To Paradise and Back

Wherever he was, it was warm. Not cozy, fireplace warm, or humid warm. More like tropical breeze warm. Soft sand, bright sun, swaying palm trees, the whole lot and he was there. No Hogwarts to worry about, no Voldemort, no wizarding world in general just him, and that warm breeze. It smelled like coconuts, with a tinge of that long-consumed fruity rum drink that had tickled his throat and settled low in his stomach. But even the warmth of the alcohol didn't change the warmth of the breeze.

It rained later that night, and even though the ground grew soggy, and the sky darkened, that warm breeze still blew through his "hut". He laid on the floor, content to listen to the rain patter against the roof and walls of his home. He knew the sun would rise tomorrow, in tones of red, orange, yellow, and pink. And it would be spectacular, just like it was every morning. He closed his eyes, and could see the sunrise, could smell what the air would be like after the rain, and he could feel that breeze on his face.

Paradise is what we make it.

Not everyone's version is the same.

But it's all where we want to be,

Even if it rains.

Rain doesn't hurt anyone

It just washes away the grime

The trail we all leave behind

Somewhere along the line.

And then he opened his eyes and saw those red eyes staring back. Voldemort's eyes.

Could hear that laugh, merciless and cold. And could no longer feel that tropical breeze. His spine froze, and he couldn't think. He wasn't sure if he wanted to. Try as he might, the stiff-upper lip, take no prisoners attitude he portrayed to others was just a face. He was, in fact, scared beyond comprehension. And it was that fear that drove his passion for destroying Voldemort and the evil he embodied, down to every last body. And his passion drove his anger, and his anger drove that exterior attitude he showed everyone. It was a complex process, one that he had perfected after so long, but, when he was alone, and there was no one to impress or fool, he was, in fact, terrorized by his fear.

Even in his paradise he couldn't escape.

It's easy to think that a change of scenery

Can change our feelings and our minds

We're given a chance to get away

To make sure we leave it all behind.

That realization settled like a lead weight in his soul, and he stayed rooted to the floor in his "hut". The fear grew and wrapped around him like a thick wool blanket, and he couldn't breathe. He was suffocating, maybe having a panic attack, and all he could see were red eyes....

..And then he woke up.

But that nagging feeling creeps up

Not long after we've arrived

Did something happen at home, we wonder?

No, something else survived.

Survived that trip to Paradise

Survived all that time,

And we start to settle back into routine.

And everything starts to rhyme

The shock from the dream wore off after a few minutes, but he didn't move, too scared that he was having one of those dream-within-a-dream experiences, and that this whole thing, him having that dream, waking up in his own bedroom at Hogwarts scared of the dream, was, in fact, in his mind. He'd pinch himself, but he couldn't move his hands. They had fallen asleep, and that numb tingly feeling went the whole length of his arms, so when he tried to move them, they flopped around like a suffocating fish. Suffocating, he thought. That's what was happening in his dream, and now his arms were asleep, and it was only 3:43 in the morning.

He needed the sleep, but he was afraid that if he went back to paradise, he'd just wind up seeing the eyes again, and feel that overwhelming horror. He felt enough of that fear during the day, what he had dubbed "living trepidation", because it lived in his very skin, his heart, and his mind. Until that dream, his soul had been free of that anxiety, that constant need to worry and be scared. But the lead weight had settled there, and it was not going to move until the situation was handled. But that situation was an intricate thing, and it involved the lives of several people he loved dearly.

Rhyme, rhythm, routine

It's all the same when we're trapped

Alliteration is the key

To make sure we head back.

And out of Paradise.

Because if we linger

We forget what we value

What, outside of our own selves

We truly love.

A trip away from responsibilities

And everyday life is nice,

Sometimes needed

But we wouldn't want to live there.

With a sigh, he pushed the covers away and slid into his favorite slippers. With barely a creak, he opened the door to the hallway and he made his way down to the kitchens. The house elves would be getting ready to make breakfast, and he knew they'd be more than willing to provide him with a cup of tea and perhaps a biscuit, hot from the ovens and oozing with honey. And he could sit there and watch them scurry about, doing a routine that was so familiar to them. It was a process, a procedure they went through day after day, and that process presented results. Now that he thought about it, the house elves were the real backbone of the inner workings of Hogwarts. The professors were the brains, providing ever-growing knowledge and new ideas, and the students?

The students were the heart of the school, what gave it life and laughter, tears and joy they were the blood that ran through the castle's massive veins. That answer came so easily to him, it stopped him in his tracks. All along, he knew the students were what ran this place, but he never had thought about it in that context. His thoughts had been so jumbled until that very moment, and now, nothing but clarity. He had been so concerned all the time with how things were going to turn out with Voldemort, that he knew now he had been ignoring the basic, essential part of their world...children. They were born, they grew up, and they learned...they learned that they were not of the rest of the world. They were different, special, and they could do things no others could. As they grew up, they took on more responsibilities, and they figured out that there were people, and things, that would only try to cause them harm. And if they wanted to keep the evil away, they had to learn how to fight.

He wasn't teaching them to fight. Not all of them, anyways. A select few, those he had originally thought would need it the most, but he knew now that they all needed to know. They must learn what will keep them alive, and if that meant teaching them things that their parents may not approve of, then so be it. If that meant that the general wizarding population would not approve, so be it. If the Minister of Magic didn't approve, who cared? Fudge was as corrupt as the rest. But if he could help it, he would give these children what they needed in order to survive. They would not become a part of the system, like everyone else had. They would be above it, beyond it, and they would know that, if they had to fight, they knew what they were fighting for, and they would believe in it. If they didn't know how to fight for themselves, they'd turn inward and never truly grow up.

And if the children didn't grow up, there may not be anymore children to continue running Hogwarts, the blood would dry up, and its heart would stop pumping. He loved the school almost as much as the children, and he would not sentence them or the castle to a future of death and mayhem.

They will learn how to fight, and they will stand side by side, knowing that their death will not stop the cause.

He turned and realized that he was outside the Gryffindor dormitory. With a small smile, he walked by and headed down toward the kitchen. The house elves greeted him with bows, and they hurried about, getting what he wanted. Instead of staying in the kitchens, however, he took a tray back up to his room, where he sat in a chair, staring out at the summer night. The students would be here soon, and a new year would start. They would be scared, they would want security, and he would give it to them.

He closed his eyes, drifting off to paradise again, but this time, his bags were packed, sitting right beside the bed in his "hut", ready to go. He wouldn't stay there, but for tonight, it might give his mind some rest.

****************************************************

And when he woke in the morning, those red eyes were gone, and his own shone with a new determination. They would know how to fight, and their world would survive because they knew, and because they believed.

The world is harsh

Nothing there makes sense

Except the lives we build for ourselves

Or the graves we dig.

Back into reality

Back into rhythm

But there is no rhyme in life

But what we know is true

What we give to others

Lives on through them.