Harry's Purges

He pushed past Ron and Neville after divination unable to take their false smiles and forced cheerful words. They had no idea what he was going through and he didn't need them to pretend that... no, he mustn't think about it.

He didn't need the whole school staring at him, or members of the DA trying to keep him busy. 'Just let me do it my way' Harry thought.

Divination was the last lesson that day, and Harry was glad for that. He made his way up to the lake where he sat with Hermione and Ron in the summer and laughed and hung out in the heat with the water rippling calmly by their feet.

He hoped that no one had followed him and weren't intending to join him if they had seen him. He wanted to be alone. He wanted time alone to grieve that he didn't get even in his bed at night with the curtains shut and the other boys in the room snoring.

Sitting by the water, Harry sat placid, staring blankly at the surface. Thinking for the moment wasn't allowed, if he thought... he knew he would most certainly cry, and he didn't want to do that, not yet any way. There was no realisation of grief and loss to allow the outpouring of emotion. It had been a week now since his Godfather had fallen and Harry still couldn't see how and why he had died. The Hero's Death was a bloody lie as far as he was concerned. Yes, Sirius hadn't wanted to sit around and let Harry be killed by the death eaters, but he hadn't wanted to die either... had he?

Sirius had spent the last two years of his life in hiding, unable to get out and enjoy what life had to offer to an immensely talented and handsome man. He was still young as well damnit, there was still time to get a job, meet a witch and make wizarding babies and make a happy family Harry could join for the last few years of his adolescence. Now that was impossible. Was now Remus his guardian who would look after him in the wizard world? Did he even want a new guardian? He wanted the old one.

It was no good letting the same thoughts ride round his head. Harry wanted a pensieve to look over everything in order and at his speed, not watching Sirius Fall over again and again like a needle stuck on a record.

It's no flaming use! He was thinking again, blaming himself. Was it entirely his fault? Dumbledore had taken responsibility and said he should have told Harry sooner that Voldemort would have tried to lure him to the department of mysteries. If Harry had known, he would have never have come and tired to be the hero.

He was one bloody lucky wizard. He knew it. Talented and special? No. He survived because of his mother, not because he was brilliant. But Lilly hadn't saved him in the Chamber of Secrets, or when he duelled with the Dark Lord in the graveyard, hadn't seen him through the Tri Wizard competition. Harry had to admit that with help, it was all his own doing.

Harry knew he was upsetting himself deliberately, not just thinking about Sirius, but dragging his mum into it too. He wished his parents were here to share the pain, hug him and tell him that it was harsh, but be there for him, even though they were devastated themselves at losing a friend.

Well it wasn't going to happen- was it? There was no ending, no comfort and no absolution for him. Harry punched at the ground angrily. He soon wished he hadn't. The sun had baked the earth hard and dry and had grazed his knuckles and swollen his hand up. Grateful it wasn't his dominant hand, Harry stopped caring about the sharp throbbing pain and remained sitting by the lake stony faced.

***

He didn't know how long he had stayed there so far. Harry was aware of a lump burning at the top of his throat, he wasn't going to cry, he had to be strong, but his eyes stung and a few well-deserved tears coursed their way out without permission.

Harry looked to his bag. There was parchment and a quill in there. Hermione had suggested this, demanded it at one point that he wrote how he was feeling, get it into the form of an essay or even poetry. Harry didn't remember much about poetry, he didn't exactly read it and the muggle world studied it, but he wasn't in the muggle world anymore. Apart from a few humorous ones in primary school, which he could barely remember, there had been none of the 'best words in the most perfect form' or whatever that was.

Never mind, he would try anyway. Harry had decided that Hermione must be right sometimes. So he got out the writing materials and started to write...

***

Again, he didn't know how long he had been sitting there furiously writing. It was a bit cooler now and he was grateful for that. Harry was reluctant to see what he had written, he hadn't concentrated, and just let the words flow without thinking. 'Be brave' he thought. Looking down at the parchment he started to read...

***

If there is a way I could see to carry on,

Believe me, I would take it.

I don't really see how this could ever end.

Since the monsters won't go away and

People are saying you won't come back to me.

Do you ever think you could?

Can I come and see you sometime if you don't mind?

I know in your heaven you're busy, but can

You spare some time for me, just me

Because I want to see you again.

I'll never stop giving up to walk along the

Long, long road to try and hear your voice.

Its fading fast and I've got to fight to hear

You tell me you love me. Is it a case my

Mind's eye is blind, and I may never see you again.

I must have to keep on trying if I want to see you again.

It's been a while since you held me last. I'd

Forgotten the smell of your aftershave.

Little things like that bring lumps to my throat.

Because you're never coming home.

Only in my imagination and a few small things

Remind me what I love about you and bring

You back to me for a few short moments.

I think I could take away the pain if I forget

You exist, but that would hurt you, so I won't try.

Remembering you at all and even when you

Died makes me ache so hard, I'd explode.

If there was a way I could know you won't

Leave me, would you tell me?

I'll never give up my search for you.

***

Harry knew for a first try ever at poetry, it was good. It wasn't exactly amazing, but adequate for what he wanted to portray. His cheeks were clammy from the tears drying unwillingly. Crying helped more than he had thought it would.

He carried on sitting and making amendments to the poem's grammar and word play, while he waited for his swollen face and red eyes to reduce. When it was finished and he was all cried out, ready to face the out stretched hands of his friends asking how he was, attempting to comfort. Harry stood up, folded the poem in his pocket, gathered up his bag and walked towards the castle. Hermione was right as per usual. Its good to purge your pain.

Fin