Confessions of a Troubled Soul

Harry rolled the piece of parchment up and tossed it into the fireplace. He then proceeded up the stairs to the boys' dormitory. He suddenly felt the urge to halt. Turning around he glanced hopefully at the fire. For a fleeting instant he thought he had seen the thin face of Sirius but then he flinched and it was gone. Harry's eyes began to water. A tiny tear trickled down his cheek. He brushed it away. It was absurd to cry. Sixteen-year-old boys didn't cry. Especially when the reason they were crying was their own bloody fault. He slapped himself and whispered under his breath, "Snap out of it, you prat." He then rotated and ascended the rest of the stairs. The dormitory was unlit and he had a bit of trouble feeling his way to his bed. He didn't bother with changing into his pajamas; instead he fell rigorously onto the bed. He instantaneously closed his eyes and drifted away. There he was again in the black of that unexplainable nothing. He was being yelled at again but this time he had to speak. He began apologizing, begging for their forgiveness but before he had the chance to receive an answer from the four whom had surrounded him he was shaken awake.

"Harry! You alright, mate?" Ron was now standing over him. As were Dean, Seamus and Longbottem. Harry looked around at their apprehensive faces and whispered, "Fine."

This was his routine falsehood. Neville reached down and attempted to help him off the ground but Harry jerked away and pulled himself up. He couldn't let Longbottem touch him. No, Longbottem didn't deserve to be near him. Look what Harry had done for him. It could have been Neville shaking from the terrible nightmares, but it was Harry. Harry had been chosen. He had saved Neville. He now stood, the others still staring at him.

"What are you all looking at, then. Go on." He turned around and began to change his clothes in irritated silence. The others eventually went back to their mourning rituals, all four keeping a close eye on Harry. Harry began to change more briskly, feeling a need to escape. He felt trapped, like he was suffocating. He had tried to break through his wall keeping him from his friends. He now could feel the wall closing in on him. Trapping him. Pushing the air from his lungs. He ran from the dormitory as fast as his feet would take him. He ran until he reached the corridor. He then rushed to breakfast. He ate quickly, ignoring Hermione's invitation to eat with her and then left. He retreated to the library until his first lesson. Harry had grown quite fond of the library. It offered him a dark, dreary place to hide. A place that matched the way he felt inside. A place to relax and breathe and to lament. That was the only thing he wanted to do. Lament and grieve. Breathing was no longer even that significant. He did not care if were alive. He sometimes wished he were dead. He then, could rejoin Sirius and his parents. He did not really worry about Voldemort any longer. Not like he said he did. Voldemort was everyone else's problem. Why did he have to be their savior? Be the one to deliver everybody. He was tired of failing to rescue people. He was tired of people requesting his aide. He was tired of people in general. He wished everyone would just disappear and leave him in his misery. Instead, they were all intent on trying to ease his mind. To save him from himself or some lunatic nonsense like that. He wouldn't allow them to help him. He deserved every thing he was feeling. All the anguish and pain was what he deserved. He deserved to die a slow, pain filled death, but he doubted anyone would grant him that pleasure. He closed his eyes. Harry liked the feeling of being in between asleep and awake. It offered him a place to hide from both the life he was living and the world of his dreams. If only he could stay like this forever.