Many Paths to Tread
The rest of the seventh year Gryffindors have their own battles to fight.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of the characters found in this fic, nor can I think of any particularly clever way of saying so.
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Somebody Else's Skin
His little brother—smaller only in age, for David took after his father and not their mother—always makes fun of him, calling him a "sensitive, artistic soul," picking up on the words Gran uses. The label has little to do with the fact that he spends hours scribbling with crayons all over the walls—he gets a scolding, and Mum's knees are sore after kneeling to scrub it all day—or drawing with chalk on the sidewalk outside or that the teachers always exclaim over his finger-painting and his construction paper concoctions. It doesn't have anything to do with the fact that he will be walking up the stairs to get the football and gets distracted at the open window—the achingly blue sky going on into infinity (sometimes he thinks that blue is God). It isn't even really about the way that he arranges the food on his plate into patterns, into colors that compliment instead of clash, though Merlin knows David mocks him enough for that.
He suspects it is more because he hates watching David incinerate ants with his magnifying glass. Or that Darla always runs to him when their brother is picking at her.
It wasn't that he is a wimp—he's the one to kill the snake with the rock when Danielle stumbles over it when they're visiting their grandparents' farm and he beats up more than one neighborhood boy for making fun of his half-sisters or making not-very-subtle comments about the Thomas family's skin.
But he hates it when he's doing it. He realizes his problem slowly, like a spring dawn. He simply has the uncanny and very uncomfortable ability to put himself in someone else's place. No matter how cruel someone is, no matter how small the insect, he can always understand exactly where someone is coming from. Most people would call it a gift.
He sees it as a curse.
You can't kill ants when all you can think about is the way the fire would make your skin crack, peeling back and burning the edges black, shriveling your body as you twitch in agony, the relief of death so very far away. You can't take joy in beating someone up when you know that he only says the things he says because he is jealous and insecure and the drunken lout at home has never taught him how to be a real man.
It would be easier then, growing up, if he wasn't that way. And it is a bit easier after he comes to Hogwarts and meets Seamus, his first best-friend beside his baby sister, and discovers that Charms are a whole lot like art and that Ancient Runes means that symbols—drawings—have power. That's the way it seems during his first years. At the beginning, Hogwarts seems like a completely sheltered place, cut off from the outside world where no one has to worry about the gathering darkness outside. Then, when that darkness invades his sanctuary, it still isn't that bad—if there is fighting to be done, Dumbledore and Harry and Ron and Hermione will take care of it. He can focus on Charms and the latest Quidditch scores and beating Seamus in Exploding Snap and sending letters covered with doodles charmed to move to Darla and Mum.
Dumbledore's Army changes all that. At the time, the very idea makes his stomach roil, but then he thinks of Cedric's body lying on the ground. And he remembers that all summer, every time he closed his eyes he was Cedric—the fear, the burning pain a split second before darkness descends, final and absolute—and he was Harry—watching in horror, completely powerless as the unthinkable happens—and he was Mr. Diggory—the soul-deep sorrow, bone-deep ache, blood-deep keening that only comes when you've lost the only person in the world you can't live without. And as those memories assault him, he swallows the bile in his throat and does what he has to do.
It's worse, now, so much worse. Bad enough seeing Hermione Granger lying perfectly still on Hospital Wing bed and seeing Ron's eyes when he wakes up and sees her, observing the haze gone from Luna Lovegood's eyes and Ginny Weasley's bright ones dark like after first year, and Neville's lost look and the scars on Ron's arms and chest as he quickly tries to change without anyone seeing them at night in the dorm, and the chill that comes at the wrongness of the mingled emptiness and fury in Harry's eyes—and feeling everything they feel, if only just a bit.
The blow, though, that numbs him was just last year. When Hogwarts was invaded and the greatest wizard of the age slain in a split second in a curse so unforgivable that he can't bring himself to think about it.
He doesn't have time to mourn the loss of Ginny, who was so lovely and strong and bright, or worry about the cancellation of the Quidditch he'd so been looking forward to. Now he keeps sinking into other people—becoming McGonagall and the impossible burden she never would have asked for and doesn't feel prepared to carry; and Hagrid, lost and haunted without his two best friends and allies to make Hogwarts what it was; and Neville, wanting so badly to be with those three who are gone and yet always questioning whether he would have ever had the courage to go with them; and Ginny, who isn't really at Hogwarts any more than the three are.
He remembers at the beginning of fifth year, Dumbledore had pulled him aside, the light in his eyes not a twinkle, but a spark of understanding as sure as his voice.
Don't worry, Mr. Thomas. You curse this gift now, but in the future it will be invaluable. It makes life uncomfortable, of course, but no life worth living is without its discomforts, even its little hells. This is your strength, and it will be sorely needed in the days to come. Don't fight it; save your energy for our foes. Embrace it, and it will make you strong.
But now Dumbledore and all his understanding is gone, and there are so many people whose pain invades his life, and yet so very, very few, and the darkness covers the sky and the blueblueblue is gone.
But he claps his hand on Neville's shoulder as they walk to Potions one day, and he nods at McGonagall across the Great Hall, and he visits Hagrid every once in a while, and he smiles at Ginny, though it hurts a little to do it.
And they don't smile or say a thing, but he feels like a little tension is gone, like smoke floating away.
And maybe empathy is much more powerful than he ever thought it was.
And maybe his curse is a gift after all.
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I got a little carried away with Dean, but that's because I know next to nothing about him besides him being a Gryffindor and dating Ginny. I might be way off base, because all of this came from my head and not canon, but I still like this installment. I'm also not real sure about the Dumbledore quote, since I find him the most challenging character to write, so I apologize if he's out of character.
Inspiration for the comment about the colors of food from Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier. Also, I got information and inspiration on For more information, go to J.K. Rowling's website and check out the edits section under Extra Stuff. Fascinating, really.
Next up: Parvati