A lump welled up inside his throat as his lips curled into a firm grimace. He bit his lip to no avail when a tear came rolling down beside his cheek. His hand was shaking badly and he made no attempts to contain himself. A trickle of blood dropped to the ground. He gripped the mirror his godfather had given him long before he died, the godfather taken from him for reasons only the puppet master knew. His heart was beating in a pace so quick he couldn't control. It's every beat thump like a fistful of hard rock smashed squarely on his chest. All of these happened to an accord with Harry's obliviousness.
Looking around, everything seems to lose its color. Harry suddenly felt the cold breeze sweeping through his skin. The chill crept deeper into him, digging into his soul, and seeping away every small piece of happiness in his heart. Harry shivered, bringing him a painful truth, the truth all men dread to hear, dread to know and feel, deep within. I am alone. Alone… He could feel the world stop and freeze for the moment. Hermione. Ron. The Weasleys. Dumbledore. He had friends, people who loved him and people whom he loved. Yet he was alone…
Alone.
It was real. After all those years, he couldn't feel friendship. He couldn't feel company. Once upon a time, he had family. But they died a painful death. He also had relatives. But what good are the Dursleys except treating him as though not their kin? He also had godfather. Once.
He hadn't always been alone, had he? He'd been loved and he'd had a family, people who wouldn't have left his side for a moment, wouldn't have left him alone like this, ever. A long time ago, he had. But they had died. They had left him. They hadn't meant to. They never would've. But it had happened anyway, despite their wishes, desires, hopes, dreams, despite their will to survive, to protect him. The cruel Fates, Destiny, whoever was running this show, had decided it wasn't meant to be. Instead, he'd been forced unto the Dursleys, relatives who wished they were anything but freaks. They weren't company. They weren't the love he craved, the love he needed. Being with them was the same as being alone. He had been alone for all those years. As he is, now.
Death in this wretched life could come in countless and untold forms. After five years of constant attacks from Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter has had enough sense in him to know that the often told fact, 'Hogwarts is one of the well-protected establishments in Magical Europe' was not enough. He isn't much of an optimist. How could he be, after all that had happened to him? Yet, none of these adversities could have prepared him for the nasty event that was to come.
Now, his safety seems an unmindful thought.
Now, he was drowned within the unfathomable depths of his emotions. Within that infinite dark abyss lie sadness, confusion, and numbness. These swirling bits of sentiments were completely nothing compared to the one controlling them. In the middle lies anger, ever-joyful that it had ate the remaining trails of grief in Harry. Later, it would turn into wrath that won't manifest Harry's wildest feelings – a trapped feeling so wild it could only maim and worsen the already-present scar on Harry's soul.
Cruelty and anger and hatred had touched him at a young age, and he'd experienced the aftermath, the loss and the loneliness. Even if he was only a child, even if he was only a baby, the scars were made and they'd always been there. Because of him. The Dark Lord, who'd left so many others feel the same, experience the same pain.
This time, his heart beat harder and faster. Immediately, he came out of his dormitory, dashing quietly between corridors, and running outside Hogwarts, heedless of whoever would catch him on that night. Maybe he would've been grateful to be caught. Without any sense of direction, he ran straight into the heart of the Forbidden Forest.
Surprisingly Harry wasn't angry at Voldemort or his deeds. Far from that, he was enraged to whatever higher being that was controlling his life. Fates. Gods. Damn them. They may be true, they may be not. He didn't care. Destiny as always has been of self-fulfilling prophecies, shaping him into something…what? A hero? He didn't believe in destiny but he thought this was his life, then why was some deity going to control it as if it was their own? It was a strange thought. To some, it might even appear amusing. A twisted puppeteer putting on productions to his pleasing, without a thought for his puppets. Puppets he tortured one day and blessed another, for his own amusement. Puppets that could try their hardest and be the best and most righteous yet have as much control over their play, their show, as those who didn't. People they loved got hurt. People they loved died. Bad things still happened and cruel irony still happened. All because of the producers, the man behind the curtains.
Every now and then, sharp edges of grasses and twigs would tear down the helm of his cloak. He would accidentally slide down the marsh as mud would hurtle and stain his clothes. There were two times when he bumped trunks of oak trees. It was painful but he didn't give the slightest hint of bothering. Not even when one red, full moon was glowing above him. He didn't care encountering a couple of thestrals that were looking at him. He just ran and ran until there was no more. He wasn't sure if he was looking for something, running from something, or just trying to get away from himself – exhaust himself until his weakened body no longer had the strength to go on the way his mind felt. Panting rather deeply with his whole body fully drenched in sweat, mud, leaves, and blood, he tilted his face up to the moonlit, clear sky and screamed to the sky, from his heart, from his marred soul. He needed to let it go, rip from him and spread out for the world, for the Fates to hear.
"YOU OLD FOOLS! YOU CAN'T CONTROL MY LIFE! I AM UNCONQUERED!"
The environment became dangerous. Time passed by as the wind silently sailed past him. Somewhere he could hear the leaves rustling. Something behind him flickered. His eyes narrowed. But he didn't have time to react. Something rushed at him, completely encompassing his vision, smothering him from all directions. There was a deafening deathly scream as the ruffle of wings could be heard from the birds around. They started flying away.
Harry Potter fell to the ground. Dead.
0o0o0o0o0
Somewhere around this world, there lived three ugly people: a girl, a lady, and an old woman. On a day like any other, they would be too hectic, very busy to even bother each other's work. They would be sitting around an elliptical table hung at a very low level so they could sit on the hard, cold marble floor, but alas, what did they care? They'd spent year after year after countless years sitting on that floor with no other work but knitting.
But today was marked different. The old woman, who had been confused for some minutes now, spoke first and broke the silence for the first time in a century.
"Did you two cut this string?" She handed them her fine art.
"You know that is impossible, sister. We all have the same busy work on the same span of time here," the young lady replied, annoyed that such a question had disturbed her work.
The youngest of them, a girl that looked like nine years old, snorted. "Right."
"Alright. I'll just have to continue my work then, if that's the case."
While the flimsy woman was totally absorbed on working, she didn't notice that the string she had been talking about minutes ago had already been connected to another different thread - a dark one. Then a pink crystalline structure covered their joining, as if protecting from further harm.
Even more disturbing, one thread from the little girl and young lady disappeared. Unnoticed.
