Turncoat

Filthy. That's how he felt.

Harry walked along the shore of the lake on the grounds of Hogwarts, feeling as though he'd never be clean.

The relatively tall boy had his hands shoved in his pockets, and a rueful, possibly cynical grin on his face. More accurately, on his mouth; it didn't carry to his eyes.

It felt like smiles would never carry to his eyes again.

He trudged slowly, sand crunching beneath his feet. He had stopped by the lake, intending to have a bath, but decided against it. He shouldn't be lingering anyway.

Tears fell against a dirt-stained face, but he never did stop smiling that cynical smile. He made himself stop crying. What was the use in it?

Nothing.

Well, that pretty summed up his life.

Besides friends, fans, school, money, looks and talent, that's all he really had. Nothing.

Which was a lot. He was popular, he had lots of friends and admirers, a few enemies, and he had lots of money sitting, festering really, in Gringotts. He wasn't the best looking boy in the school, and of course he always saw all the flaws in his own looks, the biggest one probably being the wretchedly ugly scar on his brow, but he himself was by no means ugly. And he excelled at Quidditch. Even from his own modest viewpoint, Harry was a good Seeker.

And he really didn't have 'nothing'. That's just how it felt. Some people might consider offing themselves at this point, gorily or pain-free. Some would indulge themselves, immersing their woes in drink or drugs. Some would incase themselves, withdrawing from everyone and everything.

Not Harry. Harry, though feeling filthy, and wretched, and horribly inadequate, would simply go on living. Normally, if that were possible for Harry Potter.

Not likely.

He was now on the grass, walking across the lawn. He avoided the Willow, and refused to even look at Hagrid's hut. He didn't want to chance seeing Hagrid, or disappointment in his eyes.

The hugeness of the school overwhelmed him at this point, as big things often do to people who feel belittled already by troubles and problems which they could not take on alone.

He shook his head, his normally clean yet unruly hair now smeared with mud and grease, and so weighed down that it now lay flat.

He opened the great doors to the castle, not caring who saw him in such a state. Why would he care about such things now? They didn't matter. Not right now. Not yet.

He trudged up the stairs in the absolute stillness of the school, hoping that he wouldn't run into any of the other students.

And of course, being that he'd hoped, he did.

"'Mione," he greeted sadly, and carried on past her, head down, and not looking at her.

"Harry," she said, curious. "What happened? Where did you go? When you didn't come back, I--I told Dumbledore. Oh Harry, I hope you don't mind, but I had to, I had to!" she was whispering now, her throat clogged with unshed tears.

"Cry, Hermione," Harry commanded, stopping to comfort his friend. He helped her through the portrait hole, and set her on a couch, leaving her in Lavender's care.

Lavender took Hermione under her arm, simply holding her and letting her cry, which was what she needed. Harry looked so much older to her, and so much more grim.

Once Hermione had had her cry, the practical side of her overtook her emotional part, and she got up from the couch, wiping at her face. "Thanks, Lavender," she said crisply, sounding like she desperately needed to sound like McGonagall right now. Though the common room was silent, hardly daring to breath, it was packed full of students. Hermione walked through them, and they let her.

Hermione climbed the stairs to the boys' dorms. She knew which one was Harry's, and knocked attentively.

"Come in, 'Mione," croaked Harry's familiar voice.

Hermione pushed the door open. Harry was sitting on Ron's four poster, holding a frame. She went to sit beside him, and saw that the picture was of herself, Harry and Ron, all smiling broadly. Ron was pushing Hermione, trying to get her out of the picture, while Hermione was trying to do the same with Ron. Harry stood, grinning at his two friends and looking like the happiest boy in the world. They had used Hermione's parent's Muggle camera, so the picture was still.

Hermione asked softly. "Where is he?"

Harry choked. "I--I tried to get him back, 'Mione. But when Vold--You-know-who let me 'beat' him, and I tried to help Ron up, he attacked me."

"Voldemort?" Hermione asked, unafraid of his name, and wondering why Harry had used the avoidance.

"No," Harry said, his voice surprisingly steady. "Ron."

"Imperius, then?" Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head. "No."

The events that took place before this are as follows. Harry's best friend Ron had gone missing several days before Harry knew where to look for him. But then he found a note on his bed, signed by Voldemort, saying that he (Voldemort) had his (Harry's) best friend.

Naturally, being Harry, Harry went in search for Ron. He indeed found Voldemort, and they dueled once more. Harry 'defeated' Voldemort, and rushed to help Ron with the chains that bound him. But Ron wasn't bound at all. He rose, and dueled Harry as well, pouring all his anger, pent up from years ago, and beat Harry. As he was about to finish him off with an Avada Kadavara, Voldemort stood up from where he had lay, allowing Harry to think he'd gotten the better of the former. He was laughing.

He didn't let Ron kill Harry, but rather sent him back to Hogwarts, making him walk after relieving him of all his gold, shaken up, and with a story that would scare all the students, and professors.

A/N: Ok, I know this story was kind of sappy, and really really short. I always do short stories, so I won't apologize for that. I will apologize to anyone who likes Ron (which should be everyone...) because of how I mutilated his character. I have only written one other fanfiction to post here, and it was a suicide one. Someone pointed out that although it makes for a good story to put your character through crap, killing them off isn't always the best ending for the story. So I thought I'd do one with a stable main character that goes through crap. This was written in about half an hour, and hasn't got the greatest plot. Sorry about that. Anyway, I guess, thanks for reading. Signed, hanet.