Author Notes // Yeah, yeah, I know! You're getting sick and tired of oneshots, but I can't help it! I love to write them!
Our Saviour
Crippled for life at seventeen,
His great eyes seem to question why:
With both legs smashed it might have been
Better in that grim trench to die
Than drag maimed years out helplessly.
A figure dressed completely in black stood at the top of the hill, looking down on the grounds below with sorrow in his emerald eyes. He didn’t move a muscle as the wind roared around him, making his robes billow around his body. The heavy rain clouds, that only minutes ago had soaked the earth around him, were slowly drifting away over the sky, and the darkness was slipping away as the sun threatened to push its way up over the horizon, bringing with it a new day.
A new start.
A promise of something better.
But the lonely man didn’t see it. He didn’t pay any attention to it, for his eyes were focused on the ground below. The ground covered in crimson blood and motionless bodies. He was focused on the battlefield where the fates of many had been decided during the night, a night he would never forget. A night that would always be remembered as the night when The-Boy-Who-Lived defeated the Dark Lord.
The night of the final battle.
But he couldn’t feel relief. Couldn’t feel the satisfaction of knowing that it was over, that he had done what he was born to do. No, the only thing he could think about was the fact that he would much rather join the other motionless bodies down below him then stand here all alone. The only one still breathing.
What was the point of it?
They were all dead, they had all left him. All his friends, all his schoolmates, all his professors. They were all gone. They had been so surprised when the school had been attacked that they didn’t have a chance to call for back-up, to call for help. They never had a chance.
And so he stood here all alone, bleeding from various cuts on his body and favoring his right leg, as the only survivour. He didn’t even know why. He had faced Voldemort alone and he had defetead him, but it was all a fog in his mind. He couldn’t focus on what had really happened, or maybe it was just the fact that he didn’t want to know.
He told a lie to get his way,
To march, a man with men, and fight
While other boys are still at play.
A gallant lie your heart will say.
He should never have been forced in to this battle. He had only been one year old when Voldemort decided to see him as a threat, and because of that Harry was left with no choice. He was forced to fight. Forced to be brave and heroic. Forced to win.
He had never known what it was like to be a child, to simply live his life with nothing to worry about and just enjoy himself. The Dursley’s hadn’t let him, because to them he was a freak; a slave that’s only use was to clean. To them that was all he was good for, and he had often wondered what they did when he was away at Hogwarts during the majority of the year. They would have to clean for themselves.
Yes, dear Hogwarts. He hadn’t been able to be a child here either. As soon as he stepped foot in the wizarding world they placed this heavy burden on his shoulders and expected him to live up to their little Gryffindor standards. How could he be a child when he was their saviour?
So he tried to please them, tried to fight for them all. He pushed away any thought he had of childhood and forced himself to mature more quickly. To grow up. To be the one they needed him to be.
And they loved him for it.
To see the ‘dresser’ drawing near;
And winds the clothes about his head
That none may see his heart-sick fear.
His shaking, strangled sobs you hear.
Several cracks was heard as Aurors, Healers and Ministry officals appeared on the battlefield. Harry watched them as they looked around in shock, disbelief, anger and sorrow, as some of the weaker ones bent over and wretched at the horrible sight before them. He watched as they slowly understood that they were too late; that all these children had died because they hadn’t got here in time.
A tear escaped his eyes but he quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand. It was so pointless. Why kill all these children; what had they ever done? Another tear rolled down his cheek but this time he didn’t bother to wipe it away as it would surely be followed by more.
He started to shake as the tears flowed down, leaving marks down his cheeks and splashing on the already soaked ground. He tried to hold the sobs in but he felt like he would choke. That something was slowly strangling him from the inside, squeezing his lungs. So he let them out.
The tears continued to fall as he stood there, shaking and sobbing quietly.
Someone had apparently noticed him at last as everone started to point up in his direction, some even drawing out their wands before they noticed who it was. And then as one they all started to race up the hill, all trying to be the first one to reach him, ask him what happened. Ask if he had won. Ask if the war was over. Ask if he was their saviour once again.
He’ll face us all, a soldier yet,
Watch his bared wounds with unmoved air,
(Though tell-tale lashes still are wet).
And smoke his woodbine cigarette.
Harry straightened up as he saw them move towards him and, pretending to run a hand through his hair, he wiped away the tears from his cheeks. They didn’t need to see that. They needed him to be strong for them, to play the part of the hero without any weakness. Without any grief.
And he stood there tall as they approched, bombarding him with questions, and pretending that they didn’t notice the tear marks down his cheeks, the wet lashes or the dead look in his eyes. They admired him as he stood before them, strong and powerful and seemingly not even noticing his severe injuries. And they felt hope in their hearts that this man - not child - before them could protect them from anyone.
The grounds below, filled with dead bodies of children and adults, where forgotten as they looked upon there saviour, wishing he would say those two words that would make it all go away; that would put a stop to it all.
Harry looked around at them all, wondering how they could be so selfish, how they could look up to him, a child, and demand that he saved them all.
And as the sun finally pushed its way over the horizon and the last rain clouds left the sky, Harry stood up straight before them and said those words that they all wanted so desperately to hear.
“We won.”
And as they broke out in cheers and applauds, he couldn’t help but to wish he hadn’t.
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