Harry Potter is Fourteen

harry

Harry Potter knew how to fight.
He had been fighting nearly his entire life.
But Harry Potter was fourteen.
In a fairytale world, he would defeat Voldemort, and come out with a few scratches.
But this is the real world.

In this world, Harry is tied to a gravestone, forced to watch Voldemort be resurrected by the man who inadvertently killed his parents.

He is tortured until he can barely stand, until he can't feel anything but

Pain
Pain
Pain

All he wants to do is yell

Make it stop
Make it stop
Make it stop!!

In this world, Harry is too dazed from the pain, and his adrenaline doesn't last long enough. He cannot dodge the green light from Voldemort's wand.

The same spell that struck his parents so many years ago now strikes him in the chest.

He falls to the dirty ground, his green eyes still open wide.

Voldemort and his followers have their fun, in that graveyard in New Hangleton.

The portkey cup is forced into Harry's limp hands.

He arrives to cheers, in the middle of Hogwarts.

They are cheering.
They are cheering.
They are—

  "Harry!"
If Harry could hear, he would know it was Hagrid.
If Harry could feel, he would wonder how Dumbledore could stand such itchy fabric.
If Harry could see, he would know Hermione was sobbing into Ron's chest.
If Harry could breathe, he would take in the scent of a shaggy dog, whimpering and licking his face.

Harry could do none of these things.
Harry Potter was fourteen and he dead.