might laugh; actually took in the breath to do it, but then he felt the sharp stab of pain below his ribs and it stopped the movement cold.
He'd done his duty, never mind that it shouldn't have been his to begin with, and fought the good fight. Stood there in the spotlight he always seemed to find himself in, and given it his all for reasons he only half-believed in. A personal vendetta that had been exploited so that other people could have him do the things they couldn't.
He'd had his feelings manipulated, told that he had the opportunity to avenge his parents and why didn't he go do it? What kind of son would he be otherwise? With his beautiful mother, who'd given him his eyes, and his father who'd given his Seeker skills. He'd only been a child, but he'd wanted to do right by his parents, and he'd thought that this was the way to do it. Now he wondered if his parents would have preferred he leave the fight to someone else. After all, they'd died to save his life, and here he was, giving his to avenge theirs'.
He had to survive, make it out alive. He'd have the chance to be free. The chance to break out and live for himself, instead of for useless and pointless prophecies that didn't bring him anything but inevitable pain.
He wasn't sure if he'd have that opportunity now, and that made him as angry as it did regretful. He was filled with an instant longing for so many things he didn't even know where to begin.
He'd been port-keyed to a place he'd never seen before, and he had no idea how to get back. He'd won, but victory only went so far when you were critically injured with no idea where you were or how to get back. He was alone, and even if he had been able to stand up and walk, he wouldn't have known which direction to head in. He didn't even know what time it was. Last he'd checked it was after two in the morning.
'It's too late for this' he thought almost hysterically. He was so tired, but he wasn't sure that if he did go to sleep he would wake up. He wanted to sleep, to dream of things that couldn't be. He wanted to pretend that he could have all he wanted, who he wanted, the way he wanted.
Utterly ridiculous things, dreams of traveling, of living in a flat somewhere, of going dancing, despite the fact that neither he nor Ron could or would ever go dance somewhere. The impossibility of it only made him want it more.
He would have said something, had he been given the chance. He would have had to, having slipped up in a way that was all too inevitable. He would have made himself force the words out - the words he really meant. He'd never been able to express himself, not like he'd really wanted to, but he would have given it his best shot.
Said how sorry he was that he'd held himself back, lied through omission everyday for so long he wasn't sure when he'd been telling the truth. He would have looked into Ron's eyes and let him see everything, all the parts of himself he tried to hide from everyone, even himself.
It wasn't fair that he couldn't and he felt a surge of anger at the position he'd been placed in. Always and forever a servant of the public, someone at their disposal. He was sick of it and he wanted nothing more than to get up and go back, yell at them all about what they did to him.
What they did to Ron.
He forced his body up with a determination that he himself would have found impressive, had he not been so focused. He didn't think about anything but breathing and moving, not losing consciousness. He had to get home.
It didn't matter that he was injured, alone, lost, and for all intents and purposes still a kid. Experience had taken away every chance he'd ever had at innocence or youth, and despite the fact that he tried to cling to childhood with his fingertips, he'd always believed that he'd missed the chance to really understand it. He saw the world through the eyes and mentality of a world-weary soldier, and this was one battle he wasn't going to lose.
Fuck, this wasn't the battle, this was the whole damn war.
Despite what his Potions grades were, he wasn't an idiot, and he had seen the look in Ron's eyes when Harry had touched him. There was surprise and embarrassment and caution, but all the same Harry could tell what it really meant. It didn't make any sense, but Harry figured it didn't have to. He just knew, and the knowledge made his current situation that much more upsetting.
He had to get back. Ron was waiting for him.
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