Who: Harry Potter and OPEN Where: The Leaky Cauldron When: Sunday night What: Harry's doing his best to think and clear his head so he can be more effective. Rating: TBD Status: Ongoing and public.
Harry's thumb lightly traced a line into the condensation that built up along the outside of the beer glass currently situated in front of him. The line simply fogged up moments later, before he finally took another long sip from the golden amber that tracked down his throat, and settled in the pit of a stomach that was flipped in three different directions. His heart pounded slow and loud in his head, filling him with the anxious thoughts that had yet to leave his mind since the moment Ginny had been late in coming to see him.
It was an all too familiar path. Hate, fueled by blood status, was once again becoming the center of his world and once again it was hurting and killing the people he loved, while quietly ripping him apart from the inside out. Had the war all been for not? Were the sacrifices his family and friends made purposeless? Because it seemed to him, all it lead to, was that the enemy was now the very people they'd fought to protect. Now, the most important person in his life was hanging by a thread and he wasn't able to do a damn thing about it. They'd taken him off the case, and of course were tracking and watching his every move. How could they not be? Anyone who knew Harry Potter, knew he wasn't going to just sit there for long. Hermione had convinced Harry to stay away from the Department of Mysteries enough times, but eventually he couldn't help it and he went anyway. Unfortunately, it had lead in the death of Sirius.
Geoff was right, of course, being too close to a case made it ten times more difficult. Harry'd always been too close to the Voldemort case--not by his choice of course--and it had resulted in the death of so many. He wasn't blaming himself, for once, but he knew that he had made mistakes that cost others their lives. Which was the reason why, for once, he was listening to his friends and holding back. Yet every ticking second that passed made him feel like he was somehow abandoning her, or failing her. He felt his hand grip tighter into the glass, angrier, and he took another drink.
Fact was, though, Harry wasn't entirely keeping hands off. He'd needed to calm himself as much as possible so he could think clearly--they were all right about that--but now he was working out clues in his head. Strategies, possible suspects, it all ran through his head like a computer database. He was waiting for his gut to pick one and tell him it was the right one, like it always did, and he'd follow it as he always did.
A sigh, and he looked up out the window into the sky a moment and down the street, contemplating alone in that corner booth. All he was looking for, hoping for, was a sign; he knew better than to give up hope, and he never would. She'd always be in his heart, and he was going to find her, somewhere, and he wouldn't stop trying until his dying day.
Another drink and Harry's wheels turned a bit more.