Waiting

Chapter 5

Harry walked purposefully to a new corner.  Today was going to be the day, no hesitating, he would go back.  He had to.  He missed magic after all.  He missed other things too, but those he would worry about later.  

The people.  Dirty, bloody faces, tears trailing down their cheeks, smiling at him, they always smiled.  Why were they so damned happy?  What did he do that was so great?  He had caused so many deaths, the bodies, piled in the Great Hall... more outside, every where he looked the sight of death.

Now tears were falling freely from his eyes.  He could still hear the battle cries, Death Eaters screaming curses, desperate attempts from their victims to shield, these sounds infiltrated his ears, pounding themselves into his skull.  He was there, once more, just as if it had happened moments ago, repeating itself over and over.  Standing in the hallway of Hogwarts, it was too much, not again, all too much...

He hated himself right now, he knew better than to relive all those unpleasant memories.  He had no thrill witnessing Voldemort or the countless others fall again.  Yet the sounds and scenes were relentless, teasing him as if to say “we want to be heard, watch us Harry, look at us, listen!”

Harry tried to shake his head, clear his mind of these images, it was always so difficult they made him angry... and hopeless.  How could he stop them?  He wished he had something, no... someone to hold on to.  He wished someone’s arms could wrap around his body and hold him, make everything all right, cradle him, whisper sweet nothings in his ear, hush him, wipe his tears, steady his trembling.

All he could see was a sea of red, while the sky exploded with the colors of curses and hexes.  His eyes were scrunched up tight, sweat accumulated on his face, the smell of burnt flesh filled his nostrils.  

Then just as suddenly it was gone, he was breathing hard, everything replaced by the normal sounds of the city.  His eyes were still closed, yet one image remained, that of Voldemort, body withered, crooked, pale and serpent like.  Did Tom Riddle deserve to die?  For seven years he knew he had to be the One, but now the thought made him sick to his stomach, he was responsible for a persons death, no matter how evil that being had been.  Harry had tried to reason with himself, “it had been a back fired curse, he died by his own hand!”  yet the feeling still gnawed at him, “why do I feel so guilty?”  He vaguely remembered telling Riddle that he had something to live for and that is why he was alive.  Now he knew that was a lie.  The only thing he lived for was guilt, pain, and the torture of remembering it all, every second of every day for the rest of this fucked up existence, however long that may be.

He opened his eyes, tears stinging them.  He was still alone on the corner.  He wanted desperately to be somewhere else he had become frantic to the point of hyperventilation, his pulse throbbing at his temples.  Not knowing what else to do, he raised his wand into the air and the Knight Bus screeched to a halt before him.

“All right, come on, hurry up we haven’t got all night...”  The young man bent to help him with his bag.  Standing up straight again, he dropped the rucksack as soon as he recognized the face of the famous Harry Potter.  Dropping to one knee and bowing his head he spoke with awe and disbelief in his voice “It is an honor to serve you Mr. Potter, Savior to the wizarding world”

“Leave me alone!”  Harry spat and ripping his bag from the ground he took off at run, back to he knew not where, but he would not deal with that.  He would just have to wait, wait until he was never addressed like that again, didn’t they know how much it hurt to be the Chosen One? He would wait until... he stopped to try and catch his breath, tears still streaming down his face.  He brushed them away, fixed his glasses, ignoring the smears on the lenses and took up walking again.  He would wait, until he was just Harry again, like he used to be, he could wait.

The End.

This was my attempt at writing a character who experiences post traumatic stress disorder.  Of course it does sound like Harry’s just plain old fucking crazy.  But I guess I was just tired of Rowling’s, happy go lucky final battle scene of people eating in the great hall, celebrating, Harry wanting nothing more than a sandwich and his four poster bed.  Really?  It was just too sugar coated.  Thanks to JayDee for the request, and of course to everyone else who read and reviewed.