Aftermath
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to the Harry Potter queen, not poor little old me.
A/N: Okay, no reviews yet. That's okay. I wont get discouraged yet, I mean, this is being reposted as of now.
Also, you might notice I changed the OTHER character's name. You'll know what I mean...
Chapter One
It was so cold. The faded screams in the distance only managed to pierce his ears and soul the softer they were. He could hear the pleas of young girls and boys, and teenagers, and mothers, and fathers, and boyfriends, and girlfriends, and families, and loved ones…It made him sick. His stomach churned.
Cold sweat trailed down his temples, forking away, some into his hair, other down his pale, hollow cheeks, disappearing into the collar of his blood-stained navy-blue Sweater. His eyes were fogged, distant, and bloodshot. The once emerald glow of determination had faded to one of plead; one of guilt; one of failure. A tremble made its way up his spine, and he gasped, which forced him into a long agonizing coughing fit. It felt as if his lungs were contracting so much, they had managed to shrink. His stomach churned with more power, causing his complexion to pale, so that in the small trail of moonlight, he looked almost transparent.
His coughing ceased and he was left in a heap, on the cold hardwood floor, which was stained with blood. Darker dry reds, and shining bright reds, that looked like sapphires shining on the ground. It made him sick.
He tried to stand. His knees buckled, but he managed to stay on his feet, and, with great effort, he made his way to the bathroom, collapsing at the sink and retching all over the once bleach white sink and counter, spilling onto the floor at his feet. But he didn't care.
His head spun faster and faster, as the distant screams, seemed to penetrate louder, and deeper into his skull. He gasped, as he felt a sudden jolt of pain, zap from one temple to the other, leaving him momentarily blind. He stumbled, and collapsed once again on the floor. This time, he did not get up, and instead, he leaned back against the bathtub, rested his neck on the ledge, his arms dangling at his sides, and his legs bent up with his feet pressed up against the wall, careful to avoid the mess on the floor.
Everything had been a blur. From the moment he had finished his last murder, to now. His mind hadn't registered anything. Only that he wished he would die, and in his condition, he wouldn't be surprised if he died at this moment.
He let his head loll forward, long locks of blood and dirt stained hair covering his face like a curtain. He brought his hands up, resting his elbows on his knees, and bringing his hand up to his face, where he began to massage his temples.
The distant screams never died. They continued with the rage of a strong hurricane, keeping the young man insane. His head refused to stop spinning, and he swore the more he thought about it, the faster it would go. Round and round like a Ferris Wheel, sometimes slower, sometimes faster, but always round and round.
A shot like gunfire startled him. There were thousands of distant screams, and, as his head snapped back, his neck cracking, he could feel his heart beating louder and faster. His breath became hitched, and he found it hard to breath, as if someone was robbing his air. He stumbled back onto his feet. He needed to get away. He needed to get away now; Away from the confusion; Away from the reminders.
With two large, blood crusted hands; he covered his ears, trying to block the now high-pitched buzz. His vision began to darken, and another zap of pain shot through his temples. He stumbled on his feet, which had been carrying him out of the bathroom, and his elbows collided with the floor. Not now Not now! He wished desperately. He needed to get away!
He scrambled back up, and began to jog, out of the room he had been in before, which he had created into his own mourning room, and into his bedroom. He collapsed onto his bed, and nearly lost consciousness right there. But he forced himself to focus on the sane part of his mind. It'll all be over soon. It'll all be over soon. He chanted over and over.
Closing his eyes, he let his arms drop to his side, and dug his toes into the bed covers. He forced himself to relax, and reminded himself to breath in through his nose and breath out through his mouth. Slowly, the buzzing began to fade, and the screaming wasn't so apparent.
Why was this happening to him? Oh he knew the answer, he just didn't want to admit it. There were two simple reasons.
One, he had ripped a seventh of a soul that had been a part of him for sixteen years out of his body, and had been wounded in so many ways, he had forgotten how to live. Two, he had killed so many people in the war, that the entire flesh on his body was stained with impurity, and he could not live with himself. Not to mention he had never been healed after the war, and was now in hiding from the entire world, in such a helpless manner, that death would be rewarding.
He looked down at his hand guiltily. Those hands, were hands of a murderer. They were the hands of someone who was equal to Voldemort. Those hands had tortured and killed just as many people as Voldemort's hands had. He felt his stomach churn once more, and forced himself to swallow the amount of acidic bile that tried to force its way out of his mouth.
Then his eyes traveled down to his torso. He had done this many times before. With a trembling hand (a tremble he had developed permanently) he lifted the ends of his sweater, and pulled it over his head, tossing it onto the floor.
His anorexic corpse was covered in long dark red lashes that invaded his flesh. There was more red then white. In some places, the bone could be seen, along with the crusted chunks of loose skin. His stomach rose and fell weakly, causing a particularly long, but not too deep cut, to open and close again and again so that it almost always contained traces of fresh blood, like now. The corners were crying small crystals of red, which trailed very lightly down the side of his stomach and onto the mattress.
He closed his eyes at the sight. It always made him wonder why he was still alive after a week's time, living in filthy conditions. The house itself, rundown and stoned all around, was covered with blood stains here and there, especially the first day, when he had forced apparated into this place and had immediately lost consciousness for six straight hours, which had put not only his, but others' lives on the line.
His eyes scanned his lower body. He knew, without taking off his black jeans, that one of his legs had been broken, which is what caused him to limp instead of walk. He had worn a Splint the first two days, but hadn't found use to it, and instead he forced himself to walk on the leg, knowing it was costing him, his life slowly. But he was stubborn. He believed he deserved to die this slow and painful death.
He inhaled sharply when another, much softer bolt of pain slashed its way from one of his temples straight to the other. He knew that his scar was burning too. It had been for days now. He had gotten used to the constant throb, and the way blood seemed to ooze out of it every once and a while. He smirked, almost humored when he felt a small trail of blood begin to slip down his brow. The sharp zaps of pain had caused his scar to magically open again.
He had a suspicion of why he kept having this jolts of magic, surge left and right, as if they bounced back and forth from one temple to the other. It was his magical energy. After ripping a part of someone else's soul from you, you're magic goes haywire. He knew that had to get treated too, but he could wait. Maybe he would go insane and then die; the perfect death for the perfect wizard (or so the world thought).
He was guided into another fit of coughs after inhaling sharply. Dry hard coughs reverberated through him, climbing dryly up his esophagus and scratching at his throat, almost clawing at it, as if it was desperate to inflict as much harm as it could. He closed his eyes tightly, and tried vainly to breath properly, keep himself alive for just a little longer…
Slowly, the coughing faded, and once again he was left as a rag doll, his body limp on his bed, arms hanging loosely off of the edge, and his head resting against the pillow, his eyes closed shut tightly, causing him to begin to see twisting wires of vibrant color against his eyelids.
A faint whimper startled him, and he nearly had another coughing fit. He sat bolt up, ignoring the sharp pain that cursed its way up his spine to the base of his neck. He knew that whimper. It was the reason he was still here, on Earth.
Ignoring all pain, he stood on his wobbly feet, and followed the whimper into the next room. There it was, the only thing that kept him rooted to sanity, the only thing that reminded him there was a reason to love, the only thing that had been exposed to his pain. A baby.
He made his way to the small crib, which was the only thing in the room, aside from a small table and a small duffel bag filled with diapers and baby bottles. Carefully with so much gentleness and love, it nearly caused every fiber of glass to shatter with power, he picked up the baby, and held it tightly against him.
The whimpering ceased, and the baby began to move in his hands. Ever so carefully, he loosened his grip, and looked down.
The smallest, most angelic infant, lay in the "man-who-conquered"'s arms. His eyes were as piercing green as Harry's. The small apparent locks of hair were dark brown, almost black, but not quite. His small chubby hands, reached up, and he gurgled softly, trying to reach for a lock of Harry's own hair, but Harry gently tucked the baby's hand down.
"I'm sorry, Christian, but you can't touch my hair. I'm all dirty." He cooed hoarsely.
The baby seemed to understand, and instead cuddled closer to Harry's chest, causing him to flinch. The baby whimpered, his eyes looking up into Harry's.
"I know Christian, I want your Mother too, I want everyone, but almost all of them are gone. You can't understand it, but I killed so many people, and I can't go back…" He began, but a burning sensation climbed against his throat, and tears began to prickle in his eyes.
The baby whimpered again, and then began to sob quietly, tears pouring out of its eyes, as it hugged Harry almost afraid to let go. The tears in Harry's eyes exploded down his face, and fell gently against the baby's cheek.
"I'm so sorry Christian. I don't want to ruin your life. I took you away from your mother. I don't even know if she's alive, I-."He was forced to stop as a long painful jolt, zapped once again from one temple to the other, and he almost lost his grip on Christian.
The baby began to sob louder, clutching at Harry as if he was the only thing that could stop his pain. He brought the baby up to his neck, and cuddle against it, enjoying the soft scent of baby powder.
"Shhhh… Daddy's here." He cooed, and the baby relaxed, and soon drifted off to sleep.
Sitting down on the same chair he had been before his episode in the bathroom, Harry watched the baby sleep. How long he stood there, he did not know. All that mattered was everything was going to be okay. Everything's going to be okay.
Everything's going to be okay…
A/N: This is more or less the average size of my chapters, for ficlets. Ficlets are stories that are longer than five chapters, but shorter than fifteen. I enjoy ficlets because they have a simple plot, can become a series, and are easier to write and stay committed to.
You'll find out who the mother is eventually. Now, whether she is alive or not, I cannot say. You'll see, but I cannot guarantee she'll play a role as a "living" character.