Hi guys, hope you're prepared for something slightly different! Oh, well, if you're not, then read it anyway. Warning – this is NOT HP/GW fluff. This is decidedly different. In fact, it isn't romance at all. Bet you're wondering what I'm doing then? Well, I was just listening to the new song from Avril Lavigne, 'Nobody's Home', and I just thought it was so Harry. So, after a few alterations to make it masculine (it helps when reading, trust me), I got this. Hope you enjoy.

Title: Nobody's Home

Author: FireOpal

Summary: 'I couldn't tell you why he felt that way/ He felt it everyday /And I couldn't help him/ I just watched him make the same mistakes again.'

Genre: Angst.

Pairings: None, except JP/LP.

SONGFIC: 'Nobody's Home' by Avril Lavigne.

11/05/2005 – Amendments made to lyrics when I discovered you weren't allowed to post lyrics in stories! Oops. Full original available via my profile page. Apologies guys.


It was late afternoon, the wind starting to pick up a chill as evening crept into the sky. Overhead, clear blue with dusky sunlight leant light to the lonely, deserted residential estate. Only a single person walked down the footpath, not looking where he's going, black hair ruffled by the wind, over big jeans scuffing the tarmac as they draped over old trainers. His hands were jammed deeply into the pockets of a worn jacket, head bowed, as he trudged onwards.

Harry had been walking, for how long he wasn't entirely sure. After all, all these London estates look the same, and he hadn't really taken in his surroundings much. It must have been a few hours at least, as he remembered escaping his diligent guards at number 4 in the early afternoon, and now it was getting late. Somehow, though, he still didn't want to return. Like something was pulling him onwards, taking him somewhere he had to go.

(Verse)

Inwardly, he wondered whether this was entirely a good idea; escaping the Order and wandering the streets of London alone, with only his wand jammed deep into his trouser pocket. Hell, he wasn't even looking where he was going, but he wasn't lost. Not yet. Some small part of his mind felt guilty and apprehensive of what they would say, Remus especially. After all, knowing them, they'd be worried out of their minds, and he was all the old werewolf had. Remus was all he had. Yes, he had Ron and Hermione, but they were his friends, not his family. He couldn't turn to them for experienced advice. He couldn't tell them what he felt.

(Verse)

Turning to the other members of his 'family', he thought of Mr and Mrs Weasley. Yes, they were very kind to him, and Mrs Weasley's hugs were legendary, but he still missed them. Anyway, they had seven children of their own to look after, to praise, to cherish. And they didn't know, any of them. He hadn't wanted to make them embarrassed or worried, so he hadn't told them the prophecy. He wanted someone he could turn to, who would understand him, treat him like an adult, but know he needed comfort occasionally. He let out a small derisive snort as he thought of his so-called 'relatives'. Yeah, like he could suddenly turn to Aunt Petunia and say,

"Aunt Petunia, can you help me? I just killed my godfather, Voldemort's back to life because of me, and incidentally he wants to kill me. What do you think I should do?"

(Chorus)

It was silly really, to want anything else. He had Remus, who had promised him he could turn to at a moments notice, he had two amazing friends, the Weasleys', his teachers. But deep inside, he knew. Ever since he had looked into the Mirror of Erised, and seen his parents standing beside him, smiling, he had known. He wanted a mum and dad.

Still not watching where he was going, his feet seeming to lead him, he turned left at a corner, and continued along the pavement, scuffing his feet, not looking up.

Sirius had been wonderful, a brilliant substitute for his dad. He had felt wanted, loved, cared for. He had been able to talk to him, joke with him, tell him about anything he was worried about – things he had always imagined he could do with his parents. But then, through his own stupidity, he had lost him. The image of the still young man falling through the veil still haunted his nightmares; occasionally standing face to face with him, telling him it was all his fault. Cedric joined in too, and the jeering and snarling faces of countless other victims of Voldemort plagued his mind, sending him screaming back into the conscious world.

(Verse).

A jolt of electricity running across his spine, made him look up. After glancing around warily, looking for any sign of what might've alerted his senses, he was sure there were no Death Eaters around, but when his gaze reached the end of the street, his heart stopped. Standing still, stricken in the middle of the pavement, the wind tugged at his hair and clothes and face, but he didn't feel it. All he saw was the house at the end of the street.

It was surprising it was still standing, after all, the windows looked like they had been blown in, and contained no glass, the walls were ruinous, the roof hanging off of it like a piece of material draped over the unstable walls. The front door, painted with peeling green paint, looked like it had been blasted in as well, hanging off of its hinges crazily. For a split second, while his brain remained mostly shut down, a part of him wondered why it was still standing and hadn't been demolished. But as his brain started to function again, he noticed that it was somehow not quite part of the scenery, like the Leaky Cauldron had been in London. Muggles can't see it…

(Chorus)

Barely registering what he was doing, he broke into a run, keeping his eyes fixed on the house. He only shuddered to a halt when he reached the front gate, the same peeling green as the front door. He pushed it open gently, his heart hammering, not even knowing why he was doing this. Something struck him as familiar though, and he let it creak shut after him, taking small footsteps up to the front door. Beside it, on a small dirtied plaque nailed to the wall he read the words he both wanted and didn't want to read.

Godric's Hollow.

His parents house. His house. Where his parents died protecting him, where Voldemort came, and was banished. Godrics Hollow. He was trembling now, standing in front of the door, uncertain. It was his house, but did he really want to go in? Dumbledore had told him where his parents had been buried, had even let Remus and a few members of the Order take him there. But this was different.

After a few seconds, he realised what he was doing, and, feeling slightly daft, summoned up his courage, and walked into the hall.

The walls had, at one time, been wallpapered with a soft cream pattern, the ceiling hung low in the middle, as if someone was sitting on it, and the carpet underfoot was damn and mouldy, but he could still detect the beige colouring. On his immediate left, there was a tall wooden hat stand that had been knocked to the floor, and a solitary black cloak lay under it, presumably where it had fallen when the stand had been knocked over. He felt a small pang as he saw this. His fathers' cloak.

Tearing his eyes from the almost mundane things before him, he noticed a few pictures that still hung on the walls. As he gently stepped over to one, he saw it was a photograph of his parents, Remus and Sirius, standing outside of Hogwarts. Lily was in her wedding dress, and smiling beautifully, James was grinning like a fool, in his smart robes, occasionally leaning over to kiss his wife on the cheek. Remus and Sirius where also in robes, and stood to one side from the happy couple, grinning as well. Peter was nowhere in sight, so Harry presumed he must've been the one who had taken the picture – but this thought didn't make him angry or resentful, only sad.

He suddenly straightened the picture carefully, and bent down to pick up the stand. He didn't know why he was trying to tidy the place up at all, but it felt wrong to just leave it as it was. Turning back to the main hall, he chose the first door on the left. The living room.

Harry turned the handle, and walked carefully into the room. This one didn't look as bad, most of the furniture was still in place, so he presumed that Voldemort hadn't come in here to find them. It was a largeish room, smelling strongly of mould and dust. The main window let in some light through the empty frame, and lit up the room. There was a large sofa, with two matching armchairs, typically in gold and red. One of the armchairs looked more broken in than the rest of the furniture, and he smiled slightly, as he supposed it was Sirius'. His godfather had always had a relaxed attitude to furniture – and flopping down in it heavily seemed just like him.

Harry was slightly surprised to see a television, but as his mother had been muggleborn, he figured that that was her influence. As with most wizarding homes, there was large, well-used looking fireplace in the middle of one wall, soot still lying around it. In front of the sofa, was a small coffee table, and a few magazines that looked like they had been laying on it where scattered on the floor. They bore titles like 'Witch Weekly', 'The Quidditch Companion' and there was even a copy of 'The Daily Prophet'. There were a few more photos, some of people he didn't recognise, a couple of people from the photo Moody had shown him of the old Order, another Marauder group photo. Harry studied these for a few moments, tears springing to his eyes, before he tore himself away, and went back out into the hall.

Before he could decide where to explore next, he found himself drawn upstairs, by the same force that had pulled him here in the first place. Treading carefully so as not to upset the weak walls and structure, he reached the top of the stairs, and took the first room he saw.

It was his parents room, that much was obvious from the double bed, and the large sign he saw on the door – 'Marauders Prohibited!' He smiled again as he thought of what had happened before his mother (it must've been his mother, after all, who else would place it there?) had put it up. This room was decorated in soft blues, and the carpet was a deep azure. There was the large double bed, reminding him strongly of the four posters they had at Hogwarts with it's deep coloured oak wood and decorated carvings. There was even a wardrobe, which Harry opened, finding, to his amazement, pristine clothes. It seemed an odd mix of his mothers' and fathers' clothes – muggle and wizarding. There was even his parents wedding clothes; his mothers long white gown, resplendent with tiny shimmering beads and glittering threads, carefully woven into the material. His fathers robes were there too, raven black and smart, a stiff collar and long, sweeping sleeves.

Harry carefully replaced the clothes, and closed the door. There was something he was missing here, something he still needed to see. He continued through the room for a second, before realising that what he was looking for wasn't in here. Tearing himself away from the bedroom, he went back to the top of the stairs, and entered the last room, ignoring the bathroom.

This was what he was looking for. What he was looking for all along. The room. He pushed open the door timidly, noting the plaque on the door that read 'Harry's Room', surrounded by dancing snitches. The door opened to reveal a smallish room, just the size for a young child, painted in soft green. The carpet was beige, and in the far corner stood a cot, the tiny covers flung back, as though something had been rapidly taken from it. Now he felt the tears spring to his eyes more than ever, but still he surveyed the room. There was a small shelf, carrying books like 'The Amazing Adventures of Spiffy the Snitch', and also held four tiny soft toys, each a replica of each animal form of the Marauders. The large black dog looked the most used.

(Verse)

The tears were running thick now, and no amount of brushing them away could stop them. He could picture it, the memory from when he came too near Dementors aiding his imagination.

She stood, sobbing quietly, holding her child to her closely. It was too late to run, too late to hide. He would find them anyway. She could hear the sounds of spells from here, heard the shouts and cries from her husband. She even heard the final words 'Avada Kedavra' and the thump as James fell to the floor. Surprisingly, this calmed her. At least he would be there when she came to join him, and she'd be damned if she went without a fight. Sniffing quietly, she moved to the cot, placing her precious son down into it, and kissed his forehead. He seemed to know something was up, and he was quiet, his tiny emerald eyes shining fearfully. She gave him a small weak smile, and whispered in a hoarse voice.

"I love you, Harry."

Just at that second, the door to the room opened forcefully, and the cloaked and hooded figure of Lord Voldemort walked in.

"Ah, Lily, so good to see you again. Now, you know what I want, and your foolish husband has already paid for his mistake."

"No, Tom, you won't have him." Suddenly the calm left her as the forbidding figure walked closer, wand out, and pointed directly at her son.
"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"

"Stand aside you silly girl." Voldemort sneered, trying to get past the woman before him.

"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead…please, have mercy, have mercy…" Lily's eyes were wide with terror, her face shining with tears. She watched as the figure turned to her, and braced herself. The immortal words rang in the air as she fell to the ground.

"Avada Kedavra"

It was his fault. Voldemort had wanted him, not his parents, him. Sirius, Lily, James, Cedric, all had died because of him.

(Verse)

He didn't want all this. He just wanted a normal life – to have parents, friends, family. To be safe, to be happy. Not to be the 'Boy-Who-Lived', not to be the 'Boy-Who-Has-To-Kill-Voldemort', not even the 'Youngest Seeker in a Century'. He wanted to be able to worry about zits, his homework, exam deadlines, girls. Normal things.

(Chorus)

He couldn't even stand now, just rested his back against the wall, not caring if it suddenly gave out under his weight, and sank down onto the floor, his knees tucked close to his chest, head bowed, sobs wracking his body. He didn't look up; not when his ears caught the sound of someone apparating below him, not when he heard gentle footsteps on the stairs, when he heard the door creak open, or felt someone sit next to him and pull him onto their lap. As he sobbed, he could smell mustiness, soap, and something he couldn't recognise, and knew he was in safe hands.

(Chorus)

As he held the sobbing boy in his arms, close to him, Remus held back his tears. He hadn't stepped inside this house since James and Lily had died. And now, he sat, holding their son in his arms, the last true Marauder, and the saviour of the world, a boy crying for his parents, his godfather, and a life that could never be. A boy who could never be young, never play innocently with his family. And they cried together.

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Note – Poor Remus, he's always there to take up the slack!