Sometimes, I don't want to write a word. There's paper and pen, things I want to tell you, things I want to say to you. But I don't write a word of it.
The paper stays blank, and I sit there, because that's therapeutic too.
I just sit here, and let my thoughts run away. I don't see the paper, don't feel the chair—I don't recognize the pen; don't think about words at all, actually. I just sit here and I—it's funny, I just—... It's kind of embarrassing. But maybe like this, it feels like we're not so far apart.
There are things that I want to tell you, that I don't. And sometimes I get angry, because I tell you everything, and I think you expect it from me—I feel like I'm lying, by not saying anything. Maybe this is my act of rebellion. Maybe I want you to get angry at me—angry enough to say something. Angry enough to write me a letter. Worried, anxious, as if you thought I'd already kicked the metaphorical can.
But I never do.
I think that's kind of cruel to you, so I don't—I can't hurt you, you know I can't. Can't bear it, actually. Because you're that paint blotch, on that painting I want to throw at the wall.
I want to tell you all of my doubts and fears, that I'm scared I'm not who I think I am because sometimes—sometimes it's human nature that I doubt, and since I'm human too—
Sorry.
Just… sorry.
I don't think I want to send this letter to you, actually...
You know what? I wish I could stand to bare everything to you, to have you as me as I am of you—but I can't. That's not how it works. There's a barrier between you and I, that which I can't break down because I won't, because there's something sacred about it, that separation between us. I don't want it to be there—but since it is, I feel like—
I'm rambling, aren't I? Geez, if you weren't tired of me alreay, I guess now would be the day.
...I stare at this blank piece of paper, and I think…
I think of you.
I think of your breath, on my cheek.
I think of your voice, near my ear.
I think of your hands, guiding me, like you've always been there since the very beginning even if you haven't but it's fine because—
...I think I've gone too far. Sorry.
Sorry for saying sorry—I know you hate it. I can feel it. You never speak a word, never send a single sign, but I—I know. Okay? And that's why it feels like betrayal because I don't know if you can feel me like I feel you.
As if I've walked across some line that you can't see and I'm some type of intruder—
I know I haven't said anything before this. I know this might sound kind of sudden—it's not like I've planned anything—and I know, I know that there is hardly a chance that you'll take me seriously... but here it is. Here I am.
Just Harry. Just a stupid boy living in a stupid world and so utterly, stupidly in love with you.
Is this innocence? Is this what it feels like—to be as timid as newly landed snow, as clear as the drops of rainfall clinging to the grass, as smooth and fragile as a shard of glass from a window pane… All of these things, so insignificant and weak, with their own momentary period of grace when they're beautiful and untouchable—so brief, before that beauty fades away, just like morning dew.
Is that innocence?
Is it?
I've fancied myself so strong and jaded for so long that perhaps I've been in denial the whole time. For what do I know? Nothing but want, nothing but dreams, nothing but the smile of innocence instead of the kiss—denied what I want and stuck in a perpetual state of shy desire, and yet there is not enough want to escape.
I think this is innocence—my innocence. That which no one can take away from me, because I dare not let it go. This is my safety, which still I prefer to even you—
Yes. I never wanted to admit this. I never wanted it to be voiced or written, to be evidence for my mind and heart and soul, that this notion very well exists inside of me—
When was this something to be ashamed of?
Since forever, I think.
And how does it hold up to my love for you, when that existence in comparison seems so brief and fleeting to the eternity of my safety?
It can't. And part of me is glad for that—relieved. As long as I care more about myself than anything else, I am safe. I won't be vulnerable. So want all I like! It doesn't matter! Because as long as I don't cross that line, make that step, leap off that cliff, there is nothing that can touch me here! Nothing that can harm me here! Nothing that can reach!
...Nothing.
Not even you.
But I fear my want of you will soon swallow me whole, consume me like the unbearable brightness of the sun or the frozen winds of the night—
Isn't it funny? That I try and try and try to find the words to describe what I feel, but nothing is ever accurate enough to appease me, so I add more and more words hoping that something will fit—
Ah.
...So this is love.
And this my innocence, no match for its demonic powers…
I'm sorry. I'm so, so, so sorry. I'm sorry because I've hated you when my own heart is to blame, not any fault of yours, and I'm sorry because I've hidden that hate behind words I've tried to make honest. But words are words, made of but letters, and such figures have no concept of sincerity—it's the writer who makes the choice.
But I've always been bad at making choices.
Where do I end? Where do I begin? What part of me is me? I can describe myself with a million words, but for those same words I could say the exact opposite of them and still find I've told the truth about them all. I am every single one of those words—some part of me is. What am I not? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know—
How am I to be sure that my love for you is love? People say so many things that I can't listen to any of them. White noise, repetition, denial, agreement and suggestion. What can I do to know myself, so that I'll be able to tell you all the things I think you deserve to know? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.
...I feel so tired, sometimes. So tired that feeling anything at all seems too tedious a task to take.
I wish that you'd love me, so I won't have to make any more choices about myself.
Sorry for being selfish.
Sorry…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hermione stopped, pushing the paper away and furiously rubbing at her cheeks and eyes to dry her tears. She didn't want to get a drop of it on the paper she'd found, pages and pages that went on and on and on in her late friend's writing, to someone she didn't know. Perhaps even Harry didn't know.
She'd been a terrible friend. She hadn't even known Harry was going through all these problems.
Around the large table they all sat at, the remaining Order of the Phoenix bowed their heads and kept their silence, a proper mourning to the boy they finally felt they hadn't known at all. Tear tracks ran down many of their faces, some holding a hand to their mouths to muffle their sobs. Hermione was one of them.
She'd been the one to read it aloud, and had hardly been able to finish it all. Harry had probably written it over the series of Merlin knew how long—paragraphs, sentences, whole sections seemed to have parts where the writing differed or the pen changed, showing how he'd stopped and pushed away his letter at points when he could no longer bear to look at it, only to return later and set pen to paper once more.
As if he'd shoved them away, cradled his head between his hands and choked on a wretched wail from his lips—could not bear it, could not, and only wished for the silence of his mind.
Hermione wondered how it was like.
To drown in all of those suppressed feelings, to cry and ache and bleed for something never to be satisfied... And know that.
She wondered who the letter was meant for, who Harry loved so well and genuinely, and how that person could stand to never reply.
She wondered how much of her dear friend's soul was in those papers, and how much of it smudged away with the wet ink.
And, finally, she wondered how they never saw it, how they were so blind as to demand him to fight for them—he, who was locked in battle with his own self! The horrible thought swirled around in her head, pushing and shoving against the confines of her very mind, slamming the guilt into the depths of her heart.
...Harry... Oh, Harry...
She should've been there for him. She should've been able to do something.
Through the pulsing pain in her chest, Hermione felt numb.
"I believe," a voice cut through their silence, "that you have something of mine."
Everyone turned around.
"Tom," Dumbledore acknowledged, his face hagarred and defeated. "We have nothing of yours-nothing at all anymore. What left is there to take? You have all of it now."
"The look of total loss on your face is fitting," Voldemort sneered, "but you are wrong. You have one thing left of mine... I had not been aware of its existence previous, but I admit it is much like him to do such a thing..."
The Dark Lord strode forward. Those seated shifted away, or stood and moved to the walls in due caution. He ignored all of them, and instead picked up the pages that Hermione had left on the table, face softened and emotionless.
He scanned the first page before flipping all the way to the back. "Stupid indeed," Voldemort murmured.
It sounded more like a resigned love confession.
Even hearing this, Hermione could not help but say something in reply. She was indignant for the boy who could no longer be indignant, offended for the boy who could no longer take offense, crying her pity for the boy who could no longer pity himself.
It was a shame, but she refused to acknowledge that shame—for some reason, Hermione thought that if she did, whatever beauty found in the tragedy of the situation would be dirtied. Soiled. Vilified, and twisted and turned into something evil because of the taint the Dark Lord carried. So she spoke, even though it was not her place.
And it was a mistake.
"He was just a boy!" Hermione shouted, "Just a boy! You don't have any place to criticize him!"
Behind her, Ron tried to pull her back and restrain her, followed by Bill and Charlie who stepped forward in a makeshift shield.
But the Dark Lord did nothing. In fact, he gave them a look—condescending, reprimanding, hateful and all the proper things that Hermione herself had failed to get across. It said all those things that should've been said for Harry, and it said them well.
"And so he loved like boys do," Voldemort retorted. "Innocently, childishly-" a pause, and then a barely heard word, "...Truly."
"Not foolishly?" Dumbledore gazed over the rim of his glasses.
There was another pause, and in that brief sliver the Dark Lord's expression stuttered. What that stutter showed no one knew—just that it did, revealing his decomposition.
"If I were to call it foolish, the gods would smite me where I stand."
"What gods are these?"
"All those divine that he now dines with. Whether they be Zeus and his fellows, or Jupiter and his, or Amaterasu's kami, or the Dragon-gods of China—even Brahma, and all his forms, or all-mighty Ra and his own pantheon. Whichever, or however many deities he has come to dine with, it does not matter—only that he has most likely charmed their fickle love to himself, and should I—perhaps just a fool as he—dare succumb to that human vice of pride, they will hesitate no more in smiting me down from whatever cliff point I stand upon."
The uncharacteristic honesty and calm nature of the Dark Lord was lost to no one in the room.
"He deserves to be mourned," Voldemort continued, "And so I will allow it, for just today. But, when the moon falls from the sky once more, bringing the dawn of the sun, and all worldly things reborn again with the fadings of their deaths, I shall not be so lenient. You do not need to remember him, for I am enough. Just I. Fair be it that I am the only one to remember him correctly, in the end. You will forget, you will let go, and watch it in silence fade with all the rest, just as the dew of the morning does."
"You will give us no choice—"
"Nor am I obligated to, Albus. I will take everything from you until there is nothing left to take—until you are empty, and lost through that emptiness. Your guilt will leave the memory of guilt, pain the memory of pain, happiness the memory of happiness—so poignant is the power of the mind, I should like to see it drive you to insanity. Only then I will be satisfied."
It was only fitting that this time, it was the Order's faces that dawned with enlightenment to the worst of horrors, that which proved the foundation to night terrors, a malignant curse to be escaped from only in the sweet oblivion of death—which, for some of them, would not come soon.
This was revenge. Clear cut and simple—the worst and the best, an unseaming of the body from head to toe by but their very own minds. Yes this was revenge—make no mistake. And their comprehension of this, their realization, showed in the death of their eyes, the lines of their faces, the slack of their jaws, the drop of their shoulders—
We've come a full circle now.
Voldemort turned and walked away, the letters rightfully his held carefully in his hand.
Goodbye, goodbye—farewell, dearest to my heart yet farthest, lover of my will yet suppressor, creature of my world and the harbinger of its death...
There was nothing left to say now.
________________________________
So I remember saying that last chapter would probably be the last, but, well, my mind does what it likes. Y'know?
More sad stuff. But at least you get to see a bit more of post-Harry's-death!LV as well as what the fate was for the Order that there was an allusion to in the earlier chapters.
Poor Harry. :( This was short, but not short on FEELS! D:
But....... aside from that, hope you like this :). I know I enjoyed writing it, as odd as that is-there's nothing better to me than playing with prose xD, as you can see I did so rather liberally in this one.
And this is the last chapter.
Bye!!
P. S. I am writing a series called the Amulet of Time, it's about Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny timetraveling to different past times. It's and adventure fic with a bit of romance........ So I request you all to please check it out.... I know that what I have written is very vague and not much promising..... But please for once check it out...... Please?