A Sense Of Duty

A hazy summer breeze played across Harry's face, but he hardly felt it. He didn't seem to feel anything much these days. He had always felt changed by such experiences before—he was, by no means, a stranger to loss—but never had he felt so altered as he did now. He felt as though stripped of all remaining comfort, forced to forge a sort of temporary shield of his own.

Dumbledore had been the fortress of solitude of his childhood; now he, as well as his childhood, was gone.

"It was foolish," Harry thought, "to put my trust in the arms of an old man."

Harry had not returned to the Dursley's—he had instead taken up Ron's offer to stay at the Burrow.

"Not for long, though," thought Harry. "Not for long."

Already Harry's lust for revenge was beginning to pull at every inch of his weary body. He knew what needed to be done; there had never been a question of that. He knew six years ago, as a wide-eyed, tousle-haired child. Now the weight of what was to come and what had already come hung about his shoulders—the shoulders of child made into man far too soon.

Harry felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder.

"Harry," Ron said, "It's time for dinner, mate."

…

"Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley urged, "Have some more boiled potatoes. That's a good boy."

'Boy.' The word sounded strange on her tongue, but even stranger to Harry's ears. He heaped another generous helping onto his plate, but made no move to consume it.

The rest of the table continued on in their sparse, murmured conversation. After the incident at Hogwarts, everyone acted as though treading on live dragon eggs. This wasn't because anyone was afraid, really; they were far past that point. The knowledge of the impending doom weighed them down with grief rather than oppressing them with fear. With all that they had been through, what was fear? Fear was flinching at the sight of a dark shadow flit across the room, of things that go bump in the night. Fear was for the naïve, for the fools.

Murmur, murmur.

Soft sounds of eating, hushed words, the occasional deafening clank of fork or knife.

"Harry."

Mr. Weasley's voice cut through the mild buzz like a knife.

"I need to speak to you, if you've finished properly massacring your potatoes."

He paused, allowing a nervous, rather shifty silence to ensue. Without removing his gaze from Mr. Weasley's worry-lined face, Harry knew that everyone's full attention was on him. Whatever little talk there had been a moment ago had ceased.

"It's time."