A Boy with a Burden
Chapter 1: A Most Dreadful Summer
Disclaimer: I own nothing. It all belongs to J.K. Rowling. Please excuse me while I go weep at my lack of accomplishment. You're rubbing it in now, aren't you? Just because I am nowhere near as rich as, nor am I richer than, the Queen…Anyway, it's all Jo's. The plot is mine, and even that I probably copied from a bunch of other fanfics.
P.S. Jo says she doesn't actually have billions. I bet it's $9,999,999. I suppose it would be pounds, though. What I can say? I'm an ignorant American, I don't think in pounds.
P.P.S. Can you put a post-script on a disclaimer or am I breaking code 35, section E of disclaimer rules?
A/N: So, my first fan fic. I'd love some reviews. I know it's difficult to log in and type 3 words and press enter, but if you are willing to do so for me…well, golly, I'd be just delighted! Thanks to those of you who do review! Here goes!
Harry Potter leaned a weary head against the cool wall of his room at number four Privet Drive. He sat on his bed, head back, thinking. He had been doing just that, thinking, all summer. Harry had a lot to think about, not only because he was a wizard, but because he was chosen by the most powerful and evil wizard of all time as an equal. It was that fateful day almost 16 years ago that had led to what Harry was thinking of now. Sirius Black, his late godfather, was what he had been mulling over. At the moment, Harry was drowning in a sea of guilt.
That night in the Department of Mysteries had been haunting Harry for the two weeks he had been at Privet drive. Thoughts flew rapidly around Harry's head. Thoughts of Sirius dueling with Bellatrix Lestrange, Sirius' laughter, "Come on, you can do better than that!" Then, unexpectedly, the veil rose to meet Harry's godfather, and he was gone.
The scene engrossed Harry constantly. Lestrange's voice filled his head during every waking moment. "Come out, come out, little Harry!" A gripping pain in his stomach came about whenever he thought of Sirius. A gnawing ache of grief coursed through the very essence of Harry. He could not think straight, his mind was a mass of woe. He, Harry, had killed Sirius. That much he knew.
Despite his friend's assurance that he was not to blame, he couldn't help letting the guilt consume him. Day after day he had been getting letters from everyone, absolutely everyone he knew, telling him that "It was not his fault." Did they not understand" thought Harry. Did they not see that it was Harry's stupidity, his foolish naïveté that destroyed Sirius?
The injustice of it all brought a quiver to Harry's lip. Why? Why? Why him? Why me? Though his lip trembled Harry did not cry. He would not. He was too remorseful cry; it would be an insult to Sirius' name. He had to close up. Harry knew that he had to don the façade of neutrality. Harry had to be the Boy-Who-Lived, the homicidal, hazardous "hero" who was responsible for the deaths of countless people. Harry had to be the machine that others found false comfort in.
The 'What Ifs' took control of his mind. What if he had learned occlumency? If he had, would Sirius still be there? Why hadn't he used the mirror? How could he have been so stupid, so naïve? These questions had been running through his head all summer, virtually putting his entire life on hold.
Harry had locked himself in his room the moment he got back from Kings Cross station. For two weeks he had not emerged. His aunt and uncle did not stop him from locking himself in but they did not force him to come out either. He found himself thinking that Mrs. Weasley would have. As soon as he realized that he was thinking this, he made himself stop. You should not put them in danger by caring about them. You have to stop. Voldemort can get into your brain, remember.
Harry, having locked himself in, had not eaten more than a few chocolate frogs for the duration of his time at Privet Drive. He could not eat. How could he go on living when Sirius was not? Sirius could not eat because of him, and Harry was not about to have a meal if his godfather could not. Besides, Harry had no appetite. Harry's mourning occupied his stomach with an unpleasant sorrow more filling than any meal. So, with no one present to make him, Harry simply did not eat.
Harry had grown a lot over the past couple of weeks. He was much taller, though still not as tall as Ron. He once again had the look of a boy, or perhaps a man, that had been starved for a long time. His shoulders were broader, but his ribs were becoming alarmingly visible. Harry's face was thinner than usual and his hair messier than ever. It gave Harry had the look of a famished, disheveled man that had been awoken by a particularly loud air-horn.
The biggest change in Harry, though, was not physical, it was mental. Harry no longer had the innocence of a child. Before Sirius' death, he could think about the world and see the good things. He could appreciate children playing in the sandbox, smile at their laughter. Now, though, Harry could not. He could not smile because of pleasant things, he could not laugh. Each day in his room, he tried to find any part of him, just a tiny, miniscule part that could still laugh. Harry spent hours upon hours searching inside of himself for that laughter, but he was unable to find it.
Everyone that Harry knew had written him frequently. Harry suspected that Mrs. Weasley had forced her entire family, except Percy, to write to him. Ron, Ginny, and Hermione, all together somewhere, wrote him every day. He was also showered with letters from Mrs. Weasley, Remus Lupin, and Tonks daily. Dumbledore, Fred and George, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, and even Mad-Eye Moody had written him.
In every letter Harry was reminded that if he did not respond in three days, the Order would come and get him. Harry swallowed hard every time he read this. He did not want to be with them. He could not, no matter the circumstances, go back to – go back there. Harry did not want to be with people, he wanted to shut up inside himself. He wanted to be in this solitary dream-state where all that mattered was what was no longer there.
So, unwilling to ignore the letters entirely and be bothered, Harry answered them with as little as possible. Each and every letter said the following: I'm fine. The letters said nothing more and nothing less. Each morning, when Harry awoke, he was always slightly surprised that he did not see bright orange hair accompanying an angry yet worried Weasley into his bedroom. Harry was glad about this, or at least he thought he was. Secretly, sub-consciously, Harry was dismayed that no one came pounding on the front door, demanding him to come out that instant. Did none of them care?
No, Harry found himself thinking, no. He could not care about them, any of them. For if he did, they would be hurt, killed. Voldemort would pick them off; murder everyone Harry cared about, everyone that was brave enough to help him, kind enough to help him. Voldemort had done it before and Harry knew that he would do it again if he had the chance. So, Harry had reached a decision. He was going to be alone. If being with others put them in danger, he would gladly be alone. Besides, it hurt for him to read their letters, let alone see their faces.
For two very long weeks, Harry fulfilled his wish. He sat, day in and day out, on his bed. He stared into space, lost in the remorse of the past. He knew Ron, Hermione, and everyone else would not approve of his moping, and he was glad to be able to grieve on his own. At the moment, Harry was inspecting the ceiling, his eyes slowly closing, drooping as if lead weights were attached to his eyelashes.
Harry was running down the corridor leading to the Department of Mysteries. He ran and ran, the passage getting longer and longer. He was tired, out of breath, but he wouldn't stop running. Harry had to get to Sirius. He had to warn him. There were mirrors on the walls. Everywhere Harry looked he saw himself, his guilty, murderous self. He ran faster and faster, farther and farther. He was trying to get to something, but he didn't know what it was. Suddenly, Sirius stood in front of him, his pointer finger outstretched. Sirius was pointing at Harry. "You. You. It was you." he said coldly, his voice monotone. Then, as suddenly as he had come, he was gone, and Harry was sprinting down the corridor once again. Whatever he was trying to reach was coming no closer. Harry was simply running down an endless passage. He tore down the hallway, his trainers smacking the hard floor with a thud. Without warning, Harry ran straight into something black and billowy. "Aaaaaarrrrrrgggghhhhhh!" Harry screamed as he collided with the veil.
Harry awoke, sweating profusely. He had had the very same nightmare countless times after that night in the Department. Harry stood, his bed soaked with perspiration. Sleeping was a chore for Harry, an unwelcome task. He was not going to sleep again that night, so he sat on the hard wooden floor, staring at Hedwig's empty cage. Hedwig had left to deliver Harry's tri-daily "I'm fine" letter. He could see that her cage needed a good cleaning, but he was not willing to do it. Harry had lost all drive.
All day Harry sat on the floor, gazing at the cage. He saw the metal bars, the lock only operable from the outside. He knew just how it felt to be locked in one of those things. He was locked in one at that very instant, confined by his mind. Did death feel like this, he wondered. Did death feel like a fenced in compound, a place to look out enviously at life?
Harry lost track of time. Day turned into night, which meshed with sunrise and mingled with dusk. The alarm clock had no meaning, he could not see it and did not understand, nor care, what it said. Eventually, reality intertwined with sleep and Harry drifted off.
Harry awoke, hours later, to the sound of pounding on his door. Expecting it to be an angry Dudley, (Harry had not answered a few days ago when Dudley had demanded his broken television set, which he insisted he was going to "fix") Harry slowly put on his glasses and sat up. His back was stiff from sleeping on the floor. "Shut up." He mumbled groggily as he stood and headed for the door. The chilly doorknob connected with Harry's hand and he turned it. Harry let out a small gasp of surprise as he came face to face with about the most Un-Dursleyish people in the universe.
A/N: So, here it is. Thanks a million to Kaity445 and Miss Radcliffe Thanks to all of the people that reviewed and all those who have offered me help. Thanks! Hope you like Boy with a Burden! Which, I am sorry to say, is pretty outdated. Book six has come and gone and I'm still on chapter 5. Those of you who can bear sixth year stories, read on!