Backlash

Chapter 1

Staring out at the darkened street from the corner of his bedroom window, Harry Potter was lost in thought.

His thoughts lacked insight, lacked the ability to make sense and he, let them wander. These unwanted thoughts were repressed memories and his diligent attempts at keeping them out of his mind were fruitless. He felt lost, alone and almost infuriatingly useless.

The same thoughts crowded his mind with vivid images, clouded his eyes with moisture and sometimes his palms with blood from the mere force of his nails digging into his skin unveiling his anger, guilt and remorse. His shoulders felt heavy, dense with the weight of the responsibilities vested upon him. The responsibilities he was too young and too weak to be expected from. But the future was foretold, awaited and demanded even, and he was never the one to back away from escapades.

The sorting hat wasn't flawed in it's decision, he's a Gryffindor to the core.

Now all he has to do is destroy Voldemort, drain him of his sinister power and most alluringly, pop his bubble about being the greatest sorcerer of all times. At the same time, he acknowledged the unpleasant fact that it was as impossible as it was tempting.

Maybe not impossible, but certainly close enough to fill him with dread and qualm, not for his undeniably ephemeral life but for disappointing the ones who still hope. To disappoint the people who trust him to annihilate their miseries. He knew that he had already defeated You-Know-Who a handful of times, but all those defeats were short lived and not really defeats. Those were escapes. He was blessed with a fair dose of luck and could only hope that it won't run out in the inevitably sticky situations to come.

In the meantime, he'd rather not think about it. But there was little he could when he was locked up in a place as useless as he felt. He's gone through his completed homework more times than he'd like to admit, read and re-read his friends' letters and worked. In all honesty, he'd kept himself busy. Too busy to let the troublesome memories haunt his mornings, too busy to let the guilt sink in and eat him alive, too busy searching for things to keep him busy. But he was running out of excuses. And the guilt was as fresh as a bath after three years in a shithole.

It was a few more weeks to school, and he felt itchy with impatience. He wanted to get out of this room, to be somewhere he belongs and is welcomed. Someplace where guilt won't tag along and do something worth the time of the world.

He wonders if this was how Sirius felt. Stuck in a place with no one but his own thoughts for company when everyone else was working with their lives at risk. But Sirius was far more superior than Harry is, in every aspect. Better at coping with loss and being judged, dealing with uselessness and guilt. Guilt was probably the only thing he could relate with his godfather. To be held responsible for the loss of the people you love, if not by others but yourself.

He has a thing for saving people, Hermione had said. He laughed bitterly at that. He was not very good at it, was he? Sirius indeed was a better man than he was. And the fact the he was and i'snt, is enough to prove his point. He sighed. He was tired. Physically, he felt ready to jump upon anything worthwhile but mentally, he was drained. He gently touched his sensitive eyes and rubbed off the tear stains who seemed to have plans for permanent settlement. He got up from his bed and looked around his room. The room was strewn with various possessions and a good smattering of rubbish. Owl feathers, apple cores, dirty wares, wasted wrappers and a mass of newspapers sat behind the base of a lamp on his desk. The headlines of one caught his eye: