Happy Birthday, Harry
by Wind and Flame
Response to Panic Parables' Birthday Challenge
Footsteps on a dusty floor, clouds billowing up, their motes dancing mournfully in the dull sunlight flitting through the single window providing the only illumination in the dark, tattered room. The creak of an old oak chair as it strained to support his weight and the dull thunk of metal on wood were the only noise in that shadowy room, such a counterpoint to its name.
It was three years since the last time he'd sat in the Shrieking Shack. He sighed as he brushed his messy, tousled black hair out of his stark green eyes, revealing the lightning scar of the protected, or the damned.
They said he was lucky, they said it was a miracle that he survived the final battle, that the Boy Who Lived still lived. But he knew he wasn't lucky. Scars upon scars.
Voldemort was destroyed, his soul scattered to the seven winds, but the cost had been high, too high.
His thoughts rolled like a tumbleweed, flashes of the memories of his past, glimpses of the smiling faces that should have been grinning at him over a giant birthday cake. Instead he only had his pain and their dead laughter ringing in his ears.
He had tried, tried to go back, to start a new life, but his mind would not let him, he learnt to be afraid to close his eyes lest he once again see his friends, watch them fight, watch them die.
He tried to forget, tried to move on, but he couldn't, not from the shadows of his past. The dreams were what broke him, watching as the glow of the occlumency settled on Ron's head like a gleaming halo, watching himself detail the plan he knew was doomed to fail, watching as he sent his best friend out to die. Watching as Hermione broke, watching the shroud of grief claim her, watching from afar as she spent every last ounce of energy to feed the raging spell that levelled the city where Ron had been tortured and burn up the last of her soul.
They called him lucky, no, he was not lucky, he was cursed, but he would end it, here and now.
Metal rasped on wood as he picked something up off the table.
The sunlight glinted dully off the cold, black metal of the 9mm. He held it limply, staring down at it, eyes tracing the oily sheen from barrel to hilt, admiring its simplicity. He almost smiled at the thought of using something so ordinary, so muggle, but not quite.
His finger slid upon the trigger and he raised the barrel to his head.
Scars upon scars, the last goodbye.
Happy Birthday, Harry.
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R&R
My response to a challenge, the rules were
1.Someones birthday must occur during the fic
2.The words, Giant birthday cake, tumbleweed and occlumency must be included
3. Must be angst
4. Must be written in 41.2 minutes with no more that 10 minutes editing
Yet another one shot for you guys, hope you enjoy.
Thanks again to my sis for spelling and gramma checking.
Disclaimer I do not, nor will ever own Harry Potter, all rights are reserved to the organisations that have reserved them...
