browneyedkat

As So Many Do

2012-12-28T11:58:21Z

(a poem)

Life's not fair,

they say, and I

tell them that I don't know

the meaning of the word.

Nights last

longer than they should, and angry

red returns

as a reminder.

I tell myself again and

again that it's

circumstantial. Evidence goes a long way

to contradict me.

The tragedy of my

life remains that no one can see

its tragedy. A paradox

I've yet to escape.

Happiness must be

shared, they say.

I quietly consider that happiness only

lasts so long.

I dream

when I'm awake, and often

dream of sleep. Why must my eyes

only open wider

The ghosts that

haunt me grow strong. I fear

they will never leave

my side.

A Guide to Losing It; Bitterly

2012-12-21T05:11:18Z

(a poem) (sort of)

It's not fair

how much I like you.

You found me

starstruck

and loved me with

careful

care that broke me.

You snuck into

my heart filled with something

I can't call love.

I sacrificed

the glue of my self

so you could fit in the spaces.

Sometimes

you look at me and I

worry that no one will ever know me

like you do. Other

times, I miss

your glances and I worry

you never knew me at all.

Your birthday gift sits

in a bottom drawer. I left it

with the words I wanted you

to read.

My hands feel empty

and restless. I can't help but remember

the last time I saw you when

you wouldn't let me sleep

on your shoulder.

I plan ways to

thank you.

I refuse to send you

the messages I write.

I check often to see when you are coming

home. To me

it cannot be too soon.

We spoke only

once since you left. I hated you

then.

I felt it;

something shattered.

I can't wait

to hear your voice. Tell me

now

how it is fair

that by a living ghost

relentlessly

I am haunted.

Sought, PG

2012-12-15T02:41:55Z

1500 words.
The Irish Seeker seeks a keeper.

Aidan Lynch fidgeted with his Quidditch robes anxiously as he stood at the back of the team, nerves jangling in his stomach. He clutched his broom in one hand, the smooth handle familiar and comforting on his palm. The world around him was blurred, out of focus and altogether too close and too far away, tilting as he moved his head. He centered in on the one place that remained still and clear: the back of Connolly’s head at the front of the line. His crowing nerves edged closer to his chest, forcing his heart into his throat and his breath out of his lungs.

Finally, the team began to move forward, taking off one by one. As Aidan stepped out of the locker room, the roars of the crowd immediately pressed in on him, not quite seeming real; they accosted his head and blended together with the blurry world in front of him. The only place that remained solid, clear, was the space where his hand held his broom, the press of the wood on his palm and the curl of his fingers around the circular handle, his hold on the world, his lifeline. His nerves unfurled inside him, choking him, smothering him, pressing against the inside of his chest until he couldn’t breathe. He saw Quigley take off in front of him as if through a smudged glass, and without thinking, almost instinctively, he swung his leg over his own broom and pushed off from the ground, hard.

As soon as the solid feeling of the ground left his foot, Aidan felt every drop of anxiety leave his body, flow out of him as he rose above the field. Every nerve in his body was alive and on fire as the wind whipped over his skin; the world came into focus, everything sharper, but none of it seemed to matter; nothing existed outside of his the air on his skin and the broom beneath him. Aidan breathed in and the magnified voice of Ludo Bagman sliced through the bubble that surrounded him, “Aaaaaand - Lynch!” He was soaring.

***

Aidan flew over the crowd, eyes scanning the field below him for any glint of gold. He kept one eye on the scowling child dressed in scarlet robed, watching for any sign that he saw the Quaffle and trying not to be intimidated by the intent look on the boy’s face that spread to every aspect of his being, filling his body with concentration. His eyes jumped over the field, searching, seeking. But never looking at his team’s goal post. He kept his eyes carefully away from the green figure in front of the goal, the silver embroidery writing out the name he knew so well. He kept his mind on the game.

It was through this cloud of determination that he saw the sallow-skinned boy playing opposite him pull into a dive, his face still full of that plain deliberation. Cursing himself for being distracted, Lynch pressed against his broom and followed the scarlet blur, the nose of his broom pointing almost straight down as he plummeted through the air. He dropped downward, searching for the gold that Krum must have spotted.

There was only a second in which Aidan realized what had happened. Only a second in which Krum pulled out of his dive and the ground spiraled closer, and Lynch felt completely blank of intent or fear. Only a second in which he was going to crash. Only a second in which he looked up and his eyes were drawn to the Irish side of the field, to Connolly’s face contorted with panic. Only a second before the world went black.

***

As soon as he was revived, Aidan looked up and saw five of his team members watching him anxiously, and Connolly determinedly not looking at him. He felt a pang in his chest. Connolly…There had been a time when he had called Connolly by his given name, and Connolly had called him Aidan, a time when they had been the best of friends. They had spent every waking moment together, never closer than when they were flying through the air. Then they were brothers, alike in freedom and alone in the world. Then the rest of the world didn’t matter; nothing else existed when they were zooming faster than the speed of light. They raced against one another, competed for the Snitch or scoring goals with the Quaffle. Even when they landed on the ground, they left their hearts in the air behind them; every laugh they drew out of the other would bring them back among the clouds. They had been closer than any brothers. But then Aidan had told Connolly how he felt, and Connolly had told him it wouldn’t be prudent, that they should call each other Lynch and Connolly like the commentator did. So now he was just Connolly, and Connolly wouldn’t even look at him.

Aidan pushed off again, his foot full of the hard feeling of the ground, trying to leave his thoughts on the ground behind him. He soared above the crowd as his team scored goal after goal, searching determinedly for the Snitch. He hardly noticed when the referee caused a commotion with the Veela, his mind never leaving the act of looking for the Snitch.

Suddenly, the world around him was filled with color. He saw the green of the field that had filled his eyes throughout the match; red speckled his view as blood flowed freely from his opposite’s face; orange flared as fire caught the referee’s broom; and through it all, he saw a speck of gold.

***

The wind whistled in his ears as Lynch flattened against his broom again, his robes trailing behind him as he hurtled down toward the earth; he could see nothing beyond that flash of gold. Flecks of blood spattered his face as Krum drew level with him, but still he dove straight toward the splash of gold, drawing closer and closer every second. This time, there was not even a split second in which he understood the reality of what would happen; there was not a moment in which he could glance upward. He soared toward the ground, the glint of gold filling his vision as the ground spiraled toward him again.

***

Aidan lay on his back in the healer’s tent, staring up at the brown-tinted light shining through the material, recalling Connolly’s words after Lynch had told him. “You’re crazy,” he’d said, and the tremor in his voice had broken Aidan’s heart. “You can’t – you can’t be in love with me.” He had stumbled backward, away from his friend, away from the man who loved him more than anything else in the world, the man who would do anything for him. Aidan had pleaded, told Connolly that he was sure there had been something, something between them. When he had seen the desperation in Connolly’s eyes, he had begged that they could at least go back to how things had been. “I can’t,” Connolly had replied, his breathing ragged and torn. “I – I can’t.” A month later, it was all over the magazines that Connolly had found himself a girlfriend. His Connolly. But now he was just Connolly.

Aidan stared dully ahead as the mediwizards bustled around him.

***

“Aidan!” He heard the call before he realized exactly what it was, when it was too far away to make out the word or the voice, only the sound. Jerking around, he saw a figure running toward him, repeating the cry anxiously. “Aidan! Aidan!” Connolly drew nearer, his eyes blazing. “I thought you’d died,” he continued more softly, the edge of desperation in his voice deepening, and before Aidan knew what was happening, Connolly’s lips were on his own, rough and clashing, teeth getting in the way of their mutual hunger, their mutual need to get closer. He felt himself clutched to Connolly, and realized his own hands were clawing at his friend, pulling him closer, closer, until he was as close as he could come, and still he tried to drag him nearer. They clung to one another, mouths moving fiercely. Finally they drew apart, foreheads pressed together. “We won, you idiot,” Connolly said, a laugh edging on hysterical behind his voice, and then they were kissing again, lips pressing together, and nothing else in the world mattered. Just Connolly.

***

As the team entered the top box, Aidan was hyper-aware of Connolly’s arm pressed against his back, Connolly’s side against his own, Connolly’s anxious glances toward him, checking that he was all right after the crash, checking that he was still there. The world was unfocused again; Lynch felt dazed.

The grin on Aidan’s face tugged at his cheeks, pulling wider as he saw the Cup raised into the air. Finally, they left the top box, seated on their brooms, Aidan Lynch on the back of Connolly’s, clutching hard around his waist and still grinning in a bemused sort of way. They flew around the field in another victory lap, soaring against the wind just as they always had; he and Connolly free, zooming at the speed of light. The rest of the world didn’t matter, didn’t even exist. Just Connolly.

A/N: someone on ff.net kindly pointed out to me that Connolly is, in fact, the Beater, not the Keeper. i'm not sure if i knew that when i came up with my little tagline or if i just wanted to make a pun, but either way it doesn't really matter for anything except the tagline. :P

No Remorse, PG13

2012-12-15T02:34:46Z

Tom Riddle through the years, 1600 words
(this is probably one of the weirdest fics i've ever written? it's not very good and a little bit odd but w/e)

Tom stepped into the bathroom, allowing a small smile to slide onto his face as the door closed behind him. His heart pounded against his chest, his dark eyes gleaming with a manic smile quite unlike that on his thin lips. He stepped close to the mirror, the dull flush fading from his face, leaving it once again pale. Closing his eyes, he slowed his breath. A face filled with terror flashed through his memory, expanding his smile slightly before he could stop it. He held on to that rush of excitement, sharp and clear in his memory.

Thunk. Tom’s eyes flew open as the door slid closed, the smile disappearing from his features to be replaced by an emotionless expression. Reflected in the mirror, he saw a tall girl standing behind him. She was a Ravenclaw and a fourth year; two years above him. He had noticed her eyes upon him in the Great Hall before, and had always gotten the impression that she could see through him, that she could see every emotion and every thought he had. It was a feeling that chilled him to his core. Her eyes glinted as she looked at him, a spark of fire in her otherwise hard face. She took a step toward him, a predator on the prowl, her dark hair covering her face in shadow.

“Tom,” she said, her voice low and dark, a deep burnt red. It was a voice Tom recognized, that he had heard whisper in the corridors. Shaken, Tom turned to look up at her. “I’ve seen you, Tom,” she continued. “I’ve seen what you’ve done. I’ve seen inside your head.”

Before he realized that he had taken a step, Tom felt his back press against the edge of the sink. She stepped toward him, fire in her eyes and her hands twitching as she reached for his wrists.

“I know you,” she said, a growl entering her brown voice. “I know what you did to that first year, and I know what you did at that freak orphanage. I love you. I’ve loved you when no one loved me, and Merlin knows I’ve loved you when no one else did. Your parents never cared about you; the people at that orphanage never loved you. Face it, Tom; I’m the only person who will ever love you.” She took another step, pinning him against the sink, her hips digging into his as her face drew within inches of his. “And I’ve feared you,” her voice was so low it was almost a whisper, dark and chilling even as a gleeful lilt lifted it. “I’ve feared you when everyone else looked down on you; I’ve feared you when no one else noticed you. I’ll always be here. Don’t you ever forget it.” Her breath came in gasps as she finished speaking, and she stared Tom directly in the eyes as her fingers, wrapped around his wrists, pressed into the sink.

Tom’s eyes widened. An alien sensation thrummed throughout his body, blood rushing to his base as his stomach twisted. His eyes were filled with her face and nothing else, his ears echoed with a single phrase. I’ve feared you.

The girl glanced down and her dark eyes glinted, a manic, gleeful smile spreading over her hard face. Slowly, she began to grind into him, her eyes scraping up his body to his face, her breathing growing deeper. Tom stood frozen against the sink as, a few minutes later, her steady hands tugged at the cloth of his robes, pulling them off as she undid her own. His eyes widened further at the gasps coming from his own throat, and shock accompanied the pleasure rushing through his spine. When his eyes finally fluttered closed, the last sight he saw was the determined grin on her hard face, her fiery eyes trailing up and down his naked body, her parted lips through which gasps of pleasure escaped, coming together with his own to create a hum that echoed through the tiled room.

With his final cry, she was gone, her damp skin separating from his own before his eyes opened again. When they did open, she stood before him, her body displayed openly as she looked up and down his.

Footsteps rang outside the door, loud in the silence, and she was gone, her clothes gathered from the floor before Tom could blink, leaving him standing alone, his sweaty back still stuck to the sink.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Tom pleaded minutes later, unable to explain, but his profuse apologies were met with a promise of punishment.

Footsteps faded and she exited the nearest stall, the flame in her eyes burning, the fear on her face growing plain as she looked at the expression on his face. Tom felt the previously unfamiliar sensation growing again and shifted his bundled robes to cover between his legs. Glancing down for only a moment, the girl stepped close to him once more, grasping his arm.

“I love you,” she said, her voice burnt red, almost black.

***

Second year, she spins him around, pressing into him in corners and empty classrooms, her hands reaching every inch of his body.

Her hand sneaks up behind his neck, unexpected, and when it leaves, the feeling that lingers draws him into an empty classroom after her. She slides her hands over his shoulders, leaving a tingling trail on his skin. She slides his clothes off of him, and slides her hands further down his body. Her gyrating hips slide over his. His eyes slide closed.

Third year, they conspire, their encounters hidden in doorways and shadows. Their voices lower to whispers as they pass, inconspicuous and subtle, unnoticed by those around them. Their arms tangle as they pull one another into the shadows.

As they pass in the corridor, her hand slips through his, gone after only a moment, leaving a note in its wake. They meet in the dark of the night, tangled together under the cool stairs of the entrance hall. Their voices rise as they gasp and cry out, and together they forget to worry about waking others. Her eyes never leave his and his never close; a constant beam passes between them, strong and solid, never wavering.

Fourth year, he reaches out, grabbing her out of corridors, dragging her into his arms as he holds her body close.

His arm juts out of a doorway, grasping her arm and pulling her into an empty classroom. She smiles and sidles close, but stops at the look on his face, freezing as her expression fills with terror. Tom’s heart races at the sight, and he claws for her to come closer. A smile ripples over his lips as she lowers to her knees, looking up at him through wide eyes.

***

Tom slips out of the bathroom, his heart racing with the excitement of what he has done, his skin tingling with anticipation of what will happen. He sleepwalks through his day, the world echoing around him, waiting. He keeps his expression carefully controlled, and says little to anyone, instead absorbed in his surroundings, hyperaware of each sound, each movement, each touch.

It’s not until later, as he joins the school in the Great Hall, that he realizes he did not give full directions; he did not specify a target or a purpose. For a moment, panic claws at his heart, grabbing for it, but he calms himself. This can be the test run, he thinks.

Dippet steps before the gathered school, white-faced and wide-eyed, carrying in his arms a tall girl with dark hair and dark eyes, and a burnt red voice now silent. Her eyes are wide open, staring straight ahead, but the fire that once burned in them has been extinguished.

All chatter in the room ceases immediately. After a moment of stillness, collective gasp ripples through the crowd, releasing the held breath. The face of every student goes pale, and several Ravenclaws burst into tears. Dippet lays the girl on the table and straightens, his face grave as he turns to address the school. The words that left his lips flowed above the mass of students, crashing down over all of them even as he tries to be comforting. They sound strangely muffled in the hollow hall. To his left, the rest of the staff is gathered, tight-lipped and pale. Dumbledore’s bright eyes look out over the hall, hard and strong and unnerving.

Tom stands straight and tall, his face impassive as he looks straight ahead.

***

Voldemort holds the Elder Wand before him, pointed at the spectacled boy who has caused him so much trouble. Standing opposite, stripped of his usual gallantry, the boy looks small; young. He looks weak. Now is the time to end this all, to put this ridiculous game to rest. Now is the time to kill this hateful child.

Voldemort feels a triumphant smile sneak onto his face, a face that has long since lost its controlled politeness, a face that has not feigned charm since before he can remember. He raises his wand, anticipating ending the life of the boy before him, but the boy is speaking again.

“Think, and try for some remorse, Riddle…” Potter says.

Voldemort’s eyes widen, and he feels the blood leave his face. His wand lowers slightly.

“Be a man…Try…Try for some remorse…” Memories flash behind Voldemort’s eyes, things long forgotten, things that he had left far behind him. He sees a face, framed by dark hair, with eyes shining brightly, catching his breath on fire. He sees her frozen, empty, her dark voice never escaping her lips.

In a single brief moment as the green light flashes from Harry Potter’s wand, the red gleam in Voldemort’s eyes disappears, replaced by dark brown, and the slit-like pupils return to circles. But after that single miniscule moment, his eyes close, and Tom Riddle crumples to the ground, finally defeated.

You Can't Win the Battle and the War - Chapter 12/12

2012-11-29T20:55:43Z

Chapter 12 - Draco: Clear

Ten minutes later found Harry sitting on a bench in the great hall, his back to the table, his head buried in his hands. He found it easy to ignore the people around him, easier than he would have expected; he had not for a moment considered returning to the bathroom. There was also the factor that very few people were in the Great Hall; most were grouped in the entrance hall.

He did not look up when a voice above him spoke, but his eyes, hidden by his hands, flew open.

“It must be bad for you to sit at the Slytherin table,” Draco Malfoy’s familiar voice drawled. Harry felt the bench sink as Malfoy – Draco – sat beside him.

“The tables aren’t separated into houses anymore,” Harry reminded him.

“Of course they are,” he replied curtly. Even as he tried to sound annoyed, Harry could hear the lazy smile in his voice. When Harry didn’t reply, Draco dropped a hand to his shoulder.

“Po – er, Harry…” His voice sounded uncertain for a moment, but when he continued any uncertainty was gone. “Why are you in here when people are looking to worship you out in the entrance hall?”

Harry looked up at him, expecting to see the usual sneer, but was surprised to see a face devoid of malice, just like his voice. He found that Draco was surprisingly handsome when he was so unguarded, so open. As he saw Harry’s face, his expression was flooded with mingled concern and surprise. Both emotions were gone as soon as they had appeared.

“I can’t be out there with all of them, knowing that – that I’ve let them down,” Harry answered bitterly.

“You didn’t let anyone down,” Draco responded without a moment’s hesitation. “You killed the Dark Lord yesterday, you think anyone cares that people died in the process? If it weren’t for you, people would still be dying.” He concluded with a tone of finality, letting Harry know that it would be no use arguing.

“I just don’t know what to do anymore. Nothing seems real. I don’t know anything now,” Harry confessed.

“Of course you don’t,” Draco replied, his voice softer than Harry had expected, softer than he had ever heard it. “You were the heart of this; the heart of everything. You were as caught up in this war as anyone.” Harry heard the “me” included in the word “anyone,” and suddenly Draco looked a little different.

“But what about now?” Harry asked.

“Don’t be stupid, Harry. The war is over.” Draco looked him straight in the eye before continuing, the piercing grey sending a chill down Harry’s spine. “You’re more than the war, Harry. You’re more than the Chosen One, or the Boy Who Lived. You always were. It just got covered up.”

“How do you know?” Harry pleaded, trying to understand what Draco seemed to see so plainly.

A smile played on Draco’s lips, good-natured unlike all those he had cast Harry’s way in the years previous. “You think I couldn’t see past all your pleas for attention?” he said, a laugh in his voice. Harry smiled in return, a real, genuine smile; something like warmth passed between them.

“But so many people died. I may as well have killed them,” Harry said, his eyes searching Draco’s face.

“Harry, do you realize how many people you’ve saved? If you blame yourself for every life lost, you won’t make it through a single day. If you can forgive me, I think you need to take a look at yourself,” Draco asserted. “You deserve forgiveness much more than me,” he added more quietly, his eyes bright and dancing with grey fire.

Harry straightened, not taking his eyes off Draco’s face. “Everything’s different now,” he said, his dull voice beginning to gain an edge, some sort of feeling sneaking its way in. Again, that crooked smile lit Draco’s lips.

“You can’t expect to kill a dark wizard without things changing,” he agreed. “Now you’re the savior of the world, now you’re the true wonder boy. Now people can sleep at night.”

“Now I don’t have to torture people,” he added, his voice growing strained.

Harry looked at him intently, seeing the relaxed face of his worst enemy through a window of dirt, mud, and blood that still smeared his glasses. The grime didn’t seem to permeate the image before him the way it did everything else; Draco’s face was clear. He looked different from how Harry had seen him before, as if he had changed overnight; or perhaps Harry had changed.

“Did you ever want to be there?” Harry asked him quietly, and a cloud passed over Draco’s face.

“When I was younger, yes. I believed it was the right place to be. It was everything you thought was wrong, so it had to be. But then I got older, and I realized – that’s not how the world works.” His voice was dark, covered by the same shadow as his face. He turned to Harry, a curious expression on his face, chasing away the darkness. “Did you ever wonder if you were right?” he inquired.

“Yes,” Harry admitted. “Sometimes – when I talked to you.”

A grin flitted across Draco’s face. “I see we’re on the same page, then. But then, we always were.”

Warmth spread through him at the sight of Draco’s easy grin. Harry felt a smile light his own features in spite of himself.

“As I recall, you were an evil git,” he said, the smile seeping into his voice.

“Yes, but so were you,” Draco countered. They smiled at each other for a moment, before the smile slid off Harry’s face.

“I don’t…everyone is acting different. Like I’m some big hero,” Harry said.

“Well, they’re idiots,” Draco explained. “I never fell for your hero act, of course. But…I guess I can understand why people might,” he granted. “You did just save the world. Give it time…” he reassured. “They might start celebrating your birthday,” he added.

Harry chuckled, jostling the shoulder of the pale boy beside him.

“You’ve put up with this you’re entire life. You’ve been in the papers, people stare at your scar; why would it start to both you now?” Draco reasoned.

Harry considered this. “I suppose…I don’t deserve it.”

The other boy gave a small, exasperated laugh. “Are you completely determined to be modest at all times? You are so Gryffindor. You just saved the wizarding world. How could you not deserve it?” he exclaimed.

Harry looked at him incredulously. “I thought you didn’t fall for my hero act,” he said.

“Well…I do find it hard to worship someone who’s as much of an idiot as you. The rest of the world doesn’t seem to find it an issue, though,” Draco said grudgingly. Harry felt the wide smile force its way back onto his face as they locked eyes again, and he cursed himself for grinning like an idiot. Draco’s face, however, lit with a similar smile, plain and open.

As warmth coursed through Harry, he saw Draco’s hand reach out, straight toward his face. Before he could react, his glasses were removed from his face and the world grew blurry.

“Wha -” he began, startled.

“Your glasses are filthy, Harry,” Draco informed him, his voice filled with something Harry had never heard before – was it fondness?

Harry watched as the blurry form he knew was Draco moved about, supposedly cleaning his glasses. He heard the clink of his glasses being set on the table, and before he could take them, Draco’s blurry figure stood and stooped forward.

Harry felt a chilled hand cup the back of his neck, sending both chills and warmth rushing through him from the point of contact. As his head was tipped upward, he felt soft lips brush his forehead, pressing against it. He closed his eyes, leaning into the push of Draco’s kiss. Finally, the hand and mouth were removed, slowly, as if reluctant to let go. Harry reached toward the table, snatched up his glasses, and replaced them back on his face. The dirt and grime were gone.

As he watched Draco walked away, warmth unfurled in his stomach and he saw the world clearer than before.

Harry knew everything would be okay.

You Can't Win the Battle and the War - Chapter 11/12

2012-11-29T20:54:05Z

Chapter 11 - Luna: Desperation

The walls seemed determined to close in on Harry, to crush him as he leaned up against one in the entrance hall. His breath came out shaky, rattling through his lips and tearing at his throat. People surrounded him, milling about as they took a break from the efforts of piecing the castle back together, and their voices pressed in on him, a mess of clattering and rustling in his ears. His eyes scanned the room desperately, all at once searching for anything to help him and trying to hide his breaking from the room of people who looked to him. Finally he spotted Luna and tried to catch her eyes, to ask her from across the room to help him. She wandered about, talking and laughing, free of his burden. It was a long time before she saw him and crossed the room to stand beside him.

He looked at her, her chin jutted out toward him, a gleam in her eyes. Without speaking, she asked him to speak, but something else filled her face, something that he could not interpret. Still, he spoke, just as he had before; he didn’t hesitate before saying what was torturing him.

“I thought…I thought we won. We won, didn’t we?” Luna cocked her head at him, which he supposed might have been a response in the affirmative. Yes, he told himself. We won.

“I just…so many people are dead. So many people died.” His voice came out pleading.

Something hard flitted across Luna’s face, and Harry was reminded once again to wonder who she had lost.

“Yes, Harry,” she said, and her voice had a familiar lilt to it, still calm as it always was. There was something different about it though, a new hardness that sounded almost angry. “People died.” And with that, she turned and walked away, back to the crowd of people she had previously been laughing and talking with. She slid her arm around Neville, and his face lit up as he looked down on her. As she looked back at him, Harry saw something in her eyes that he hadn’t realized was missing. There was no desperation, no aching hope, no pain between them. Harry saw with clarity.

Suddenly calm, Harry moved from his place on the wall, turned his back slowly, and walked into the Great Hall, away from the crowd of people.

He tried to ignore the feeling that some monster was in his chest, clawing to get out. He tried to ignore the desperate need to breathe.

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You Can't Win the Battle and the War - Chapter 10/12

2012-11-29T20:51:18Z

Chapter 10 - George: The Reflection

Harry’s legs carried him back to the bathroom, treading the path he had walked countless times over the past three days. They led him through the empty corridors, the sound of his footsteps bouncing off the walls and high ceiling just as it had every other time he’d walked these halls.

It seemed to take longer than usual to reach the bathroom.

Harry pushed open the door to the bathroom, heavy against his hand. He stepped into the room, but froze as he saw who was already there.

Standing in the very spot Harry usually occupied, hand stretched toward the mirror, was George. Tears poured down his face, his eyes were locked on the reflection before him, and his shaking arm was reaching out to the image in the mirror. His breath rasped, quick and sharp and desperate, and he didn’t look up when Harry entered the room.

The snap of the door shutting rang out in the near-silence.

Before he could think, Harry took three long strides toward George, reaching him just in time to catch him as he crumpled.

George’s shaking body in Harry’s arms sent tremors through them both. His pained gasps filled the cold bathroom, ringing off the tiled walls like a reflection and crashing down around them.

George’s sobs racked his body for hours, before eventually subsiding to gentle, if shaky breaths, while tears continued to cascade down his face. Still, Harry held him.

Finally, his face stained and his eyes red, George drifted to sleep and Harry lifted his limp body, trying to ignore how much it looked like his brother’s when he was sleeping, and carried him to a bed in the Gryffindor tower, where all of the Weasleys had slept the night before.

The snap of the bathroom door, closing behind him as he carried George from the cold, tiled room echoed in Harry’s head.

That was the last time Harry escaped to the bathroom.

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You Can't Win the Battle and the War - Chapter 9/12

2012-11-29T20:49:06Z

Chapter 9 - Luna: Different

Harry stood away from the sink, watching his reflection calmly. He stared at the mirror, his own face peering back at him through glasses still smeared with dirt and mud and blood. His jet black hair stuck up as always, his deep green eyes, always so striking, were visible behind his glasses, and the familiar red scar rested atop his forehead. He didn’t look any different.

Absently, he lifted his hand to his scar, just as he had done so many times in the past. His fingers felt odd against his forehead, as if the space his scar had occupied were gone, merely a shadow. He shook himself mentally, still staring at the boy in the mirror. He looked so young.

***

Harry was not surprised to find himself sitting once again beside Luna.

Her leg pressed against his, the pressure all at once comfortable and too much for Harry, overwhelming him and swallowing him whole. His breath seemed to tug at his chest, trying to tear it open.

The words came easily from his lips, tumbling out this time without getting stuck.

They seared his throat as they flooded out.

“I don’t understand what to do now. I never realized before. Never realized what I was doing, what I was a part of. How does it all feel so much more real now that it’s over?” He felt Luna nod beside him, could almost feel the look on her face, the look that no one else could ever even approach. Her words flowed just as his, in her familiar placid voice.

"Nothing is ever real until after it ends,” she told him gently, and her words made sense the way nothing else quite did.

“It’s all crashing down on me now, just how real it was. It was all on me, all on my shoulders, and…I couldn’t save everyone.” The words came out before Harry thought about what he was saying, and they weighed down on him painfully as he knew they were true. Still, they forced their way out, building up in him until he couldn’t hold them any longer, as he had to admit they were true.

“I was doing all that I could, and I was running, and I was fighting, and I just wanted this war to end, and Voldemort kept killing people and so many people are dead and I – I killed one of them,” he croaked, his voice growing horrified. His eyes grew wide with shock, his face whitened, and he felt his chest swelling with realization and pain and terrible, terrible fear as his breath caught in his throat.

Luna’s hand came up to meet his arm, comforting and stable; she said nothing.

“It’s all different,” Harry continued, glad she hadn’t tried to dispute his revelation. “Who…who am I now?”

“You’re Harry,” Luna answered simply. His laugh came out ragged and terrible. It sounded wretched in his ears and felt wrong in his mouth. He bit down hard on it, trying to regain some control.

“Nothing’s the same. Hermione and Ron are different, and Malfoy’s different, and McGonagall’s different, and…I’m different,” he conceded.

“You’re Harry,” Luna repeated, certainty lacing her voice. Harry turned to meet her eyes and saw the spark behind them, sending warmth through his stomach.

The tangled mess in Harry’s mind seemed to loosen, at least a little bit.

“I hardly know anything anymore. It’s like the one thing that was driving me crazy was the only thing keeping me together,” he said.

“Don’t worry. You’re just as sane as I am,” she replied, the hint of something deeper in her voice, her words an echo that reached out to Harry, grounding him.

He couldn’t stop the smile that came over his face.

***

Harry lifted bricks with his wand, sending them flying through the air to their places in the castle. He was glad to have something to do, with Luna working on his right and Ron and Hermione on his left. Things felt a little closer to right like this; a little more real, even if the sun shining down on him upset his head and shined too brightly. Slowly, carefully, they were putting the castle back together.

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You Can't Win the Battle and the War - Chapter 8/12

2012-11-29T20:45:40Z

Chapter 8 - Draco: Forgiving

Harry entered the Great Hall to find the enchanted ceiling shining intense blue, bathing the entire hall in light except for the very edges, the corners which remained hidden in shadow. He scanned the hall, taking care to look in the shadowy corners, the corners he had ignored before. Most were empty, but in the far corner of what had always been the Slytherin table, he saw three people, two standing by the wall, one sitting on the bench away from them. Looking closer, Harry realized with a jolt that the sitting figure was Draco Malfoy. Before he could think about what he was doing, he found himself walking steadily toward Malfoy’s hunched profile. When he reached him, he did not even hesitate as he slid into the seat beside him.

Malfoy looked up at Harry, his face haunted and lost as he looked straight into Harry’s eyes. His face did not fill with the hostility Harry had grown so used to seeing, that he had always assumed was instinct to Malfoy as it had been to him. Now, his face was soft and confused, utterly open in a way Harry had never seen it before.

“Potter,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You did it.” His eyes were wide and his tone was very different from that of the others who had said the exact same words. He sounded surprised, shaky, and somewhat sad. The way he spoke scared Harry a little. “You did it,” he repeated, his voice cracking a bit.

“Draco,” Harry said without thinking. Malfoy’s head turned toward him involuntarily, surprise apparent on his face. Malfoy’s given name sounded strange in his mouth, a foreign feeling in the one place he had been certain he was familiar with. He pressed on in spite of the unfamiliarity. However, before he could say another word, Malfoy cut in.

“Don’t,” he said harshly, his voice coming out a growl. “Don’t – don’t do that.”

Harry looked at him questioningly, trying to keep his expression gentle.

“Don’t – be the bigger person. Don’t treat me like I’m…” he trailed off.

“Draco,” Harry replied, and saw Malfoy flinch at the word. “I’m not being a bigger person.”

“You won,” Draco told him, as though he thought Harry didn’t know. “You won, and I lost. I chose the wrong side.”

Harry shook his head. “You didn’t choose any side,” he affirmed.

“Of course I did!” Malfoy cried, his voice on the edge of desperation, all sharp edges and harsh burning. “I gave everything to this war, to the wrong side! I gave up everything. I gave up myself. And it was all for the wrong side.”

“You never had any sort of a choice,” Harry clarified. “And don’t even try to tell me you were doing anything for Voldemort.”

“I didn’t –” his voice cracked again, all force gone from his voice, leaving it uncertain.

“Draco,” Harry said, sliding off the bench to kneel in front of Malfoy and again ignoring Malfoy’s slight flinch at the sound of his own name. “Maybe you didn’t make the best choices during the war. But you’re here now, and you’re alive, and you’ve got the chance to fix all of that.”

“Don’t do that!” Malfoy shouted, a hint of his old fire back in his voice and his eyes. “Don’t treat me like I’m good, don’t forgive me!” And the fire was gone as quickly as it had appeared, flickering out as if tired.

“I don’t deserve to be forgiven,” he added quietly, his voice full of pain and desolation.

“Oh, of course you do, Malfoy!” Harry responded, reminded of how much the blonde-haired boy could annoy him. He paused to regain calmness. “There is nothing you have done that can’t be forgiven. You’re allowed to make mistakes, Draco. Merlin knows I have…” he added more softly, a hint of his own turmoil sneaking into his speech.

Malfoy, however, scoffed. “You don’t even know what a mistake is,” he replied, his voice tinged with that familiar hostility and disdain. “You, the Chosen One, the perfect boy, don’t tell me you’ve made mistakes.”

“Of course I have,” Harry contradicted. “You think, with all that up to me, I could get through the war without making any mistakes? But people forgave me. They’ll forgive you too.”

Malfoy shook his head, his expression lost in sadness. “Everything I’ve ever done was a mistake, and now Crabbe is dead and it’s all my fault,” he said.

Harry’s stomach twisted as he saw a tear slide down the bridge of Malfoy’s nose, cutting a track of darkness on his pale skin. He struggled to think of the words that would ease Malfoy’s pain, that would stop that single tear and any that might follow it. He thought of nothing.

“I just wish I could undo it all,” Malfoy finished, his voice broken. Harry looked up at him, into those grey eyes now shining with tears.

“You can’t,” he said, knowing that this was the opposite of what he was trying to accomplish but unable to stop the words coming out of his mouth. “The mistakes you’ve made, they’re made. They’re done, whether it was your fault or not. And you can’t ever change that. But you can do so much now. You’ve got the whole world in front of you, and I know you; you can do so much with it. Please, just step into it. Let the world forgive you.” Malfoy looked down at him, his expression confused and surprised, hopeful and grateful, filled with something Harry couldn’t quite place. When he said nothing, Harry spoke again.

“I have.” And with that, he stood slowly, directly in front of the other boy. Bending down, he placed a hand on the back of Malfoy’s neck and pressed his lips very gently against his forehead. His eyes closed, Harry held the kiss on Draco’s forehead a moment longer, then straightened and barely hesitated before he turned around and walked across the hall, away from his sworn enemy.

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You Can't Win the Battle and the War - Chapter 7/12

2012-11-29T20:40:47Z

Chapter 7 - Ron and Hermione: Burning

Ouch… thought Harry as his eyes fluttered open and he was greeted with a cold, dirty blue wall filling his sight and a crick in his neck. He straightened quickly, upsetting his neck further, glanced at his surroundings, and banged his elbow on the door as he fled the stall. He leaned on the opposite stall and breathed deeply, shaking his head to empty it of the blind panic that had filled it as, in his first waking moments, he had dazedly taken in his surroundings. Slowly, his vision cleared. He walked out of the bathroom, carefully not looking in the mirror.

***

Harry entered the Great Hall to see the tables filled with food and surrounded by people, all eating breakfast. For some of them, he knew, this was the first meal they had eaten in days, and he was glad to see that the same people who had been forced to sleep were eating willingly. He was glad to see George making his way through a plate that had been piled high with food, most likely by his mother. Looking around the hall, he saw that the designation of the house tables was forgotten, and that everyone was sitting with family or friends; no one was alone. The majority of people he saw were clumped tightly with their family, real or makeshift, and even those people who had been sitting alone for days, desperately avoiding anyone and everyone, were hesitantly sitting beside the people they had known their entire lives. It seemed that the few hours of separation had reminded everyone what they had lost and what they still had. No wonder so many of them had been scared to sleep.

Harry glanced around and saw no stragglers, no one sitting alone, no one he needed to talk to. He looked around a moment longer in desperation, before, steeling himself, he made his way between the tables to where Ron and Hermione were sitting at the Hufflepuff table. He passed Ginny on his way through the hall, sitting beside Neville, and ignored the urge to sit beside her and clutch her hand and never let go. He had time, he reminded himself. He had all the time in the world. Time was something he had never had before, the one thing he had gained in this whirlwind of a war. He had time, he told himself firmly, and pushed down the fear that rose in him as he thought it.

As he neared his two friends, he saw they were sitting pressed up against each other, their hands clasped together despite the difficulty this caused in eating, talking in hushed tones. Harry hesitated once again as he heard the breathlessness in their voices, paused with his foot just above the ground, and felt his mind go blank after only a moment of consideration. He shook himself back into consciousness and took the final two steps toward the table, settling onto the bench beside Hermione. Both she and Ron looked up at Harry as he sat.

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione cried, her startled look softening into a smile. Harry saw her lift her arms ever so slightly, as if to fling them around his neck and she occasionally did, but then she dropped them back to her sides, thinking better of it. Ron’s hand wrapped around hers again the moment it touched his. “Harry, where were you last night?” she continued instead. “We thought you’d be in the dorm with us.” Us. There was that word again.

“McGonagall set aside a room for me,” he answered, not using his professor’s first name and not mentioning where he had actually slept.

“Oh…” Hermione looked down. Ron furrowed his brow at Harry over Hermione’s shoulder, eyeing Harry thoughtfully. He met Harry’s eyes and held them for a moment, before looking down.

“Well…did you sleep well?” Hermione asked, recovering. When Harry nodded, she said, “Ron and I were glad to be back in a bed after so long sleeping in a tent.” Harry nodded again, unable to agree as he had hardly been comfortable.

“Harry, you’re glasses – they’re filthy,” Hermione informed him. He ignored her.

“Harry, mate, where’ve you been the past two days?” Ron interjected. “We’ve hardly seen you since you killed You-Know-Who.” Hermione shot him a reproachful look.

“I’ve – had to talk to people,” Harry muttered.

“But Harry,” Hermione beseeched, looking concerned. Harry wished she would stop saying his name. “You’ve done so much – I don’t think you have to do anything now.” Harry blinked at her and shook his head, surprised that she did not understand.

“Don’t you think you deserve a break?” she implored. Harry did not answer, and after a moment she looked down at her food. They said nothing as she and Ron ate, the silence forming a bubble inside the noise that surrounded them, the noise of people talking and laughing throughout the hall.

Finally, Hermione looked back up at Harry anxiously. “Please, at least eat something,” she wheedled. “You’ve got to regain your strength.”

“You did die the other day,” Ron put in, earning himself another reprimanding look from Hermione. “Look, mate,” he continued, dropping the casual tone. Harry noticed that he always said ‘mate’ often when he was uncomfortable. “We’re worried about you. We thought you were dead hardly two days ago, and we haven’t really seen you since. Please just eat something.” Hermione swallowed uncomfortably and stared at her plate, but Ron looked determinedly at Harry, who nodded, but didn’t look away. Ron looked relieved, but held the gaze between them, though it was clear he was doing so with some difficulty. Hermione lifted her head, looking even more relieved than Ron, and began piling food onto Harry’s plate.

They ate in silence, uncertain of what to say to one another, and the tension between them grew even more palpable when Ron made a valiant attempt to discuss Quidditch. Still, Harry was grateful that he tried; the silence was too much to bear. His Quidditch talked turned to meaningless babble, just trying to keep talking, and eventually he lapsed into silence. Harry saw him reach once again for Hermione’s hand, catching it in midair as it rose to meet his. It was with some relief that Harry finally stood and exited the Great Hall, saying goodbye to his two best friends as he left, leaving Hermione in the middle of telling him that he ought to clean his glasses and Ron looking anxiously after him.

***

Harry stood, the cold of the wind on the back of his arms and his neck, surveying the school. His gaze slid over the grand castle, taking in the holes blasted in the walls, the scorch marks and the shattered windows, the place that had once been his first true home that was now destroyed. He felt the heat of the sun on the back of his head, mingling with his messy black hair to warm his head almost unbearably. He turned his gaze up toward the astronomy tower, recalling as he did the graceful arc of Dumbledore’s frail body as he had fallen a year ago. He saw that now the tower had been blasted apart, a jagged edge of charred stone rising above the rest of the castle, half the height that it had once been.

As the heat on the back of his head and the chill on the back of his neck became too much for Harry to stand, he took a careful step forward, and then another, into the entrance hall of the building; the building that was no longer burning.

***

Harry entered the bathroom once again, and slowly, hesitantly, carefully stepped into the reach of the mirror. He eyed his own bespectacled face dispassionately, waiting for that delicate balance to break. He turned the cold water on and gently splashed it over his too-hot face, cooling it down, feeling it sizzle with the icy chill of the water.

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You Can't Win the Battle and the War - Chapter 6/12

2012-11-29T20:37:56Z

Chapter 6 - Minerva: New and Old

As Harry exited the too-hot bathroom, his feet carried him down the familiar path through the drafty corridor. In the two days since the fighting had stopped, he had walked between the bathroom and the Great Hall so often that he no longer gave any thought to what he was doing. Instead, his mind strayed to his destination, where he knew several staff members of the now destroyed school were organizing sleeping arrangements for the many people who still remained inside the castle. A few scattered groups and families had left the grounds as quickly as they could, because, Harry speculated, they couldn’t bear to stay in the destroyed castle, or because they, like him, felt uncomfortable staying among the relief and the celebration and the grief. But he couldn’t leave.

Most people remained in the Great Hall, all clumped together as though leaving the crowd would be horribly dangerous, all clinging to the simple act of being surrounded by people, talking and laughing and smiling freely and easily. No one seemed to want to be away from people and the relief of being able to breathe. No one wanted to go to sleep.

As the thoughts ran through his head, Harry let out a low, soft, bitter laugh that echoed through the empty hall, sounding faintly horrifying and too loud as it settled into his ears. Luna had told him that people would be able to sleep at night because of what he had done; yet no one wanted to sleep.

Harry’s feet carried him into the Great Hall, and he wished that the sound of his hollow laugh would stop echoing in his head now that he was surrounded by people, even though none of them could hear it. He saw Hermione and Ron leaning on each other as they made their way out of the hall, to the dormitories to sleep. He saw the Weasleys, even closer together as they moved, as though afraid that one of them might get lost if separated from the pack. He saw Neville, once again surrounded by a crowd of fervent admirers now that his grandmother had gone to help organize the sleeping arrangements. Harry couldn't help noticing that he was looking extremely uncomfortable and still clutching the Sword of Gryffindor like a life preserver, and he felt a vague sympathy for his friend. Harry’s eyes slid over several people he knew he would have to talk to the next day, after everyone in the hall had slept. But it would have to wait; he couldn’t speak with them now. Now, he was searching for someone specific.

He stood with his eyes raking the emptying hall for a moment longer before he saw her, standing in the middle of the hall, and made his way toward her against the current of people.

“Professor!” he called as he neared her. He saw her head jerk toward him, slightly startled.

“Potter,” McGonagall responded, the surprise fading quickly from her face. She said his name as she had a million times in class, her voice strong and proper and a wall for him to lean on, just as it had been every time she had scolded him or asked him a question, or those rare times she had praised him, or that single time she had stood up for him. He remembered worrying at the time that he would let her down. He wondered now if he had. Then he recalled the note of pride in her voice as she had talked to Amycus Carrow. He wondered now if he had imagined it.

“Potter,” she repeated, somehow looking down at him even though he was now taller than her. It didn’t seem right that he was taller, but the fact that she could still look down at him was comforting to Harry; it made everything fall into place. The stern note in her voice brought him back down to earth, and reminded him of his manners; this was a teacher he was talking to.

“Er, have you got the sleeping arrangements sorted, Professor?” he asked, trying to be polite and not dive right into his point. To his surprise, something flitted across her usually still face.

“Er -” she began, and Harry was even more surprised to hear that uncertain noise that he made so often escape her lips. However, the uncertainty disappeared after only a moment, another thing Harry was left to wonder if he had imagined. “I am no longer your teacher. I think – it would be – prudent – for you – Call me Minerva.”

“Er,” Harry responded, unsure of what to say. Even he had had few conversations in which the word ‘er’ was spoken so many times in such a short time. “All right.”

“Now, Po- Harry, what is it you wanted?” she continued as though the awkward exchange had not occurred. She looked at him, calm and waiting, utterly confident and comfortable. As she waited patiently, anticipating his words, Harry was jolted by the thought that she had confidence in him.

“The castle,” he announced, ignoring the curling sensation in his stomach, a mixture of gratification and fear and discomfort. “It’s been destroyed.” She looked at him, concern lingering behind her stern and contemplative expression, something altogether familiar that he had never noticed before. Seeing it now, he wondered how he had not realized it was there, when it was so familiar that he knew it always had been.

“Yes, I suppose it has,” she replied, her eyes raking his face.

“I’d like to help rebuild it,” Harry explained, and the look on McGonagall’s face softened, the concern becoming more pronounced.

“Of course, Harry,” she told him. He nodded and felt a small smile lift his relaxed mouth.

“Also,” he added, ignoring his shame and asking for what he wanted straight out, “would it be possible for me to sleep in a dormitory away from the others?” He saw a small smile flick onto McGonagall’s mouth to mirror his own.

“I’d already arranged it that way,” she answered. He was not surprised.

“Thank you, Minerva,” Harry said as he turned and began to walk away.

“Harry,” he heard McGonagall call out from behind him, and he turned back. “It was an honor teaching you, and even more of an honor fighting with you.” Harry nodded and smiled gently back at her, looking her directly in the eye and for once feeling that they were both looking not up or down, but straight ahead.

***

Harry fell back as the hall emptied, leaving him as one of the last people remaining, before he left and made his way to the empty dormitory Minerva had set aside for him. He collapsed onto the bed and was once again greeted by the sensation of his head aching against the soft pillow. He decided it was his least favorite feeling in the world.

Though it had been two days since he had last slept, Harry found himself lying awake, waiting not-so-patiently for sleep to overcome him. He lay completely still, not tossing or turning, not restless, only awake. He wished he could fall asleep, as thoughts whirred through his head and upset the delicate balance he had developed.

Finally, he rose from the four poster, firmly unable to sleep and determined to regain that balance. Without thinking, he left the room and found his body leading him, trying to rebuild the balance; he was halfway to the bathroom before he realized where he was. Now more aware, he continued on to the bathroom, but when he reached it he took one glance at the mirror and immediately looked away. He knew that his blissful absent state, that which had overcome him before he had risen, that which found him when he was slightly less than entirely awake, would leave him if he went to the sink and the mirror. Instead, he moved slowly to the first stall. Leaning against the wall, he sank to the ground, his head back to hit the wall in the small space reminiscent of his cupboard, but with a toilet, and he finally sank into sleep.

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You Can't Win the Battle and the War - Chapter 5/12

2012-11-29T20:35:26Z

Chapter 5 - Luna: Deep Breaths

Harry leaned on the sink, his trembling arms on either side of the flowing water which he could not bring himself to put his head, or even his hands, under. Still, he let the water run, the sound filling his ears and drowning out some of his thoughts. He felt a tightness in his throat and chest, and realized after a moment that he was holding a breath. Gently, slowly, carefully, he let his breath out, breathed in, and began taking slow, moderated deep breaths. But breathing deeply is only one step from hyperventilating, and Harry could already feel his head growing light.

***

As he squeezed through the throngs of people filling the hall, accosted from all sides, Harry scanned the crowd around him for people he needed to talk with. He put little thought into this matter, as finding such people and the subsequent conversations had become hardly more than chores to him, empty work that needed to be done. As his eyes slid over the horde, he saw the more than familiar faces of Hermione and Ron, standing apart from the mass of ginger that was the Weasleys. Ducking behind a group of people, Harry moved away from their line of sight. Not much later, he spotted another familiar face and made his way toward yet another person who looked pleased to see him.

***

Slipping out of the Great Hall, Harry was glad to have finished another pointless conversation with someone who looked at him with bright, hopeful eyes, on the edge of reverence. Yet the soft beat of his footsteps in the corridor did not comfort him, as a pleasant alternative to the beleaguering crowd of the Great Hall. Instead it shook him, sending a chill down his spine reminiscent of when he had left the bathroom earlier.

He tensed as a voice from behind him called his name, but as he turned and saw who it was he relaxed, slightly. It seemed that Luna always found him when he was avoiding being found. As Luna caught up to him, Harry fell softly against the wall, his hands at his sides, facing not toward or away from her and the entrance to the Great Hall. Luna leaned beside him, her hand curled just above his, close enough that he could feel the warmth emanating from it but not quite resting in his open palm.

“You left a trail of despturnutors behind you,” she told him, her tone suggesting that they had been in the middle of a conversation. “I followed them.” She seemed to understand his unspoken question.

Harry nodded absently, accepting her strange explanation for how she had known where he was.

“Why would despturnutors be following you?” Again, her tone made her meaning clear; despite the nonsensical words, Harry understood that she was asking him what’s wrong.

Harry hesitated. “I’m not sure,” he replied. “What’s a despturnutor? He kept up the pretense that he did not understand her, a pretense that had been operative in their interactions since the first time they met.

Luna smiled knowingly, seeing that he understood and understanding that he could not acknowledge their mutual knowledge. “They follow those in inner turmoil,” she answered indulgently. “They feed on the confusion and sorrow left in their paths.”

“Well, I suppose I’m in inner turmoil then,” Harry half joked, his smile remaining in place but becoming strained. Luna’s smile, however, faded, her brow furrowing to replace it with a look of concern, all pretense gone.

“Harry…” she said softly, and he looked up to meet her eyes. She shifted against the wall to face him, her hand brushing against his, still quite independent but tickling his palm each time she moved. He sighed dejectedly.

“People are acting…differently. They keep saying,” he took a breath, steadied himself to continue, “They keep saying I ‘did it.’”

Luna blinked, processing his statement. A simple smile twisted her features, brightening her whole face. He had not realized how sad she looked until now, when the sadness lingered behind her quietly amused expression.

“You did do it, Harry.” His mouth curled into a smile, amused and grateful; nonetheless, his eyes looked at her blankly, at a lack for understanding, pleading for something more, something further, something else. Her smile melted away once again under her gaze, and in a moment her soft look of concern was back.

“Harry…You did what you set out to do. You saved so many lives, you destroyed something truly horrible, and you ended this awful war. You did a great thing. So many people will finally sleep at night thanks to you…” she looked at him intently, eyes blazing with passion and hope, but this fire in them was smothered with concern and understanding. “Even if you won’t.” She knew, just as Voldemort had, his literally fatal flaw, the one thing that had enabled him to die just two days previously. He felt his breathing even out slightly despite himself.

“But it lasted so long. I let it go on for so long, while I disappeared. It went on and on and on, and I gave them nothing. No relief, no cause, no hope. For months, I left these people to suffer, and die, and bleed, slowly, all of them. And I let them. I let them bleed. I let the world bleed. While I was nowhere to be found. They will never get those months back. I stole them.” He spoke more than he had in days, in months even, since long before he had faced Voldemort, and for once the words had nothing to do with Horcruxes or Hallows, or battle plans.

Luna shook her head. “Tom Riddle stole them,” she explained, and Harry realized he had never heard her say Voldemort. “But you gave them this. You gave them years and years, you gave them peace and relief. You gave them a reason to celebrate.” Red spots appeared on her cheeks, but her lofty smile returned, light and soft as though she had not spoken so strongly.

“But…how do I know if everything I did was right? If there was so much death, and so much pain, and so much blood…was I right?” he pleaded desperately.

“I don’t know everything you did, Harry. I cannot promise you that it was all good, that it was all perfect. But I do know you,” she said simply and earnestly. Harry waited for her to finish, but she did not, and he realized that she was done. He turned his face to her, uncertain. “I know you were right,” she continued at his unspoken request. He looked down once again and though he did not acknowledge her words, he felt their warmth seep into him.

“And this; the castle, my home.” He took a deep breath, steeling himself to voice what he knew was true. “It’s been destroyed.” He felt Luna’s fingertips brush his palm and assumed she was shifting against the wall again. He was surprised when her hand tightened on his own, gripping it.

“You can’t rebuild what hasn’t been destroyed first,” she responded lightly.

Her words resounded in his head warmly, and he knew that she had answered all of his worries; his heart seemed to lighten in his chest. But still, he did not feel better. The unpleasant feeling in his stomach had not been relieved.

After a long moment, he tried again, “Everyone thinks I’m special.” He spoke slowly, sounding out the words, feeling them over in his mouth before he eased them out. “But I’m not. They’re acting like I’m something great. But…I’m just Harry.” She looked at him for a long time in that curious way she had. A few years ago he would have felt uncomfortable, but he had grown accustomed to the open, thoughtful stare of Luna’s as though you could see her brain churning with her thoughts about you and feel her eyes looking straight through you and seeing everything about you. It no longer discomforted him. He recognized the understanding in her eyes.

“Whether you like it or not, Harry,” she answered after a long, contemplative pause,
“you just defeated the darkest wizard in history. Now I know the standard on heroism is higher for you, but to most of us, that’s rather heroic. To people who don’t know you, of even who don’t know you as well as some of us do, you’re a savior and a champion, someone to be worshipped. Your brave deeds aren’t personalized; you’re not “Harry.” You’re just…The Boy Who Lived.”

Another pause.

“People keep treating me like a hero.”

“Harry…” Again, softly, gently, a breath of cool air brushing against his face. “They see things differently from you and me, Harry.” And again, she said his name, caressing the word on her lips, carefully, soothingly. “They’re not like us.” Us. The word echoed in his head. They were separate, a people apart, together. An us. Harry felt suddenly less alone.

As she walked away, Harry finally felt the relief that he had been surprised to not feel when leaving the Great Hall. But it was different somehow; a different sort of relief. He breathed slowly, gently, easily.

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You Can't Win the Battle and the War - Chapter 4/12

2012-11-29T20:32:49Z

Chapter 4 - Dennis: Cold Water

Harry gasped at the shock of the cold water on his face and straightened his back. His reflection in the mirror seemed like a joke, mocking him. Certainly this blurry, splotchy red face, dripping with water and staring back at him through droplets of water on his eyelashes could not be someone who had died not a day before? Someone who had saved the wizarding world? Could not be him? He shook his head and saw the jet black hair of the derisive reflection scatter as he did, standing up untidily even when wet. He moved closer to the mirror and his hard face came into focus. He stared at it solidly, his blood rushing through his veins, and was surprised to see an ugly expression come over his face. He felt a rush of sick pleasure at the spiteful look twisting his features. So this was their hero. Somehow it seemed oddly fitting.

He shook his head again and lowered it once more to the sink, away from the hateful reflection, to the running water which he splashed over his face again and again, with growing ferocity, as if he could rid his mind of the unbidden thoughts chasing each other around his head. He felt his lungs screaming for air as he held his breath and his face growing raw and numb under the chill of the ice cold water, and still he continued throwing the water over his face. Finally he could take no more, and he shuddered away from the water, gasping for air, gasping at the painful cold of the water, gasping because his lungs cried out for breath even as he drew in the air, gasping because the great, rasping breaths he drew felt like something, gasping because he could not think what else to do. He shuddered against the sink, leaning on it, trying to support his weight, still drawing breaths that shook his body.

After what felt like hours, his breathing steadied and his trembling arms finally collapsed, depositing him on top of the still running sink, his throat raw and aching, his chest ready to burst. With one final, shuddering gasp, Harry stood and gingerly replaced his glasses, still smeared with dirt and sweat and blood and dust. He felt the aching emptiness of the room pressing down on him from all sides and, carefully avoiding looking in the mirror, slowly stepped out of the bathroom and immediately feeling chilled by the echo of his footsteps.

***

When Harry reached the Great Hall again, he felt the now-familiar clench of his stomach that he had come to expect. He passed the people around him dazedly, unsure of who next he needed to speak to. He saw Neville and his grandmother and ducked his head to avoid being seen. He passed the Weasleys, still clumped together, keeping each other safe. He was briefly, distantly relieved to see George was no longer on his own, but was now standing among them, though he was still pale-faced and hugged himself possibly more tightly than he had before. Harry saw out of the corner of his eye that Hermione and Ron were holding each other close, protecting each other. He didn’t dare look directly at them. It was then, as he desperately avoided being seen by or even looking straight at the Weasleys, that he saw another person he was obliged to speak with, to comfort.

Harry moved slowly toward the slouched figure, his footsteps echoing in his chest and resonating in his head. As Harry sat carefully next to him, Dennis Creevey looked up, and his desolate face immediately filled with wonderment.

“Harry,” Dennis said, sounding dazed. “Your glasses are dirty…” Harry shook his head gently, ignoring Dennis’ comment.

“Dennis,” Harry began, and looked down at the face staring up at him. The face that was so young and innocent, but somehow seemed cracked. All he could think to say was, “I’m so sorry.”

Dennis nodded dully. “I can’t – I can’t believe he’s gone,” he responded slowly, rolling the words carefully over his tongue. “I still…have his camera.” His voice cracked on the last word. Harry drew a careful breath and closed his eyes, but reopened them after only a moment to find Dennis’ eyes bright. “But you did it, Harry,” he continued more strongly, “We knew you would. Colin always knew you would. You’re the Boy Who Lived. You’re…you’re the Boy Who Triumphed.” Harry looked down into Dennis’ shining face, the face that was so like his brother’s, and shuddered.

“No, Dennis…” he tried to counter, but Dennis was gaining momentum.

“Me and – and Colin, we were waiting, all last year, and people gave up on you, but we knew. Just like – just like you brought him back his first year, how you closed the chamber of secrets. You came back, and you – you saved us. You saved us…all,” he finished, his mouth set in almost a smile, his eyes wide, hopeful, awed and desperate. His face was clear and luminous, but hard. “You did it…” he repeated softly, his bright eyes staring up at Harry, who saw they were still filled with tears. Harry felt his lungs screaming for air again, just as they had when he had feverishly splashed his face with water.

Harry’s footsteps echoed in the corridor as he returned once more to the bathroom. He was dimly relieved.

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You Can't Win the Battle and the War - Chapter 3/12

2012-11-29T20:30:18Z

Chapter 3 - Neville: The Sword

Harry entered the Great Hall again after having left for what seemed the millionth time that day. He wondered that no one had slept yet, after the enormous battle and a grueling day of celebration and relief and mourning, but he knew intuitively that no one was tired; the hall was full of a mutual understanding that they were all exhausted from all that had happened, but everything that was happening was whirling up like a gathering storm of dust, a parallel clenching and twisting, like a fist, inside the chest of each person in the hall, keeping them awake with a single overcoming emotion, different for each of them. Harry felt himself falling into a sick, hollow pattern, entering the massive room to the apparent notice of all inside it, giving them all what they wanted and expected from him, until he felt the pressure of those around him growing too strong and excused himself once again for the bathroom, to support his weight on something other than his own sore feet, to rest, away from others’ eyes, for a few moments, before he felt the emptiness bearing down on him and returned again to revel in the presence of others. And repeat.

As he walked through the doors into the crowded room, his mind distracted and disturbed, he was startled, once again, to find that his sudden presence in the room caused an upheaval once again, the effect of seeing him enter over and over having yet to wear off. He had, however, gotten better at ignoring the reaching hands surrounding him, the voices calling his name, pleading with him to do one more thing. Instead, he found it in himself to push past them, to seek out those who he knew he had to speak to. As he passed the bleary faces surrounding him, he felt the tightness gradually returning to chest, like his heart being clenched in a fist. This feeling was in such stark contrast to the feeling that crept over him in its place when he walked by himself to the bathroom, the feeling of all his pain unfurling, rearing to burst from his chest. He was not sure which he preferred.

Harry saw Neville sitting at a table nearby and quickened his pace as he made to sit next to him. Looking up, Neville smiled widely and greeted him with enthusiasm. Harry forced a smile to his lips, staring at the table instead of Neville’s bright face. He saw that the sword of Gryffindor rested on the table to Neville’s right, his hand nervously resting on it. The placement of his hand appeared casual, but the illusion was blown by the anxious glances Neville sent its way every few moments, as though he was convinced the sword would disappear if he didn’t keep it there. Caught up in a rush of affection and gratitude and something like sorrow for Neville, Harry did not notice that Neville was talking to him.

“…and Gran went off to talk to him,” he was saying. “She’ll want to see you, I expect.”

“So she wasn’t hurt in the battle?” Harry asked, and was relieved at Neville’s negative response. He knew Neville would never be able to recover if something had happened to his grandmother.

“I tried to find her right after the battle to check that she was alright, but when she found me she told me I was being silly. I should’ve known; of course she’d be alright.” He grinned at Harry and continued in a slightly less sure tone, “She told me she’s proud of me. She said I – that I’m my parent’s son.” He beamed as though all of his dreams had come true, unaware of the shift in his voice with this admission. Harry felt a twist in his stomach.

“That’s great, Neville.” His voice sounded oddly cheerful and horribly false.

“Gran and I are going to visit them as soon as we can after Hogwarts is rebuilt. We’ll tell them -” he broke off, swallowed, and when he continued again, his voice was harder. “We’ll tell them Lestrange is dead.” The end of his sentence seemed abrupt, the strength in his voice having built with momentum that was suddenly cut off before it could reach a peak. For a moment, Harry got the impression that Neville was still speaking, that there was more to come, and he looked up from the spot on the table at which he had been staring. He saw that Neville had dropped his eyes, as though embarrassed. It was not long, however, before Neville chanced a glance up, his eyes wide and shining, pleading with Harry to understand.

“I think they’ll be glad to hear it,” Harry confirmed, realizing that this was the first he had heard Neville speak so openly about his parents. He recalled the shame that had clouded Neville’s features when they had met his parents in St. Mungo’s, the embarrassment that had quickly hardened to resilient audacity, a challenge in the face of his closest friends. At the time, Harry had gotten the impression that Neville had expected them to laugh. He got the same impression now, and understood the risk Neville had taken in this confession. He remembered Neville’s refusal to discuss the meeting when they returned to school. He inclined his head, trying to let Neville know that he understood, that the last thing he would do was laugh. Neville looked relieved; he lifted his head to look at Harry, and Harry quickly flicked his eyes to the table and the rubies in the handle of the sword, which Neville was fiddling with absentmindedly.

He looked at Harry for a moment, a strange expression coming over his face, something fierce and amazed and contemplative and happy. He stared at Harry with this mixed expression of incredulity, and Harry felt heat rising to his cheeks and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was odd that Neville could cause Harry this discomfort; Neville had always been the quiet, submissive one in their dormitory of five boys. He had always sat in the background and listened to the others and laughed at their jokes. Harry thought he had preferred it that way. He had never looked at Harry, or indeed any of them, for so long or so intently. Never as he did now. Never enough to cause discomfort. But Neville was different now. He was no longer one of the shadows.

“You did it,” he said forcefully, a grin spreading across his face. “You won.”

Harry felt a pang of sadness as he looked into Neville’s round, shining face. As the grin on Neville’s face grew, Harry was suddenly overcome by memories swirling around his head, flashes of a little boy searching a train for his lost toad, running to the Gryffindor table with the Sorting Hat still on his head, sneaking out to warn him about Malfoy, getting knocked out cold by Crabbe and Goyle, threatening to fight him to stop him sneaking out, dressing boggart Snape in his grandmother’s clothes, making a list of passwords and allowing an alleged murderer to enter their dormitory. But the small child in Harry’s memory had grown up, and, in Harry’s recollection, quite suddenly. He had rapidly become the boy who had resiliently stared down the curse that had tortured his parents, refusing to look away, who had defended Harry in one of his rare moments of contributing to the conversation in their dorm, who had applied himself endlessly to learning new defensive spells, who had faced and been tortured by the same woman who had tortured his parents. Harry recalled Neville assisting them at the end of sixth year, one of the only DA members to do so. He remembered what Neville had told him about rebelling against the Carrows, bringing the DA back together, being forced to leave his classes and hide. He remembered Neville standing face to face with Voldemort and not flinching, but staring him down just as he had done a tortured spider three years earlier, refusing to look away and refusing to back down. A final flash of memory left Harry with the image of Neville bringing down the very sword that his hand hesitated over now burnt behind his eyelids, and he understood why Neville refused to let go of the sword. Harry also thought back on the prophecy that had been revealed to him in his fifth year; how easy it would have been for Neville to be sitting with awed eyes resting on him, to be shifting between being alone and the company of others, both equally unbearable, to be the one who had died not twenty-four hours previously. Harry felt a surge of something he did not quite recognize, at once dull and sharp, distant but stronger than he would have expected.

“We did it,” he corrected. Neville made a soft noise, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff.

“I always knew you would do it,” he went on, as though Harry had said nothing. “It didn’t matter about you being the Chosen One or anything – I always knew you could do it, no matter some stupid prophecy. Some of the others – they lost hope when you were off the grid, but I knew you’d come back. It’s what kept me going all year,” he finished proudly. Harry nodded dully, grateful for Neville’s loyalty but quietly discomforted nonetheless.

“You did great, Neville,” Harry responded, and even as Neville beamed at him, Harry saw his hand tighten on the sword by his side.

“Look, here comes Gran,” he pointed out, and Harry saw a flash of uncertainty in his eyes as he pulled the sword possessively toward him ever so slightly.

“Listen, Neville, I’ve got to run – bathroom,” Harry explained, and saw faint relief and gratitude mingled with the disappointment on Neville’s face. He forced his way through the crowded hall once again.

“Where’d that Potter boy run off to?” he heard Neville’s grandmother snap at her grandson, as though it were his fault Harry had left. “I wanted to tell him what a fine boy he is, taking down the Dark Lord singlehandedly.”

Harry heard Neville’s mumbled response as he got out of earshot, and looked back to see Neville’s knuckles turned white on the handle of Gryffindor’s sword.

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You Can't Win the Battle and the War - Chapter 2/12

2012-11-29T20:26:54Z

Chapter 2 - A "Conversation"

Harry stumbled out of the Great Hall, the walk to the door having taken ages. Every few steps, someone was stopping him to congratulate him, thank him, ask for his sympathy, or just stare at him in awe. Harry was used to unwanted attention, of course, but he found this far more unsettling and uncomfortable than what he had faced before. He was glad when he finally broke through the crowds of people, through the doors of the Great Hall, and out of the castle. He stood out on the grounds, relieved to be away from the people who longed so to see him. Looking up at the sky, he closed his eyes and tilted his head upward, comforted by the warmth of the sun on his face, something which seemed to have been missing since at least a year earlier. Unbidden, an image entered his mind of the look on George’s face as he had stood, finding himself unable to bear another moment with the grieving brother. He had felt the guilt and loss tearing at his chest as George’s face had turned upward toward him, looking hurt and terrified at the prospect of Harry leaving, of being left alone…

A hand rested on Harry’s shoulder, interrupting his painful recollection and causing him to jump. As he turned, he was mildly surprised to see that the gentle hand belonged to Luna. A twinge in Harry’s stomach staggered him for a moment, but he managed to squeeze out the words, “Hullo Luna,” nonetheless. Returning to look out at the grounds, Harry felt the grip on his shoulder tighten as Luna walked forward to stand next to him. Together they stood, silent and unmoving, staring out over the debris covered lake.

“It used to sparkle,” Harry muttered, a weight settling on his stomach as he gazed, stunned, at the lake that had once glimmered with sunlight, now dulled by the rubble floating on it, masking the glow of the water.

“It still does,” Luna asserted. Harry turned to look at her and found that she had turned away from the lake and was now eyeing him intently. He saw something in her eyes that he had never seen there before, something that shook him far more than the pressure of her hand on his shoulder or her softly spoken words. She was not gazing at him with the dreamy, absent expression Harry was so accustomed to seeing on her face. Instead, her eyes held a certain spark, an inquisitiveness that he had never seen there before. It felt unnatural to him, a gleam that was far more suited for someone of his temperament, which looked out of place in the presence of her gentle, innocent face. Her childlike presence seemed to contradict the unnervingly mature glint in her eye, and for a moment Luna appeared a walking paradox. Nonetheless, her gaze bored into him, piercing through his built up shields and his own numbly instigated barriers. Harry could feel his fingers buzz with the weight and intensity of her eyes locked on his. Her eyes warmed him, as though emitting beams of light and unwavering comfort that broke through the cold surrounding him, yet he ached to tear his eyes away. But even as he stared into the burning tempest reflected in her sparkling eyes and found that he could no longer bear it, that the intensity of her eyes on his, her apparent penetration of his very soul was too much, he found he could not look away.

“Luna…” he croaked, as he knew that the conversation would have to begin with him; and there always had to be a conversation. His voice felt hoarse and weak in his throat, rough and strangled as he forced the singular word through the tangled up mess that was his mouth and his tongue, but the voice he heard coming from his lips was far softer and more delicate than the sensation of the noise passing through his throat would suggest; the voice that drifted, tumbling and collapsing, out of his mouth sounded almost pleading. Luna cocked her head very slightly to the side, her expression worried and wondering at him, curious. She gave him a small smile and gently shook her head, informing Harry that this forced, almost fake conversation was not necessary; she did not expect it of him as everyone else seemed to. Harry nodded gratefully, albeit clumsily, glad that for once he did not have to try so hard, did not have to please the people surrounding him, did not have to live up to everyone’s heightened expectations. He closed his eyes, suddenly overcome by a rush of affection for Luna, the unbidden emotion forcing its way unexpectedly into his every limb, tearing at his insides, though not entirely unpleasant. When, after a long moment, he opened his eyes once again, he found that Luna’s expression had changed only in that she looked more determined; a heaviness had settled in her eyes that promised Harry she would give him what he needed; she did not seem the least bit surprised at his moment of solid desperation, his simple act of closing his eyes which he was certain Luna had seen through to the bitter rawness it had been inspired by.

Her hand still firmly on his shoulder, a comforting constant that sent warmth through Harry’s arm, she led him to a block of stone, perhaps once part of the great castle which loomed behind them, now just a merciful place to sit, to rest. As they lowered, side by side, to rest upon the fallen piece of the majestic castle, Harry felt the warmth emanating from Luna brushing up against him, pressing in at him. Staring once again at the destroyed grounds, Harry found himself uncomfortable, pained at the amount of destruction before him, but unable to tear his eyes away. Just as the thought crossed his mind, a soft, cool hand slid softly under his chin and very tenderly tilted his head upward, moving his eyes gradually up toward the sky, away from the harsh scene before him. Glad of the reprieve, Harry took the chance to look away and kept his eyes on the contrasting colors above, even as the careful hand was pulled away slowly. He allowed his eyes to be filled with soft, leaping blue and graceful, tumbling white, allowed the rolling brightness to chase all thoughts from his mind, if only for a moment, allowed the supple blue above him to recall the fiery blue tempest he had seen in the eyes of the equally graceful girl beside him. Closing his eyes again, he tried to feel the sunbeams cover his face, blocking the nerves to any other sensations threatening to intrude, to tear the glowing orange from behind his eyelids, to make off with the gentle warmth spreading from the fingertips on his shoulder.

They sat in this manner for many moments, the silence, the most comforting silence Harry had ever experienced, interrupted only by a cool breeze that brushed up against Harry’s skin, leaving it prickling behind. Very carefully, Harry breathed in, hoping against hope that what would fill his lungs would be fresh summer air, fitting to the sun warming his face, perhaps even the adverse air of Privet Drive, but knowing that any air to enter his lungs, particularly that with a deep breath, would be far more acrimonious than even that of Privet Drive. Yet still, he was mildly surprised by the smell of smoke and subtle weight that entered his nose, intruding upon his senses and wishful thinking and sending a shiver through his neck. The shiver came in waves, first touching only his back, then spreading to his shoulders, next his legs, his arms, his entire loosely aching body, stopping only as it reached his fingertips.

As he felt the shivers, unwelcome in the bright sunlight, creeping their way to his face, his mind returned once again, as he knew it would, to the lost. The ache inside of him, having been temporarily repressed, grows once again, forcing back into his chest. He felt a numb ache in his stomach, the cold that filled him reaching up into his chest and wrapping its spindly fingers around his heart, pulling it deep into the aching pits of his stomach even as it hammered forcefully against his chest with the effort to break free, so desperate to escape the creeping darkness grasping it that it battered the inside of Harry’s chest, certain to burst free at any moment. Encroaching on the pinkish orange bliss filling Harry’s eyelids, images trespassed on his benevolently absent thoughts, a belated cause for the reaching ache inside him; images of the heaped dead in the hall; the many tear-stained faces he had passed; Fred’s blank, staring face; Lupin and Tonks’ hands, carelessly pulled apart as their bodies were gathered; the stunned, absently horrified face of a man who had pulled Harry aside, congratulated him on his success, and pleaded for his sympathy for the loss of the man’s only daughter, a girl too young to fight who had snuck back into the castle. Finally, Harry’s disobedient mind rested on the face of a seventh-year Hufflepuff girl he had only spoken to the once. He had seen her sitting alone and had been chilled by only the appearance of her. Overtaken by some stranger force, he had walked to her and sat beside her. After a fashion, she had explained to him in hollow, distant tones the death of her mother, her father, her older brother, and her best friend. Harry, at a complete loss for what to say, had tried to clumsily comfort her, only to fail miserably and moments later hurry away.

Faces flashed in front of Harry’s face, each leaving him feeling more dreadful as he recalled the horrible circumstances in which he had encountered them. Eventually, it seemed too much; he felt oddly hollow, scooped out, feeling at once both an unbearable sadness, so intense it could just as well be the pain of a physical wound, and nothing at all but a distant twinge, unidentifiable and unrecognizable as his own. As the pain and numb nothingness overtook him, Harry could dimly recognize that his muscles tensed, an instinctive resistance to the feeling, and he felt Luna’s calm hand tighten on his shoulder as he did. Realizing what he had involuntarily done, he consciously forced his muscles to relax. Luna’s fingers, however, remained firm and strong; stronger than he would have expected.

Startled, Harry lowered his head to meet her eyes. She wore a fierce smile, which somehow still managed to appear somewhat dreamy. She nodded curtly as their eyes met. Harry looked into her blazing, sympathetic eyes, and he felt instantly warmed, the chills and shivers chased away by the fire in her eyes. Holding eye contact with her, he saw a trace of tragedy mingled with the sympathy dancing behind the spark of hardness and wondered for the first time who she had lost in the battle. He opened his mouth, to apologize for whatever, whoever, she had lost, to explain the weight that had been pressing on his stomach since the moment he had lost an objective to distract him. He struggled for a moment against his blank mind, the cold air pressing into his throat, strangling him, not allowing him to talk, and managed to croak out a small sound, a weak sound which lost what little strength it had and shrank to a squeak that did not seem to come out of his mouth. Before he could force more noise out, before he could even be surprised at the strange sound that had already emerged, she slid her hand down his arm and slipped it inside his own hand, wrapping her fingers around his. She stood gracefully, pulling him gently up with her.

“I think I’d like to get some food,” she said casually, and began walking toward the castle, tugging Harry’s limp, numbly raised arm along behind her, requiring no response from him. As he slid into stride beside her, Harry realized dimly that he had not eaten since he had been in Aberforth’s pub, almost a full 24 hours before. Realizing this, he found that a gnawing hunger was overpowering even the ever-present dull ache in his stomach. He had, after all, died in the time since he had last eaten.

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You Can't Win the Battle and the War, PG13 - Chapter 1/12

2012-11-29T20:22:47Z

Harry Potter, canon-compatible, post-final battle, 15000 words. Some Harry/Luna, some Harry/Draco.

After the Battle of Hogwarts, things don't go back to normal as easily as Harry had hoped. Short fic about Harry healing and finding normalcy in his life.

Chapter 1

As Harry left the headmaster’s office, his legs seemed to carry him without any instruction from his brain, which seemed to have gone completely blank. Before he knew it, he was pushing open the door to the dormitory he had entered hundreds of times before. Without a second thought, he collapsed into his old four-poster, expecting to slide into sleep the moment he lay down. However, as he lay upon the soft bed in the warm dormitory, exactly where he had longed to be for the past year, he did not feel sleep creeping over him. He only felt his head aching on the pillow.

Harry opened his eyes. He longed to sleep, to rest, to do the one thing he had been unable to do since that night on the astronomy tower. He closed his eyes to rid his mind of thoughts about that night – and the man involved – but found that after a moment they flew open again. He stared up at the top of his four-poster. He could feel his mind whirring, constantly dredging up thoughts, but he was drawing up blank; whatever thoughts were zooming through his head, forcing his tired mind to continue working, he had no idea what they were, and chose not to try and find out. He rolled over, his head aching more and more the longer it rested on the pillow. Again he tried closing his eyes, exhausted and desperate to sleep. As much as he tried to avoid it, his mind strayed to the bodies he knew lay in a chamber of the castle, the families in the Great Hall that had been torn apart, shattered, for him. He knew that far below him lay the bodies of Fred, Remus, Tonks, Colin Creevey, and countless others. He knew that the grieving Weasleys were gathered, with many of his classmates. Or perhaps celebrating? Voldemort was gone; truly gone…

Harry woke from his restless sleep with a dull ache in the pit of his stomach, as though something heavy had settled there. He lifted his head from his pillow, realizing as he did that it no longer hurt. The pain that had filled his head since his duel with Voldemort had been replaced by a strange light feeling; as though his entire head would simply float away from his body. He sat up and put on his glasses, which were still smeared with dirt and blood. He didn’t want to clean them. Looking at the watch the Weasleys had given him almost a year earlier, he realized that he had not slept nearly as long as he hoped. He rose to his feet, still tired, but no longer dizzyingly exhausted. It was okay that he was tired; he would have plenty of time to sleep now, now that the war was over. He walked to the window, looking out at the bright colors of the grounds which were lit by the blazing sun, now high above the castle. For a moment, everything looked fake – it didn’t seem right, none of it; that the sun would still rise, that everything could glow, that such bright colors still existed. Harry didn’t believe that any of it could be real. But even as he looked closer at the dazzling scene before him, he saw the smoke rising from the smoldering remains of trees and towers that had been hit by curses, a hazy cloud against the still blue sky. He saw the rubble from collapsed walls, pieces of the majestic castle in which he stood. The far off scene of desolation pierced the picture perfect scene before him, a distinct blemish on the painted landscape, reminding him of all that had transpired, all that had been lost. He pulled his mind once again away from thoughts of Fred, Tonks, Lupin, Colin; it hurt too much to let his mind wander freely.

Harry turned away from the glaring sun outside his window and, without giving his eyes time to adjust, left the dormitory. He walked down the stairs, out of the common room, and toward the Great Hall, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridors in a disquietingly hollow manner. The walk to the Great Hall seemed to take ages, and as he drew closer, he found that his hand had once again flown, out of habit, to the scar on his forehead. He lowered it slowly, and as his thoughts turned to his scar he found that for the first time in his memory, the scar did not hurt even slightly. For as long as he could remember, since even before he knew he was a wizard, and, he supposed, since he was one year old, his scar had constantly pained him, even if it was just the tiniest ache. But now, it did not. It was a new sensation, almost as though the scar and the part of forehead it was on were numb, as if there were simply a chunk of his head missing. It would surely take some getting used to. He gave his head a small shake to rid himself of the feeling that something was missing. Breathing carefully, he tried to allow himself to feel relief.

As he neared the Great Hall, noises reached Harry’s ears. At first the sounds that reached him sounded like fighting, and made to draw his wand, but after a moment he realized that what he heard was the sound of celebration; the chatter of people for whom a great weight had been lifted – lifted by him. He closed his eyes for a moment, unsure of whether he was ready to face them. He took a deep breath, preparing himself to be surrounded by people, and pushed open the door. He was met with a scene of subdued celebration; people chatted amongst themselves, seemingly able to hold and enjoy a simple conversation for the first time in years. Many people looked stunned or relieved, as though they never believed this day would come. There was even a certain amount of outright celebration, people with huge smiles laughing and talking. Most faces he saw wore smiles, even those stained with tears. But the joy of the scene was tinged with tragedy, as families and friends crowded around one another for comfort. Some families had been hit harder than others; throughout the crowd Harry saw, scattered, a few people who sat completely alone, tears running down their faces. These, he knew, were the unfortunate people who had lost everything in the war; people who had lost their entire family or all of their friends. Pain pierced his heart as he saw these people, grief and guilt for the losses he had caused them. Yet even as he thought of the fault he bore in causing this much loss, those around him noticed he had entered, the one who had freed them. Soon, every face was turned toward him, and cheers broke out among the previously subdued crowd. It seemed that the few hours during which he had slept had allowed those gathered here to relive the battle, to view him as their hero, their savior, to hoist him higher on the pedestal they had placed him on the moment Voldemort had died. Wishing he had worn the invisibility cloak, he tried to make his way quietly across the room to where he saw the Weasleys gathered, walking determinately through the cheering crowd, ignoring the awed faces surrounding him. He neared the Weasleys, whom he had not been given the chance to see earlier, with everyone clamoring to speak to him. He saw their faces, tear-stained and full of grief, looking pained as they sat in silence. As he neared them, they softened. Ginny made to reach for him as he passed, Ron looked at him expectantly, and Mr. Weasley took a step toward him. Harry, however, continued walking until he reached Mrs. Weasley. He looked into her face, covered in tears, and she smiled sadly at him. He wanted to comfort her, apologize for causing the death of her son, say something to piece her back together, but before the words could escape his mouth, she enveloped him in a hug.

“You have been so brave,” she whispered to him, and Harry felt tears sting his eyes. He buried his face in her, soaking in the warmth from what could only be described as a mother’s hug. Mrs. Weasley, first and foremost a mother, had had her son taken from her, taken by Harry, and yet she was treating him as a son. As she pulled away, Harry felt a cold steel over him, one that he had been protected from in the arms of her embrace. Harry needed to tell her how sorry he was, or how grateful he was, needed to say something to let her know what he felt. Holding him at arms’ length, she looked him straight in the eye.

“I am so proud of you,” she told him, and a lump rose in Harry’s throat. Unable to speak, he looked around at the rest of the family. Mr. Weasley stood behind his wife, his hand frozen in midair as though on its way to grip Molly’s shoulder. Ginny stood with her arms wrapped around herself, staring at Harry. Ron was leaning on Hermione, who had her arms around him but was glancing around the hall to avoid looking at any of the Weasleys, which gave Harry the impression that she was rather uncomfortable at intruding on the family’s grieving. Percy was off to one side, standing rather stiffly with tears still running down his face. Seeing that one member of the family was missing, Harry’s eyes sought George. When he spotted the last member of the Weasley family, pain shot through Harry like an arrow piercing his heart.

The lone twin sat hunched over on a bench far from the rest of his family. He looked so lost without his brother that Harry got the impression he was missing a limb or some other part of himself. His body shook, his face covered in tears, his arms clenched so tightly around his body it looked as if he was trying to stem the blood flow from a physical wound in his gut. He did not look at any of the people surrounding him, but stared straight ahead, directly at the floor. His eyes were slightly wider than normal, giving him the appearance of a terrified animal about to be attacked. He looked lost. Harry wondered if he had ever gone more than a few hours without seeing his twin. In fact, Harry didn’t remember ever seeing them apart, even for a moment.

“He wouldn’t speak to any of us,” Ron said in a hollow tone, having followed Harry’s line of sight. Hermione jumped slightly at the sound of Ron’s voice; evidently, George wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been talking. “He’s been sitting just like that since they moved –” he broke off, looking stunned and confused. At Ron’s words, pain, grief, and guilt boiled up in Harry, worse than any anger he had ever felt. Of all the lives that had been lost, all the families that had been torn apart, all the grief mingled with the celebration surrounding him, this hit Harry the hardest. This was by far the worst. It seemed so unnatural to see George apart from the rest of the family, not cracking jokes, and most of all – alone. Harry took a step toward him, but was stopped by Mrs. Weasley, who tightened her grip on his arm. Shaking her off, he walked purposefully toward George and, after a moment’s hesitation, sat beside him.

George gave no sign that he had noticed Harry’s presence. He continued to stare straight ahead, his face stricken, his arms clamped tightly around his body. Up close, Harry saw what he had not before. Not only was George’s whole body shaking, he was also rocking back and forth. He wore an expression of mingled disbelief, horror, pain, and shock, his brow slightly furrowed, his staring eyes wide, and his mouth hanging open almost imperceptibly. Harry longed to comfort him, but found himself unsure of how. He slowly reached out his hand and hesitantly placed it on George’s shoulder. George jerked his head to the side, hiding his face from Harry. Together, they sat like that, without moving, Harry longing to say something, but unsure of what to say. He knew he should apologize, and yet he couldn’t help but feel that his only reason for doing so was to ease his own guilt. He wanted to sympathize, to comfort George, but he couldn’t find the words. How was he to comfort a man who had lost his partner in crime, his co-conspirator, his other half, and all at Harry’s own hand? Instead, they sat in silence, Harry’s mind whirring, trying to come up with words to ease the pain that plagued them both. After what felt like ages, he could bear the silence no longer.

“George,” he began, desperate to end the aching silence hanging heavily between them but unsure of what would follow. At the sound of his name, George turned to face him. The face that looked at Harry was nothing like the man he had known for seven years; the person sitting next to him was unrecognizable. George’s face appeared creased, his eyes dull and cloudy as they stared dazedly at Harry through the tears still falling fast from them, though sobs no longer racked George’s body. He was trembling, his arms shielding his stomach as if an attack were imminent and he had lost a protective shell, his mouth locked in a disbelieving frown, partly open; almost as though he had frozen mid-gasp. He looked as though he had aged a lifetime in a single night. He drew in a breath, preparing to speak, but hesitated for a moment, struggling to find words. Looking down, his face grew even more horrified as his lip trembled.

“They took him away,” he finally spoke, his voice cracking, whether from not speaking or from crying, Harry did not know. His voice mirrored the emotion that his face expressed; he spoke with the surprised tone that often follows coming across a sudden horrifying realization, a tone which Harry knew well.

“They took him away,” he repeated.

“They took him away.”

Next

She Dreams She Disappears

2012-11-27T00:48:29Z

(an original piece)

Air

I like to think about flying.

Flying as in floating, emptying out enough to just rise up into the sky, up and up and up as I do nothing, nothing to hold onto, higher and higher until I pop like a balloon, cease to exist, my remnants scattered by the wind from high enough that no one will ever find them.

Flying as in soaring, up and up with the roaring in my chest lifting me higher, laughing with delight at the wind rushing by, higher than the birds. Nothing but freedom in the open air.

Flying as in falling. Wax dripping down to the earth, waiting for me to follow.

Water

I could call it my worst memory.

The overwhelming promise of relief, enough to break me.

Rising up, rushing in, crushing down. Hotter than I can bear. Fills my mouth, my throat tight. The pure visceral memory of choking on air, my chest aching, my head full and fogged and overwhelmed, I know not breathing, and tears are flowing water as well.

Washing me clean.

Earth

Thud. Thud. Thud. Beneath my feet, in my head, the hateful beat of my heart. Hard ground, never solid, spitefully connecting me to the world. Walking, running, fleeing.

Opens beneath me, swallows me whole, absorbs me into the hard ground beneath millions of feet. Kicking and screaming with token fear, a quiet plea for help as I run out of air. A grand stone above my head, carved from jagged earth.

Somehow, I’m still standing.

Fire

Light. Heat. Springing to life before me, dancing and climbing with bright vitality. Consumes me.

A red glow, smoldering on defiantly, the color of angry skin. Takes me away.

Soul

I dream of disappearing. Fading, transcending, overcoming.

I choose.

Funny How the Mind Plays Tricks

2012-11-09T08:03:45Z

I developed quite the crush on you in the third grade. I had a very distinct memory (I even wrote about it in my diary) of you kissing me up beneath the big oak. I chided myself in writing for not being man enough to make the first move. But secretly, privately, hidden away from my own penchant for diary keeping, my insides melted to jelly at how you’d approached me and half attacked me, never one to risk not getting the job done. My arm had born the red finger marks, and the impression of your palm for two whole days following the incident. I couldn’t stop smiling for three. I expected a change to follow, but I was too nervous to bring it up with you. I perceived everything you did around me to hint at some great romance.

Years later, I asked you about the original spark of our love, and you very nearly laughed me out of the room. You swore you’d never done any such thing.