When the war is won

By Bridget Kelly

Dawn was cold grey, the morning air scented with disappointment, never in his memory had the days seemed as hostile as this. The sun refused to shine, hiding behind cloud as if to punish those below for what they did to it, a childish sulking that nothing except a lollipop could fix, and unfortunately for this youth he didn't have one. He would've liked his own lollipop, to cure this melancholy life he lead, but instead settled for getting out of bed, a lamentable action ,but, the day held no joy whether he stayed in bed or not. His days always began as such, pondering whether to fake a sicky or not, often ending in the conclusion that either way the mediocrity of his daily existence would be in full force so he always chose to get up, for his day to be filled with heavy clouds, children laughing at inane stuff and people giving him revered gazes. His eyes always went to the sky, clouds laden so heavily, pregnant with rain, that it was inevitable it would tumble out in a downpour that would drown all those unfortunate to be caught up in it. But, alas, that days continued dry, a cold wind biting at his face, moving under his cloaks with apparent ease, sinking into his skin and flesh, and numbed his bones. It was an odd sensation when his whole body was numb, for the spirit inside was too, it was on these days he didn't have to pretend he didn't exist. Reality was a movie that played either side of him, except for the path he ripped around himself, that when he passed sewed itself up with out a seam. He was never quite sure what he did on these days, it was a blur of dulled colour and one long drawn out sigh that seemed to echo inside his head.

He stood like a wax statue gazing out at the dawn; his bare chest shivered and erupted with goose bumps, the hairs straining capture the escaping heat, trying to clutch it against his heavy alabaster chest. He was in good shape; he knew that, anyone that looked at him knew that. His athletic frame sported tight muscles, curving gracefully over his bones. He looked just like his dad; he knew that too, that black hair, messy beyond belief, sat on his head as if it was alive itself and had decided that roughly, this position would do for now, but never moved again. Rubbing his jade eyes wearily, he entered his en suite; an oddity that he had thought was entirely ridiculous, why on earth would anyone need their own bathroom? But never the less, the steam from the shower soon curled out the top like a plume of fog, bathing the room in water vapour, as he stripped off to his birthday suit, stepping in to the glass box that smelled faintly of pine.

It was supposed to be enjoyable, but it always let him down. The deep breaths and contented sighs of people that stepped out of 'long hot shower's' were not found here. But it was all water under a long standing bridge and he stepped into a towel that rubbed him down. He hated those things; they were embellishments that had been put in place for him, when he'd arrived. It had been ridiculous it was like they'd never met him before; an honoured guest never before visited and the peculiar people ran around making most unwelcome adjustments. He often snuck down to the prefect's bathroom, just so he could dry himself, and reminisce about the 10 years of his life he'd been fabulously anonymous.

His wardrobe consisted of gray, as he decided that he shouldn't have clothes livelier than he was, it just seemed dishonest, so he grey was the colour, nay, shade of choice. Inconceivably, his clothes did all seem to be brighter than he was their fresh cotton, wool and silk fabrics oozed structure and regime. His shades of gray that reminded him so fondly of the Dursleys donned carefully, the dark grey shirt, charcoal pants, pale grey coat, and the deep grey cloak that settled around his shoulders heavily, attempting to provide him some warmth, all together formed an overall respectable look. Sighing, he grabbed his wand, and thrust it into his pocket, he left his quarters, and once the door shut, it looked like no one lived there, a blank canvas someone had yet to write upon.

Hogwarts was thriving, and a memorial tree served as the only reminder it seemed. Growing slowly in the grounds by the lake, it commemorated the end of the Voldemort regime (war…what ever you wanted to call it) every year by blossoming. On the exact date the battle entered Hogwarts grounds, black flowers would emerge, flowers that shined heavy with what looked like blood, sat for 24 hours, and on the first stroke past midnight they fell, scattering the ground in a macabre sort of litter and the tree would return to its usual bright yellow leaves, slowly but amiably growing. On its hundredth birthday, the flowers would turn gold, the leaves wouldn't fall, and the bark would turn to a rich ruby red.

"Yey…" he'd murmured when Hermoine had told him about it, he didn't mind obviously, but who in their right mind would want to commemorate something like that, who wants a morbid reminder of the blood that bathed the grounds once, every day of the year? But along with everything else, he shrugged and sighed. He was asked of course, they wanted his blessing, but he knew they just wanted his name on the end of the article. His name, the bane of his existence, it seemed odd that a few jumbled letters could dictate someone's life but for Harry Potter, it did. If he could just trade his name! Live life alone with no conscience, not a thought for other people…who knows what he would do! Probably, he figured, go kill himself, as an obscure no-body that no one would mourn. But unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen today, nor tomorrow so he went to the great hall to partake in breakfast with his fellow teaching staff.

"Defense against the dark arts is a subject with many different sub categories, there are dark animals, dark curses, dark objects, so you may never get to go in depth into any area of this subject, but that of course that is not the aim. It is to prepare yourself should the worst happen, and by the time you leave you should be able to handle anything life throws at you….dark arts wise"

It was a speech given at the start of each first years initial class; he never managed to finish impressively, and always ended in a lame sort of trail off that lost him any respectability he'd accumulated through the main body of speech. Not that it mattered, though, they were getting taught by 'the great Harry Potter'!...he was just 'the great Harry Potter' now, his name had grown from 'the boy who lived' throughout the war, and gradually become tedious, that at one point when it had become ridiculously long, authors could only refer to him once (using his 'name') per article, otherwise the author would find himself well over the word quota and the end of his article chopped off, being finished off by some desk cleric, often ending in a lame summary or a complex jumble of 'what is the meaning of life?' type stuff. Evidently those were written either by someone with a good sense of humour, or someone having a pathetic attempt at being meaningful (much like the ending to his first year speech) those articles had humoured him greatly indeed. Never had he enjoyed reading The Daily Prophet more, but soon the ludicrous articles died out, and so he went back to being the strong, silent, ever vigilant hero that didn't read 'that crap', and pondered things with his index finger and thumb positioned oddly on his chin, a pose that embellished "smart, thinky type."

The children sat avidly straight in their chairs, their heads sticking up above the desks, determined to make a good impression on him, for god's sake, he was 'the great Harry Potter', for a matter of fact, he'd much rather some smart arse call him "Harry pot-head", the respect he'd have for that kid would surpass anything any other brainwashed child could do. He just waited for that kid, and then he would be happy. Alack, they were not in this class, so he began the monotonous process of teaching.

The day went in a stream that meandered so slowly, that you would figure its should've stopped out of apathy, but, it kept on going, no end was in sight, lying flat and as long as it was wide, it just kept on keeping on, so Harry matched it, he kept on keeping on too, though no moment nor smile, no gesture of kindness could improve his day. He'd been severely depressed after he'd done it, after Voldemort's destruction; he'd known that, he wasn't stupid enough to pretend he had been fine after the war. He'd spiraled (a word people so often used to refer to what happened) into the lowly depths of loss. What he lost, he was never quite sure, and he can't remember ever finding it, but he definitely attempted to, by neglecting everyone except his friend quidditch. He wasn't quite sure how it had stopped but he'd just woken up one day and said "well…this is me" and the knowledge that where-ever he would go, what ever he would do, he would be himself had finally sunk in thoroughly. He'd stopped playing quidditch after that, he was too old he told Hermoine, but the real reason was that, even after that moment of clarity; life never regained the vibrancy it once possessed and he was afraid to ruin the one thing that had made him feel good. He didn't want to ruin the memory of something, which upon remembering caused a faint smile to touch his lips, so the Firebolt lay still and his snitch just flittered about his rooms, perching occasionally on his head. Sighing, Harry shrugged, Harry's life could be fixed in one perfect way, one easy step where he would move beyond his daily existence and finally get to ask his parents the questions he'd been dieing to hear the answers to, but he knew Hermoine and Ron would become depressed if he had an 'accident' so he remained, if only retain their peace of mind.

They'd got together at the end of the sixth year (something Harry had missed as he'd set up permanent residence in the library) after a girl died in Gryffindor, they were apparently over whelmed with a "you might be dead tomorrow, you would regret never saying the way you felt, yadda yadda yadda" and had both embarrassingly admitted they liked each other. Something Harry didn't really realize until he caught them pashing in front of the common room fire. That had been when he'd first truly felt alone, he'd remembered so vividly the absolute sinking sensation of knowing that everyone else, even in the middle of a war was out finding love and he was sitting in a library preparing for his date (a date he decided ranked about negative 6 on the 'yey' scale) with destiny (as cliché as it was…) He'd talked a lot to Remus that year, they were both alone, and as much as Harry tried to distance himself from those he cared about, he'd felt a real connection with the man. Harry's strength came from him, and till this day he carried a special part of himself devoted to Remus, his mentor and tutor. Harry was still trying to figure out how Remus had survived hearing that his friends, as he knew them, were dead 24 years ago, which unfortunately he'd never gotten to speak about directly with him. Remus had died in battle, Harry knew that's how he wanted to go, and that he had been entirely ready for the textured embrace of death. It had been gory, not clean smooth movements like Sirius's death, but still, the man had died with a small smile on his worn, grey haired face, though it didn't stop Harry from missing him.

"Ah Harry, I might wonder if I could have a word?" an oddly phrased question snapped Harry out of his end of day march to his rooms, where he would mark papers, pat his owl and stare reservedly into the fire, before departing to bed. Harry turned to find himself looking at Dumbledore. The sly old man, had wormed his way out of deaths grip again, and was approaching his 160th birthday this year, blazing white hair of the mans goatee was tucked into his belt curled with as much vitality as if he was 20. Apparently he was having a shin dig this year to celebrate, an invitation Harry had politely refused.

"Sure" he said attempting to sound warm, but obviously traced with lethargic sookiness.

"I believe Ron and Hermoine are in my office, awaiting your presence, when you join them is up to you of course, but I do advise sooner rather than later, I feel that if Mrs. Weasly has to wait any longer she will wet herself" he added the last bit cheerily, before turning on his heel and nimbly striding across the polished stairs. Sighing Harry followed, wondering what on earth he was going to have to pretend to feel excited about his time.

"So…..what do you think?" Hermoine stood beaming at him and Ron had his arms curled fiercely around his wife's shoulders, his other hand drifted gently down her stomach, delicately caressing her belly, already nursing the little bundle of joy that lay waiting under layers of sinew.

Harry's insides sank and he felt the mental shrug. It had been inevitable he knew that, and he knew what came next, he would leap into a hug with Hermoine, a masculine clap on the shoulder for Ron, an offering of drinks, then correcting himself when he realized Hermoine couldn't drink, which they would all chuckle about and then Harry would be asked to be god father to the thing…child.

He had to pretend to be passionate, and that was the problem, so he just gaped because it was just easier to pretend to be shocked, and he remained like that till he could sum up the energy to fill the quota for good friendship test (previously mentioned) He drew a deep breath, and the smile grew on his face.

"Oh, wow!" he winced, he knew that sounded fake and by the looks on their faces, they did too, but he seemed to make up for it in his bear hug to Hermoine, his "touch me for any longer than five seconds and we are gay" hug with Ron, a step up from the clap on the shoulder, and then smiled absently, rather reminding himself of Lockhart in St. Mungos.

"Harry," Hermoine glanced at Ron, the smile growing on her face, as she rounded her brown eyes back to Harry, "would you like to be, I mean we would like you to be god father to the baby."

It was less of a question and more of a statement, so Harry again launched his stupid smile

"Ummm, do I have to do…I mean yeah! But like what do I have to do? I mean you know, I don't…"the question, or string of half formed questions, escaped his lips before he could stop them and he cursed himself inside, he just wanted to get back to his rooms for crying out loud, he didn't want to launch into a conversation! He felt that if he was here any longer, he couldn't guarantee his façade wouldn't fall, causing them all high levels of disappointment. The very last thing he wanted to do, as their peace of mind was his highest priority, just to know they were happy made his grim existence bearable. He was glad they were having a family, seeing them loving each other that had been what he had fought for, so that people could love one another freely, so they could "go forth and multiply" in peace, but he just wanted it away from him,

"And, by all means," he thought absently "breed like rabbits, just don't invite me into the warren…"Hermione smiled and just said "Be the friend that you've been for us" and with that quote, Harry left Dumbledore's office, his mind forming one word

"Crap."