IT WAS MY FAULT
“It was my fault,”
This boy used to say.
His raven-black hair,
That was untidy each day.
The battle he feared,
Had come with ease.
Because of a dream,
He thought his godfather, seized.
Never had he witnessed a fight so bad,
With what spells so fatal.
Lives so easily taken,
And blood disposed like metal.
He shouted for his godfather,
But that shouting never helped.
He took all of his friends,
And they were brutally pulped.
His godfather was not there,
In fact he shouldn’t have been.
But he searched and searched,
Unaware he had been seen.
They surrounded him and his friends,
Like the burning flames of fire.
They threatened and teased him,
Then he realized the fight was so dire.
He had been dragged into this misfortunate,
Not stopping even to think.
Dreams were just in his head,
And everyone’s’ lives were about to sink.
He rustled for his wand,
And the rest followed suit.
The death eaters readied,
To kill him before an owl could hoot.
The mini-war begun,
So many were stunned.
Their spells were too advanced,
Yet his were refused.
He didn’t try help them,
Not once at all.
He was too keen of finding his godfather,
Not to notice the great fall.
Hermione had been paralyzed,
Ron seemed drunk.
Luna was in an awful state,
Yet he barely pulled off a stunt.
After what seemed like an hour,
The order arrived.
The fight heated up,
Yet this came at a price.
The groups broke out,
Into separate duels.
Each spell as dangerous,
As fifty foot flying stools.
His godfather was there,
And it brightened him to see,
That finally he was,
As fine as can be,
Yet this moment lasted a second,
He savored it for life.
The last two breathes of his godfather,
As through the air he sliced.
Not knowing the spell used,
He rushed to help,
As his godfather sprung through a veil,
And how unhappy he felt.
Rushing to open the veil,
He out-spread his arms,
But someone stopped him,
And said to him, “calm.”
He did not understand,
Why this person had stopped.
His godfather was dying,
And his heart throbbed.
He tried to break free,
Of this persons tight grip.
Crying and punching,
And finally hit.
Finally he broke loose,
And he ran like a determined dog.
After the one who had done this,
Bellatrix Lestrange, the favored one.
He had his wand out ready,
Ready to kill and ready to cause pain,
They ran so fastly,
Then suddenly tamed.
The room was pitch-black,
Just like the last.
Except this one had her here,
And he knew his life was at risk.
She teased and cursed him,
With the following little spell.
Crucio, the pain-causing curse,
It literally reduced someone to a shell.
Pain all over,
He chose to ignore.
The pain inside,
Was sorer than sore.
When eventually he arrived,
And the room felt ice.
Bellatrix was weakened,
But that was no dice.
He moved in on him,
Like a tower from hell.
Yet Dumbledore came,
And helped him through.
Voldemort took over him,
And threatened to kill.
But Dumbledore knew better,
And waited still.
Finally Voldemort had had enough,
And fled far away.
Dumbledore and he were all right,
And hurried to help the rest all day.
Even after he returned to Hogwarts,
And learnt all he needed to know.
He forced tantrums,
And cried so.
Even to this day,
Hermione and Ron felt.
That he was hiding something from him,
But he refused to tell.
When he finds time,
To be alone.
He sobs and cries,
Hoping to bring his godfather from the stone.
His godfather now,
Is deep within his heart.
And no one can take that,
Not one part.
Although he is gone,
Gone for good.
He still rages on,
Burying his face in the mud.
His friends hear him,
Every night.
As he sits besides the window,
And stares off into the moonlight.
He is looking for a place,
To bury his soul.
Although he cannot find his godfathers body,
He tries to warm up the cold.
‘The cold’ in this state,
Is the emptiness in his mind.
But as long as he warms it,
He feels he’ll be fine.
His mum and dad used to tell him,
“It is better to think,
That people are in a better place,
Than to see them sink.”
And as so that is true,
He thinks of the superior.
Not much is in there,
Except the exterior.
For he had only known,
His godfather for.
A good three years,
And now he is torn.
This poem could go on forever,
Telling you how sad he felt.
After each and every summer,
The Dursley’s gave him the belt.
So I end it now,
Telling you his misery.
It is growing to this day,
But that is his story.
(Author’s Notes): This literally just tells the story of the fifth book when Harry, his friends, the order and the Death eaters are battling in the Department of the Mysteries.