Bloody Laughter

Bloody Laughter

Chapter 1: The Start of an Ending

He looked left and then right, waiting for number 12 Grimmwald Place to appear. Pushing and shoving, it made a place in between its neighbor's houses and inflated itself to its standard size, much like the inflation of a jump house, only this was no jump house full of happiness and childish joy. No, this was a house full of misery and mourning.

He was numb. No feeling remained in his fragile body. He could see himself walking through the doorway and walking up the stairs but he couldn't feel the warmth of Lupin's hand on his shoulder, it only felt like more dead weight that he had to carry up to his bed. The sad aura grew stronger and stronger as you climbed the stairs to Sirius's old room. Harry had been put in the late marauder's room, but he didn't know if it made him feel better or worse. He didn't know how many days or weeks it had been since a team of order members came to collect him. They found him crumpled up back in the cupboard under the stairs, malnourished, and mute. He couldn't remember eating back at number 4 Privet Drive and the Dursley's didn't seem to mind his continuous absence. He assumed they went along with their life never thinking of him cooped up with only his mind to keep him company. Yes, the only thing that he did manage to do everyday was to think. That's all he could do, because he lacked the energy and ambition to do anything else.

He thought about many things. Things like how he was the reason that so many people died. It was his fault that his parents had died, all because of that stupid prophecy. It was his fault that Cedric was dead, if only he hadn't let his Gryffindor pride interfere, it would have been him and only him that touched the portkey. It was his fault that Sirius died. If only he had practice occlumency more. Hermione was right, he did have a 'saving people thing' and he hated it. It was all his fault. If he had just gone to Dumbledore and told him everything that he had been dreaming and the fact that he dreamed that Sirius was being tortured in the Department of Mysteries then Dumbledore could have fixed it and properly checked to see if Sirius was ok or not. It was all his fault and he couldn't stop thinking about it. His mind raced with all the things that he had done to hurt others. And he couldn't stop thinking about all the stupid and dumb choices he made and all the ways he could have prevented them.

He knew that people were talking about him, worrying about him. No not worrying, more like pitying him. He didn't want pity, he just wanted to be left alone. He didn't want to be the cause of another person's death. He was done, finished. The only other person that should die would be him. He knew he would never be able to fight Voldemort and his only other option was for old Voldy to kill him. He only wished he could do it himself, get it over with and out of the way, so that he would stop being a burden to everyone else. If he would just die then everyone would stop worrying about the fucking boy who lived and become the boy who failed everyone. That's all he was to everyone else, their savior, their hero. He never asked to be that. He never wanted to have the whole world's fate resting on top of his shoulders. He was still a boy and wasn't ready for that kind of pressure but did the world care? No, like hell they did. All they cared about was that they found a savior, whether or not it was a 16 year old boy or not. Now that they had him they just figured that he would fix it all and they wouldn't have to do anything about it, Harry would just take care of it. Well he couldn't take care of it, he wouldn't take care of it. What is a boy going to do against one of the most powerful wizards of all time, stutter at him? Yes, he had lived through 6 encounters with you-know-who but they were more like narrow escapes, wild luck that happened to come to his aid each time but was never a certain asset. He had no hope and no ambition to defeat the dark lord. There was no hope left in Harry. It had vanished along with Sirius's life. All he looked forward to was his own death and escape from this world, nothing more.

He could hear footsteps nearing his door, then a loud tapping at his door. They obviously hadn't figured out that Harry wanted no part of anything anymore. He had no will to eat, or to talk, or to laugh. He merely wanted to be left alone with his continuous pain, he one true constant companion, friend, if you will. The tapping continued until he heard a shrill voice on the other side beckoning him down to breakfast. "Potter, you can't stay cooped up in there forever. You might as well get a bite to eat while you stretch your legs." The voice of his potion master lingered in the air like the smell of stale bread. Apparently the others had given up on trying and had talked Severus Snape to give it a go. Harry almost chuckled to himself about the absurdity of it all. If he wouldn't come down after his two best friends told him to, what were the chances that he was going to come down after being advised by one of the people he hated and despised the most in the world.

Would he humor them today? He often thought about going down there just to make them happy. But would it make them happy? He wouldn't speak, and he wouldn't eat, he would just sit there and think, just like he did in his room only here it would be infront of everyone else. Would that please them, to know just what kind of shape his body was in? Wouldn't it be better for them not to know that he hadn't eaten any of the food they pushed under his door? He figured that they would never give up, that it was they're responsibility to at least let it look like they were trying to help him. He shuddered to think that eventually they might try to come into his room and force him to eat or speak. He didn't want it to come to that. He didn't want them to see him, see the pile of discarded food, and how frail he looked lying in his bed. He looked like he could be snapped in half with two fingers. The only reason he knew he could still stand was because he had to get up twice a day and dump the plate full of food he was given into his already over flowing trash can and push the plate back out under the door. He knew they were close to that point and any day now he would hear several pairs of feet outside his door thrusting their weight against the door till it budged open despite the chair he had lodged under the doorknob.

Early on he had promised himself that he wouldn't let it come to that. He had to fulfill his promise whether or not he liked it. Today was the day he would walk out of his room and venture out into the world for what he thought was one of the last times. Little did he know that after this day he would never be given the same luxury of solitude that he was accustomed to. Today they would fight to get him back.