He kept on walking.
Somehow walking the streets as a Muggle became a faint consolation. Here on the street he wasn't a failure. He wasn't the man who couldn't live up to his own legend. He wasn't the man who watched one of his best friends cry every morning. Here on the street he was just another face in the crowd. Here on the street he could deny who he was. Here on the street he could seek his death…no, more than that: he could die. Bit by bit, he could lose himself, lose his soul to the masses, and then what would be left to save? The shell of the man who had been the boy who lived- the worth of his own life nearly made Harry laugh. But he didn't laugh anymore. Not since the first night Hermione cried.
He wandered from pub to pub. Whenever he needed more money, he'd pick the pocket of the rich bastard who didn't know how damn good he had it sitting next to him. Harry wished- every time- that the rich bastard would catch him in the act, would call the police, would kill him, would do something that gave Harry any impression at all that his actions had a consequence. But none of them ever did. It was almost as though at the very moment Harry's hand reached for the pocket, another hand turned his victim's face away.
He'd lost count of how many bottles he'd drank by the time he walked out into the night. Did his fogged, alcohol-addled brain even realise that he had left his apartment when it was significantly lighter?
Dismissing the question as unimportant (read: requiring too much thought), he moved on. He wandered along the streets, not caring where he went or what he saw. Eventually his feet drew him to the river, and he walked along the path under the protection of the trees which lined it. When he came to the bridge, the fog in his mind began to clear, and he stepped reverently onto the bridge, as though he'd never walked along such a thing before.
At the peak of the arch, he turned to the railing. Wasn't the water calm tonight? He could see the full moon reflected in the water below him, the stars looked like sparks flying from it. Ah, he thought, the moon…radiant as Artemis, the very image of the darkness in us all…The hole that had been growing inside him since the accident suddenly seemed more than a hole. It was a creature inside him, it was a disease that couldn't be fought, and it heard the siren call of its mistress. Harry climbed onto the railing.
How calm the water was tonight…
When he jumped, Harry didn't fall.
He didn't fall, he flew, and the arms clasped around his waist showed no signs of tiring. "I've been watching you," whispered a voice in his ear, "I've been waiting for you to call me." Her light Italian accent made him think of roses, of dark, bloodred roses blooming in the summer and with their sweet scent carrying him to a place that he could never find himself…
"Are you an angel?" He whispered. A lock of her blonde hair brushed his cheek; he couldn't see her face, but he could feel her smile. A seductive, Mona Lisa smile…
"No," she whispered. "I am a creature of the night. I am one through whom the Dark Blood runs. You called to me; you jumped into my arms…"
Harry turned his head; he wanted to see this 'creature of the night,' as she called herself. He looked into her face, and his breath caught in his throat. Skin white as alabaster, lips a deeper red than the roses which her voice reminded him of, loose blonde hair fluttering as they flew. Her face was as serene as Boticelli's Venus, as secretive as diVinci's Mona Lisa, and more beautiful than the two combined.
"…now you must be prepared to walk the path which you have chosen."