Harry Potter Oneshots

Nineteen

The cool cement was stiff under Harry's legs and dampened his thin flannel pyjama pants, yet he didn't move. The bottom of his socks were dusted with dirt, yet it was nothing a quick cleaning spell couldn't solve. The hairs of Harry's arms stood on edge in the crisp morning air. A thick layer of morning fog shrouded the quiet London street, but if the past week was setting any example, the sun would soon be out to burn it away.

He stared blankly at the little park across the street from Grimmauld Place, the black iron fence separating it from the sidewalk where two birds hopped along the railing. But he didn't see them, or the fence, or the few bushes of flowers surrounding a park bench, their bright petals the only spot of color in the morning haze. Instead, all he could see were tall trees and gnarled roots. A sky completely covered by interlaced branches and a floor carpeted in damp brown leaves.

He shut his eyes tightly. It's not real. I'm at home, not in that blasted forest.

He blinked and for a blissful moment, the park came into his sights before it was ripped away and replaced with a large bonfire, its flickering flames illuminating the white, snakelike face of Tom Riddle, his red eyes leering at him from across the clearing.

It's not real, it's in the past. I'm at home. That's in the past.

Yet Harry could still hear his soft voice whispering in his ear. "Harry Potter... The Boy Who Lived."

Harry flinched and dug his nails further into his palms, burning red half moons into his skin. But nothing could wake him from the scene playing out before him. And no matter how many times he saw it, nothing could prepare him for the flash of vivid green light that had become an indelible memory. He felt the air whip past him as he fell to the ground, yet the ground never came.

With a sharp intake of breath, Harry's eyes flew open and relief washed over him when he saw the gloomy street and could make out the finest details with ease. There were no thick-trunked trees and the air was not drenched in silence, but instead, alive with the sound of morning birds and the early-wakers beginning their days around him. Beneath the relief was the underlying sense of foreboding that had darkened almost every conversation for the past week.

The feeling that, like it or not, Harry should not be here.

He should not physically be here, alive, saying those words, taking those steps, or taking those breaths.

Yet here he was. Still alive. Somehow. By some miraculous amount of good fortune, Harry Potter was still alive.

Harry tried to force these thoughts out of his mind, but they kept shoving their way in. He tried to think of anything else--his plans for the day, what was left on his to-do list--but these thoughts kept nudging anything else out of his mind.

An hour later and Harry had not moved from his seat on the front steps of Grimmauld Place. The mist had begun to fade in the rising sunlight and a few of their neighbors had passed by him on the sidewalk, not giving him a second glance. Of course, they were muggles and physically couldn't see him or the building, but it certainly didn't help his rising unease or the strange feeling that he was a living ghost. Living with the knowledge that he should be dead.

Harry shook his head, trying to shake the thoughts of his mind, and sucked in a deep breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs.

The door ripped open behind him, but Harry didn't turn around. He knew who it was and he knew the words that were about to spill out his mouth.

"Happy birthda--"

"I shouldn't be here," Harry muttered, cutting Ron off mid-sentence.

A beat passed in silence while Ron processed Harry's words. Ron's grin dropped in an instant, as did his hands that were thrown out wide only a moment earlier. A blank look crossed Ron's expression, but it was instantly replaced with one of utmost concern. He let the door swing shut softly and took a seat next to Harry on the top step, his own bare feet stretched out in front of him.