Title: Kind of like Magic
Summary: I can only imagine what will happen after the war. After everything has died down. If I make it through, what will life be like? How many of my friends will be there to laugh with? Will I be able to walk through a room without eyes on my forehead? Will I get a chance to be normal? Another one shot of Harry's rambling mind.
A/N: Like what you see? Check out "Surfacing Memoirs" - my most popular fic.
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I'm sitting, staring idly out of the window. Sitting here in the tower, watching the grounds. The wind is blowing, I can tell by the ripples that float lazily across the water. Absently I wonder if my dad ever sat here, looking at the night.
Maybe he was thinking about my mom, wondering if she would ever like him. Maybe he was plotting against Snape. Maybe Sirius had been besides him, sniggering as they created more and more painful ways for him to die.
Maybe he had clouded up the glass and drawn Quiditch strategies in the cloud until Sirius made him go to bed. Maybe he had been hung over and had rested here, looking at the lake until it came into focus. I grin at that and look over the grounds for any signs of Prongs. I feel him tonight.
The stars aren't visible now. The rain is beating down, bitterly, full of hate. Plummeting towards the ground, only to splatter on impact. "The skies are trying to drown us all." I think with a smile, though seeing no humor in the sentence.
I have become somewhat of a depressive. Who wouldn't, knowing that they had killed their only chance in a life, and were to kill or be killed within a year? Ron and Hermione have noticed of course, but I've had grown accustomed to lying. I can tell them everything is great without a flinch or a blink. And they believe me. Why wouldn't they?
I open a textbook, desperate to concentrate on homework instead of my evil mind, flipping towards the next chapter. I try reading, but my eyes skim over the same sentence again and again, desperately trying to take it in. I slam it shut in frustration, jumping as Ron gives a sleepy snore. I turn back to the window, where the paths of raindrops can be seen streaking down the window as the rain died down and the wind picked up.
Soon it's howling with all its fury, telling stories of war and blood, and love gone wrong. I listen with interest. I have never heard the stories told by the wind.
"Horrors...horrors..." it wails through the cracks in the window. I summon my blanket, and sit, letting my mind wander as the wind whispers more about these horrors.
The Final Battle is coming; I can feel it in my bones. It is coming closer and closer, and my nerves were high, making me jumpy as an alley cat. This had led to many friends' comforts, and bitter answers. I don't want their pity. A wave of bitterness rises in me, just as the wind lets out a final cry of "Horrors!" before falling back into a gentle breeze, bringing the clean scent of morning.
Ron wakes up with a start at the winds' outburst. "Harry?" He mutters sleepily. "What are you doing awake?" I keep my back to my friend, the blame for my sadness lying between us.
"Nothing. Go back to sleep."
And Ron does, but only after muttering something that sounds like "People and their pride these days." That's it. My pride is too high.
I've been brought up to keep my problems to myself. I can't really help it. I'm sure that Ron doesn't really want to listen to me whine about how much I miss Sirius. Or how I wish I had somewhere else to live, because the Dursleys are so derogatory and degrading. Or how some days I just can't bring myself to eat, because I'm too scared it will be my last meal.
No one wants to hear me whine. No one wants to hear their "hero" having doubts. No one wants to know that the savior of the wizarding world is terrified. I just have to grin and bear it. But sometimes it's hard keeping all that in.
I think about the battles we've been seeing lately. Seeing people I grew up with falling at the hands of Voldemort's followers is horrible.
The fact that I can't undo it is worse.
Thinking about how much emptier the Great Hall is every time a battle ends in worse than Dementors and the Cruitacious together. This is real. It's real. The empty seats used to be occupied.
How can people use magic to kill when there's so much that can be helped? So many lives have been wasted so early. So many people will never come to see life at it's height. Some people have played the game and paid the price. It disgusts me.
The Final Battle is coming, and I'm so anxious. I can only imagine what will happen after the war. After everything has died down. If I make it through, what will life be like? How many of my friends will be there to laugh with? Will I be able to walk through a room without eyes on my forehead? Will I get a chance to be normal?
Finally feeling sleep wash over me, I lean against the cold window pane, watching my breath create white huffs on the glass, until my lids grow too heavy and close against my will. Thunder rolls and roars in the distance, lightening splits and strikes the ground, deadly and beautiful.
Kind of like Magic.