As always, HP does not belong to me.

There are other words in here that belong to greats like Housemann and Crane, Poetry I find is a great source of inspiration.

Thanks to DuShuZhi for being my first reviewer, it is muchly appreciated.

Footsteps (Part II)

"Most men lead lives of quiet desperation" - Thoreau

The rattling of the window was the only sound that could be heard against the night. For once all was silent in the smallest bedroom of number 4, Privet Drive. The little desk in the room was littered with letters written in rough parchment. Above it hung an empty bird cage that swung back and forth, lightly, with the wind blowing in through the open window. Harry Potter stared unwaveringly at Hedwig's cage, empty as she had once again flown off to Grimmauld Place for the instructed letter.

Remus,

I am doing as best as I can.

Harry

The letters were not always one liners, there were longer ones that he sent to Ron and Hermione who had at least made an effort to make him feel included this summer; or the ones he wrote personally to Remus that were filled with questions and apologies. He had started off with the traditional "I am fine" that people often tend to do, but after a few responses that spewed at him he decided to change his tone a little.

Three weeks had now gone by since Sirius had fallen through the veil, and just as images of Cedric had plagued his dreams last year, visions of Sirius were never far from his mind. He had tried and tried again to practice Occlumency in hopes of curbing some of his nightmares, but had had little success –often he wondered if Snape's sink and swim policy had been the best approach to get him to learn anything but that led to even more thoughts that he simply did not want to approach; so for now he was leaving it well alone.

Mad-Eye's threat at the train station had had some mixed reactions from his family. Aunt Petunia often looked pale and worried as she stared at him from the corner of her eyes, pretending to be engaged in someone else. But years of exasperating admiration and gawking had made him more alert to scrutiny than he had once been. Dudley simply refused to come near him for fear of the Dementors attacking him again. His cousin honestly believed that Harry had set those things upon him, well as long as he was left alone Harry was too tired to care about his cousin's reasoning.

Uncle Vernon on the other hand was something of a loose canon- oftentimes Harry got the impression that his uncle would like nothing more than to pound the magic out of him; literally. So he tried to stay out of the way for everybody's sake.

He got up from his bed slowly and walked over to the window. It was a nice night as far as nights went. His eyes wandered over to the unopened letter on his desk. Professor Dumbledore had sent the letter by way of Fawkes that afternoon but Harry had not been able to bring himself to open it yet.

"These men were born to drill and die. . .

Do not weep maiden, for war is kind."

Words flittered through his mind as he tried to control the quiet rage in his heart once again. Ever since his outburst in the Headmaster's office at the end of term, he had not allowed himself to explode again, not after the conversation he had shared with Dumbledore.

'Come home a hero,

Or come home not at all.'

Was he to lead a life then of a 'quiet sort of desperation' that tore at him from all angles. Here he was barely sixteen and fated with hunched shoulders until he could 'come home a hero'. Weeks after his attempted Cruciatus at Bellatrix Lestrange he could still feel his hands shaking and his stomach churning with disgust, and the curse hadn't even been a successful one.

'How was he to kill anyone in this state?'

He hadn't even begun to comprehend the enormity of the prophecy. Oh, he knew what it said, what he would ultimately need to do, but there was much more here than was within his grasp. A mere boy against a Dark Lord; his weapon of choice, apparently according to Dumbledore was to be love. He shivered thinking of the odd look on the Headmaster's face during their conversation; the weathered brows, the tight lines around his mouth; never before had Dumbledore looked his age to Harry than at the precise moment when the prophecy was recited. This made Harry want to consider things he couldn't delve into yet, it was much safer to stew in this quiet agony and silent rage, it kept him calm; at least, for now.

This morning as all mornings came without respite and Harry still stood looking out the window, his fingers absently running along the length of the coarse envelope.

'Now or never. Now or never.'

A quiet chanting resounded inside his head, urging him to gather his courage; and a muffled laughter escaped his chapped lips. Sliding his fingers into the envelope he took the parchment out and began reading:

Dear Harry,

As your sixteenth birthday approaches I find myself uneasy of your isolation, even if it is one that was imposed by me. None the less, I promised you that you would only stay there for a month, and I shall endeavour to keep this promise at least. I again emphasise how sorry I am for the mountain of hurt I seem to pile upon you.

Perhaps my judgement is clouded while you are concerned as Professor Snape is quick to point out, but I doubt his ideas are the same as yours. I have hidden too many things from you in the past, and cannot truthfully say that it will not be the case again in the coming years, but I do make a solemn promise that I will impart all news and information that is likely to help you or hurt you as may be the case.

I would like to tell you to not fret over the content of the prophecy as much but as I have no doubt that my advice on this matter will be indeed useless, I shall keep my urges to myself for the time. However the day will come Harry, when we must address this. I told you in my office that it is your penchant for caring that makes you hurt so, and I know my words were true just as I know that Sirius's death hangs above your dreams. I can only offer words of comfort in this case as I doubt any reassurances on my part would make much of a difference.

Still, I would like to stress once again that I am in as much fault over this matter as anyone else, perhaps even more. Sometimes we are all fools when it comes to people we seek to protect. I would like you to keep your head up and not let despair drown you my boy; I have seen what grief does to people, and have no wish to see you in the same state. There is much we must discuss, much we must reconcile, but that is for later.

For now just accept this letter as concern from an old man and please do not fret over your outburst in my office.

Albus Dumbledore