I am SORRY this is not a new chapter of phoenix throne. I'm at a complete loss for what to do with it—ideas and support are welcome
Rating: Mature, not for any reason other than a zeugma.
Disclaimer: Harry and his friends aren't mine. If they were, there'd be no way I would write this.
Other Disclaimer: This fic isn't mine, my friend birthed it in her own unique and staggering attempt at fan fiction. I only broadened her vocabulary. (she however takes claim for the zeugma.)
The Lone Voldemort Hunter thing is mine though. Thank you.
Also, this may prove more entertaining if read with a deep angst voice in mind (or out loud whatever).
the lines break the stanzas and the spacing is on crack, accept it.
I, Harry
Picture, a young man. He is tall and he is haggard. He stands, as though the weight of the world is resting solely on his shoulder. This man's eyes speak of a tormented and tortured soul. A soul that has seen too much, for a man so young. And as he speaks, he voice is harsh with pain and despair. The bongo drum starts.
I am Harry, Harry Potter. Harry Potter, the Voldemort Hunter.
I am the Chosen One, marked by a prophecy, marked by the Dark Lord.
I have a Weapon.
My Weapon is Love.
Yes, I Harry, the Voldemort Hunter can love.
They scoffed me because I was famous.
They sneered at me because, to them, I was a liar.
Now, they love me.
They love me because I am Harry, Harry Potter. Harry Potter the Voldemort Hunter.
But I am still alone. Always alone.
The lone voice of Truth.
They do not know me. No one will ever know me.
All they see is my scar. My mark. My destiny.
Because I am Harry, Harry Potter. Harry Potter the Voldemort Hunter.
I am alone, alone because they die.
They are ripped from me. By cruel, hungry hands.
They die for me. To show their love. My love. Me Weapon.
For I am Harry, Harry Potter. Harry Potter, the Voldemort Hunter.
They want me to commend their efforts. I will not.
They want me to pacify the people. Smile, as though I mean it. I can not.
Because I am their beacon. I, am the Truth.
Because I am Harry, Harry Potter. Harry Potter, the Voldemort Hunter.
I have a power he knows not.
Nor will he ever. Because he is alone. A monster.
A chilling constant cold, descending in a sick green flash.
Murdering. Killing.
He killed them. And with them, me.
For I, am Harry, Harry Potter. Harry Potter, the Voldemort Hunter.
A solitary bongo drum utters a final beat. The lights fade and the Lone Voldemort Hunter escapes into the dark, filthy London alley. There he draws the sword. The sword of Gryffindor. For this sword, has work yet.
A/N: If you take this seriously you are a dumbass. Just to clarify this is, in fact, a parody if you did not gather. I apologize if you do not find it as amusing as my friend and I do.
Feedback is welcome and much appreciated.
And if you do laugh, you should probably tell me.
Thanks,
Lucia