Feel
By: Lady DeathAngel
Disclaimer: not mine, not profiting, 'nuff said.
Warnings: more angst
A/N: Well . . . I actually cried writing this chapter. It's not even one my favorites but I had mascara in my tear-ducts when I was finished. This isn't the last chapter, in fact its more of an angsty interlude than anything. There is more yet to come, more angst, and some sort of closure (or we hope. .; ). Oh, and these haven't been beta read yet, but someone's on the job so never fear! Just, er, skip over mistakes. Anyway, as always, please read, enjoy and review.
Everyone wanted to be a hero. It was one of those so-called common childhood dreams. Girls wanted to be the princess, boys wanted to be the knight, and it seemed that some people never lost those dreams. He would always think of Ron and how he'd been so jealous of who he was and what he was. Ron didn't know, though, the reality of being 'the hero'. And it was better that way, in the end. He wouldn't wish what he was and who he was on anyone. Not even Malfoy. Because everyone was just better off in their idealistic worlds where facing Voldemort wasn't frightening enough to wake him in a cold sweat every year since he'd first run into him. Worlds where he was over-exaggerating or he was mad.
A part of him had resigned himself to this fate. Kill or be killed, as if that wasn't maudlin enough to make Shakespeare cringe (and wouldn't Hermione be proud that he knew a word like 'maudlin'?). It was almost hilarious, it was so simple. He could handle it, at least. The knowledge of the inevitable was a lead-weight in the pit of his stomach and it wasn't going to go away and he was used to it being there.
But there was still a part of him that wasn't all jaded naivete and resigned to fate. It was young and old, petulant and angry and wanted to be heard. It rebelled at having the weight of the Wizarding world on its shoulders. It demanded the childhood stolen, the happiness that wasn't allowed. It knew more than the part of him that was submitted to what was expected. It knew that he was being used, it knew that he might never have a chance to love and be loved and die loved and being loved. It knew that he wasn't accepted for who he was, for the boy that excelled at Defense Against the Dark Arts and was mediocre at Potions and was absolutely horrid at Divinations.
It looked back on his fifth year and laughed! The nerve of it, it actually laughed. It told the truth that the other part of him simply thought inconsequential and irrelevant. It laughed at his failed relationship with Cho Chang and wondered aloud how he'd been so stupid.
It's not as if you should have pursued it, really. Or so it said. Her boyfriend died next to you, she saw you clutching his body, bleeding and broken and half-mad. But you did it anyway. Why?
He didn't have an answer to that question.
Everyone was so accepting of it, though. Weren't they? Hermione pushed you onto her and her onto you. You were never good for each other and surely she of all people should have realized it. But she didn't. Why?
He didn't have an answer to that question.
What about the affection you really wanted? Sirius loved you more than any simple girl could have. But they weren't so accepting of that were they? What did they see that you didn't? What did they think wrong that you thought wasn't? Why didn't they leave it be? Why?
He didn't have that answer either. He didn't have any answers. And that voice wouldn't stop talking. It would ask the questions that needed to be answered. Address issues that he'd tried to hard to sweep under the rug.
You honestly think you aren't some kind of tool in this? Just think for one goddamned second! Look back on what's happened to you. It's not chance. It's not an accident when Voldemort gets his hands on you. How can it be? Dear Dumbledore seems to know everything after the fact, during and before. How could he not know what was going to happen? How could he not know Quirrel was possessed? Or Mad Eye Moody wasn't the real one? How could he assume Snape could get past his differences, and you as well, and be wrong about that when he's been right about everything else?
And he didn't know. He just didn't. And he didn't want to think about it, but it couldn't be helped.
You want to know why, don't you?
No.
Don't kid yourself. You think you don't want to know. But, remember how Dumbledore told you nothing and now you wish you'd known? In a year, will you wish you'd known?
I . . . don't know.
Yes you do. And you want to know why. Don't you?
Yes.
They want you to be what they think you should be.
So simple.
You understand?
Hardly.
Let me help you understand. Think back . . . think about what Dumbledore said. He didn't tell you because he didn't think you were ready to know. He wanted you to be as normal and sheltered as possible until he saw it fit to tell you the truth.
That's . . . true enough.
Heh. True enough? He didn't make you a Prefect because he thought you'd be too otherwise occupied. What does that tell you?
That he tried to control me?
Well . . . yes and no.
He tried to protect me.
Yes . . . and no.
He tried to make me something I'm not.
Aha. Tried to make you innocent and sheltered and normal. Like Voldemort hasn't been after you since you were born. Like you could ignore the fact that you're the Boy-Who-Lived and pretend everything's all right.
But he's always guarding me like I'm not normal. People watching my every move. Trying to keep me from doing too much because I can't strain myself. Protecting and controlling me.
Well, you are the inevitable destruction of Voldemort. Can't have you being offed or doing anything wrong before you can save all their skins, right?
Doesn't matter. Not now. I know now, so it's all in the past.
But you can't let them keep you from being you. You can't let them pretend like they've always been here for you. Because where were they when you were a little boy locked in a closet with a deathly fear of the dark? Where were they when you were in that graveyard completely helpless?
I was alone. I'm always alone. Even surrounded by people my destiny is to be alone. They'll never understand that. No one will.
There are some who will.
None that I can talk to. Dumbledore . . . I can't trust him. Even before what happened he had distanced himself. And the only other is . . . was Sirius. I don't want to be alone anymore . . . but here I am. Alone again but with no hope this time. No plans for after his name is cleared. No plans for after Hogwarts.
Just plans for after it's all over . . . our purpose fulfilled.
I don't like being alone either.
And there was a pained whisper that cut the relative silence of the room.
"Fix it. Somebody please . . ."
And that summed it up, he realized, curled in on himself, head to his knees, arms around his shins. He just wanted someone to fix it all. He hated being alone.