emeraldshadows (emeraldshadows) wrote in contentious, @ 2008-09-17 02:28:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | * complete, harry potter |
WHO: Harry Potter
WHERE: Number 12 Grimmauld
WHEN: Tuesday, 16 September, late at night
WHAT: Facing the Dead
RATING: PG-13
WARNING: Memories of death, unstable emotions.
STATUS: Complete/Private
stupid</i>? He understood having moments of not caring enough to take care of yourself. But it was another thing entirely when people who cared about you were begging you to get help, and you showed so much of a disregard for that love to refuse.
Harry did not like worrying about people. He did not like it when someone was sick, or injured, but especially when there was nothing he could do about it. She obviously didn't care enough about anybody to take care of herself for them, so Harry had decided to distance himself from her. He couldn't watch her die, he couldn't sit by and let her kill herself.
Breath coming out in jagged gasps and broken curses, blazing green eyes fell upon something that they hadn't in several years. His photo album. Harry fell to his knees beside his turned over trunk, shaking fingers pulling the album towards him. They brushed over the cover before gingerly opening the first page.
And there they were. His parents smiled up at him, a chubby baby with a shock of messy black hair and green eyes giggling mindlessly as he was tickled. They all waved, as if beckoning him, and Harry felt the dire urge to join them, even to become that baby again. He closed his eyes briefly, their gravestones flashing into his head, covered in snow. Merlin, how he'd wished that day, wished for nothing more than to be sleeping beneath that cold snow with them. His family.
The first tear splashed onto the back of his scarred hand and he turned the page, his hands shaking more than they were before. This time the Marauders looked up at them, flashing cheeky grins and shoving each other playfully out of the frame on occassion. Sirius. Harry's heart gave a physically painful jolt and he turned the page again to find Remus and Tonks greeting him. Tonks with her bubblegum pink hair, Remus with his patched up robes and gentle smile.
Harry continued turning pages as tears began to make their way down his face; he didn't really notice them past the cooling effect they had on his burning cheeks, and the way they blurred his vision and fogged his glasses.
A picture of the original Order of the Phoenix came into view as he turned another page. The faces of the dead stared up at him, and he couldn't look away. So many people had died, so many families had been torn apart by those two Wars. His fingers traced over familiar faces; his mother and father, Remus and Sirius. Mad-Eye Moody. He squeezed his eyes shut as the first sob hitched in his chest, his shoulders shaking with the force of trying to hold it back.
Harry turned the last page and there it was, Dumbledore's Army. The bravest group of young people he'd ever met. His friends, his family. They were younger then, most pairs of eyes didn't carry the weight of the world, the weight of a war. Not yet. They would. They all would, in their own way. Colin and Fred stood out the most, since they were the ones that had lost their lives in that last battle. Colin shouldn't have fought, but then again maybe Harry should have never allowed him to be part of Dumbledore's Army. At least so he told himself. If he'd only given himself up sooner, Fred would still be alive, running the shop with George. Where he belonged. He'd be raising his child.
Harry lost control of his emotions, usually so tightly guarded. After his argument through the journals with Ginny, which had already left him angry and upset, this was too much. His shoulders shook as he began to sob brokenly, a hand covering his mouth as if to hide the sound in shame. The photo album turned back to one of the photos of his parents and his chest felt it would explode with the pain. How many people did he have to lose? How many deaths could he blame himself for before he lost himself?
Harry sat huddled on the floor and cried. He cried for those he'd lost, for those deaths he blamed himself, for everything he'd been through; for the loving touch he'd been denied, the fleeting moments of being loved that he couldn't hold onto, the family he'd lost far too young. For everyone he still had yet to lose. For those he was afraid of losing.