Bittersweet Symphonies and Starless Nights

In those few hours that you battled with Ron, you said everything you had wanted to say for so long. Something about this person made you say it. But Ron, the one you met five years ago, was different from what you imagined. This was not the Ron you wanted to become friends with. This Ron was mature and not funny. But maybe that was just the side that he showed when someone was crying. Or maybe somewhere inside you, there was still an eleven-year-old boy, a scar on his forehead, covered by naturally untidy ebony hair and green eyes, that was waiting for Ron to hold out his hand and let Young Harry take it, just like you would have reached out to a brother he never had. Whatever it was you wished You Ron would come back, Young Harry inside you was scared of This Ron.

"I don't want to save the world anymore," you whisper quietly, placing an ice pack on you swollen eye. You were in the infirmary; Madame Pomfrey had given you ice packs while she went to Dumbledore about Hagrid who, up to this moment, was lying unconscious in his hut.

Ron looked up from dressing his wound around his arm. "I know." He resumed attending to the wound. "But you have to." You furrow your brow, look at the water filled glass on the bedside table, and gaze as the light passes through liquid and glass forming a radiant shadow on oak wood.

"Why? There's no one left here who is worth saving." Ron continued to bandage the wound but as he did this he said to you;

"Do you really think so?" he asks you softly, raising his hand a little higher to examine his work. You don't answer him. Did you really believe that no one was worth saving anymore? Was everyone insignificant now that you last hope of a family was gone?

"I don't." He looks at you now, and you see a look in his eyes that seem familiar. "And I reckon your godfather doesn't think so too." You glare at him. Who is he to say he knows what Sirius thinks?

"We'll never know that now. He's dead." You tell Ron icily, but deep inside you your soul is bleeding, a fresh wound blooming inside, the flower of spring.

"Doesn't mean you have to die with him."

"Do you even know what it's like to know that you're going to die? To know you won't live to see the age of thirty?" you ask him.

"I have a vague idea."

"That's all you have. A vague idea."

You stand and cross the room to where a window is, from there you can see an endless mass of trees with diminutive shades of green painting the dull brown with life. Silence settles itself in the room, observing you, rapt in its enchantment. Behind you, Ron falls back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling.

"Nobody likes leaving things or people behind, all the more so, no one wants to be left following. But that's not what dying is." You hear him say, but you're uncertain if he who he was talking to, you or himself. "It's just going ahead to make sure everything is fine for your arrival. It's similar to what Dumbledore said; the ones we love never truly leave us."

"But Sirius did. He left me behind." You squint your eyes, trying to see the small raven on one of the trees. "Besides if no one likes leaving things behind then they should never have left at all."

"If people never leave then they would never have gotten anywhere. One has to leave sometime. There are some places we can't follow right after. Sometimes we can't follow at all."

"That's stupid. Whoever said that is pathetic. Why can't I follow?" You lean forward, looking for the raven you saw. "Why shouldn't I be able to follow? It's easy."

Yes, it is easy. Suicide, why not? A simple draw of blood from your jugular and it's over. After all, there is nothing left to live for, is there? No. Nothing. The lives of every other human being in the world is nothing compared to your family, the family who died to save you and all of humanity. Is it?

"It's easy," repeats Ron, folding his arms on his chest. "It's easy because you're scared. Only cowards try to find the easy way out."

"I'm not a coward," you whisper, not meaning for him to hear, but he does.

"Prove it." You're annoyed with Ron now, it's clear in you voice and when you turn to look at him your eyes are filled with annoyance lined with realization.

"I've decided I'll stay. And I'll try to save the world." Despite your clear aggravation towards him, he places both hands on your shoulders, a gesture of comfort he learned from his family years before.

"Promise?" The question is so softly said; it almost seems like a dream.

"I promise."

It appears as though you love staring out the window nowadays, Harry Potter. The moon sheds its light in the room, delicate silhouettes dance with the wind. Day decides to take rest and pulls its blanket, going by the name Night, over the world, hiding ignorance along with other little secrets. You sit on the floor gazing out at the starless night with Solitude as your companion, and she waits with you quietly, bright blue piercing eyes that twinkle not unlike stars soften while she whispers questions in your ear. Her words descend on you along with a wave of a despondent bliss that you can't describe. Can you save the world? She asks you, coating her malicious poetry with innocence and sweetness that is coalesced with subtle mockery.

"Can I save the world?" you whisper to yourself. Suddenly the song of the crickets becomes louder now that Silence befalls beyond your sight. Their melody rings a thousand times louder in the room carried by the spring breeze that cools your face. It's a bittersweet symphony that somehow, no matter where you go; you cannot escape.

Just as it comes the hymn breaks apart and Silence has returned to you. Can you keep your promise to him? You promise to the world?

Are you really going to try?

"Potter, what are you doing here? Snape wants you." Says a cold voice behind you, sending Silence and Solitude whispering with temerity.

"Did he say what he wanted?" you inquire, voice hoarse from not speaking for a long time. The blond youth shook his head and beckons you to follow him. Wearily, you comply.

Your friendship, if you could call it that, with Draco Malfoy is quite queer. He doesn't speak to you much, nor do you, but hostility has surprisingly never been a problem. Though your fame caused some displeasure to him, he held his tongue but lashed out quite a lot with the Gryffindors. Now he leads you to your bitter potions master, both wondering what the professor of all things liquid could want from you.

"Thank you for your time, Draco. You may leave now," said the greasy haired man upon your arrival. He says nothing, his grey eyes clouding and betraying nothing.

"You asked for me, professor?" you say, looking directly into those black eyes, those chilling eyes that conveyed an empty nothingness.

"Yes. I wanted to discuss if you wish to continue Occlumency. The Headmaster has made it clear that you may choose to discontinue these lessons." You are confused. What had caused the decision to stop Occlumency?

"I don't want to take them anymore, Professor," you hear yourself say. The older man seemed rather surprised for a moment but it was gone in an instant.

'Very well." He nods at you indicating that you can leave. As you close the door you hear him mutter something you'd never thought you would hear.

"I hope you know what you are doing to yourself, Harry Potter. Nonetheless, be well."

Hm, that was interesting. You make your way down the corridor and wonder what you had really done now that you stopped occlumency. Was this for the better? You were never one to digress on such complex things such as war, strategy and what was safe. No. You questioned for a moment and then like a lamp that loses oil after a period of time you burn out, accepting the situation for what it was, those times, however was when you were the naïve boy whose only care in the world was to be alive.

What had changed?

Pop.

A small sound echoed inside your head and a tinge of pain began to flow, from the back and settling itself in the front. Too many question plagued your mind and you feel you must have been thinking too hard. You decide that sleep is you only other option and head for your dormitory. But what you see as you turn the corner is something you will never forget.

Bent down on the ground in hand covering his mouth and the other supporting him, the red head was coughing and the sound resonated in the hall. His eyes conveyed an expression of intense pain. You stare at him and he looks up at you with wide eyes, red liquids seeping down the length of his arm.

Shit.