Patriarchy

Chapter 3: It won't do

"At the innermost core of all loneliness is a deep and powerful yearning for union with one's lost self."

[Brendan Francis]

Harry awoke around noon from the sun that broke its ways through his curtains. He shut his eyes again to block it out, but he failed. Somewhere, deep within, he wanted another day cause he hoped that maybe today would change something, that anything would happen to make his life a little less miserable, a little less awkward. A day that wouldn't make him feel as if he wasn't supposed to be there.

His hands found his eyes and clasped over them. He had had no nightmares, though - maybe that was a good sign. He would toss and turn endless nights with dreams that would disappear when he finally opened his eyes, only to wait in a dark corner and return as soon as he dared to fall asleep again. Harry dreaded sleep, but it would overcome him, and he couldn't do anything against it. The dreams varied in setting and scene, but the pictures were always the same: flashes of light and bodies, bodies strewn all over the ground; the bending form of Bellatrix Lestrange, her face contorted in agony, but her eyes and her mouth wide with a mad grin, and a shaking laugh. "You finally did it, Harry," she had croaked before he had killed her. Revenged his godfather. And he dreamed of the ill joy he had felt afterwards and the emptiness as he realized that it didn't help him. It hadn't brought Sirius back; it had just made him a murderer. An eye for an eye, but that didn't make it fair! - it made it more terrible. It had made him like them. He had become what he fought against. He needed to become a murderer to fulfill his destination: to revenge those who had died, he had to take lives.

The horrible paradox nearly made him laugh; he felt his throat being filled by the bitter, harsh sound. But it choked as tears involuntarily began to spill from his eyes, searching their way through his fingers. He rolled up and tugged the blanket around himself, burying his head in his arms.

Sirius, his parents, none of them had come back from what he did. Yet he had to do it, even though he knew that he would have no advantages from it. He had to do it for the others, for the Wizarding world. But it hadn't pleased them. Everyone had feared Voldemort, but when he died, the impact turned out to be not exactly what Harry had expected. They were happy for a day or two, they were exhausted from the short but powerful war, everything seemed good - and then they had begun to ask questions. It had started with the simple ones, the ones he knew answers to: How did you conquer him? What happened out there? We won, didn't we?

And then the questions got more complicated, and he started stammering: Did you kill Bellatrix Lestrange? How did you know where You-know-who would attack next? How are you feeling now?

And then, they had asked him questions he couldn't answer, not only with their voices, but also with their eyes: Why?

When he walked by the bodies, he saw relatives holding on to each other, lovers clasping the hands of their dead beloveds, and all of them were asking the same question, looking up at him, he would read it in their eyes: Why him? Why her? Why didn't you save them? Why did they have to die so young? Why didn't you die?

A woman had screamed it into his face, again and again: "Why didn't HE die?! Why is he still alive?!"

Yes, why? Why didn't he die as a hero, die within the fight, bravely and quickly? Why couldn't he save all these young people? Why didn't he save children, parents, lovers, beloved? Why didn't he die and give them something to worship for the rest of their lives, give them a hero, a martyr?

Why couldn't he give his life like so many others had done, to preserve the ones that he loved? Why did he have to see them die? Why did he have to go on? Why? Why?

They couldn't ask him nearly as often as he asked himself. How could he survive something like that? Facing the mostly feared wizard the world had ever seen, and live? What had happened out there? What made his life more precious than that of others, they sacrificed themselves for him, for letting him move on?

A picture rose in his head, so vivid that he nearly reached out to touch it.

"I have to go, Harry, and you will stay here and wait for me to return. No argument, I will return for sure," he had made her promise before she walked out. Hermione had smiled and tugged at his collar. A sweet smile as always and a very determined look in her eyes, but something had felt wrong with it. "It's not yet your time, Harry. Now is ours. Take care, Harry. Watch out for Ron while I'm away." She'd made it sound as if she would just go out to fetch some milk, and he had nodded, so desperately he had wanted to believe what she told him. She had smiled one last time before she turned to walk out the door, her face turning earnest and determined, and her wand tightly clutched in her hand.

He had wept over her body; he had broken down and cried until his voice deserted him. He had clutched her tightly, her arms hanging so horribly limp at her sides, but still a determined look on her face, her wand still in her hand. She had fought more bravely than he had ever been able to, ripping several Death Eater's with herself as she went - the smartest witch Hogwarts had long seen at her age. They had to drag him away, and he had been crying her name, over and over again.

They buried her with her wand, a very quiet, personal funeral. He had seen her parents crying, unable to understand what she had fought for, what she had died for. They had looked at him, but they didn't ask why. Her mother had embraced him, whispering: "She would be proud." And her father had shaken his hand, his lips set in a determined line similar to Hermione's. And it had hurt him even more that they didn't ask why, that they didn't hate him for living.

As he walked back to the grave, he saw a single figure sitting next to it. he coffin was already getting buried under dark layers of earth, and Harry stopped and looked at the figure next to the grave, in a dark robe. Ron's face was dry, not a single tear had left his eyes, but all the tears he didn't shed were expressed in his eyes, the way he held his body, and, most of all, by the look on his face. His lips were moving slightly, he was talking to Hermione, telling her profane things, and he looked absolutely devastated. He looked at her coffin, unable to understand that he would never hold her again, that she would never argue with him again, that all her wit and her charm was gone at the age of 17. And then he had suddenly started sobbing; dry, sharp sobs that made his body shake and he had bent over as if to vomit, his hands clutching his own arms tightly and he had cried out, he had called her as if she would return, as if he hoped that she would turn up somewhere, ! informing them with all her casualty that this had been just one more of her smart plans.

But she hadn't returned and she would never. And Harry had cried again as it had hit him one night, and then he had been angry with her, because she had lied to him, because he had made her promise that she would return, and she broke her promise. She had never broken a promise ever before. She had lied to him.

He had seen Ron. Ron wasn't ever the same again after her funeral. He started smiling, eventually, but he never returned to being the irresponsible, friendly, humorous boy that he had been before the war. Harry had lost both his best friends that day.

Remus had died as well. Harry had watched him fall asleep and never wake again. His wounds had been too large, and he had been weak, since full moon had only been a few days ago. He seemed strangely content about it, he had smiled at Harry and reassured him that he was perfectly fine, thank you, that he was absolutely comfortable with the way it happened. He had told Harry that he'd have liked to ruffle his hair, as he had sometimes done with his father when he had been even younger than Harry, but that he unfortunately didn't have the strength anymore. Harry had smiled at that - Remus remained so warm, friendly and calm, even when facing death, inevitably. Shortly before he fell asleep, he had given Harry a deep look, smiling softly.

"We've all been very, very proud of you, Harry," he had said very quietly, and Harry didn't have to ask who he was speaking of. Tears welled up in his eyes and Remus had politely ignored that. His eyes drifted shut and the last thing he whispered was:

"We won, now didn't we?" Harry had nodded.

"Yes, Remus. We won." Remus had smiled and closed his eyes, and Harry had gotten up, straightening Remus' pillow one more time, before turning off the light and walking away.

He hadn't cried that much for Remus - Remus had seemed so peaceful. He knew he had accomplished his goal, and he was satisfied with what had happened. He almost seemed a little too contented about it, but it hadn't made Harry feel bad as he collected Remus' things at the Headquarters. Remus had been the only connection to his past, his parents, after Sirius had gone. They had grown more intimate, and he had respected Remus as a teacher and as a mentor. There had, however, been things he hadn't known about the man, but as he found out after Remus' death, he felt it wasn't his right to judge whatever Remus hadn't chosen to tell him.

Dumbledore had allowed him to keep Remus' things, his books and photographs, letters and clothes, and Harry had happily done so, virtually keeping in touch with his past through the few reminiscences that had been left for him.

The thought of Remus somehow soothed his wounded mind, and the tears had long dried, so he took his hands from him eyes and faced the afternoon sun, slowly getting up and getting dressed. He glanced around his room - a strange collection of things that had belonged to him or others, memories and clutter all over the place. He slipped into his clothes and made his way dwn the stairs as quietly as he could. He didn't bother to comb his hair - he had given up caring for his appearance, he wouldn't go out anyway, and there weren't many people who faced him, and none of them cared for the state of his hair.

Today, however, seemed to be a little bit different. He descended the stairs and walked into the kitchen, and he froze at the people who were sitting there, seemingly waiting for him to show up. He hadn't known anything of a meeting, and his questioning gaze met Dumbledore's, who sat in the middle of the people grouped around the table.

"Good morning, Harry," he greeted, friendly as ever, and Harry returned the greeting, puzzled. The others didn't even seem to notice it; they went on staring at him. It made him nervous, and his fingers started to fumble with the edge of his shirt, when Dumbledore spoke up again.

"We had a little talk about you, Harry, and we waited for you to join us, for talking with you about our ideas."

Harry felt the back of his neck burn. That always happened when he started getting angry. They had been talking about him. He hated it when they did that. It made him feel childish and young. As if he wasn't old enough to be confronted with their opinion. As if he wasn't experienced enough to cope with whatever they thought was wrong with him. It made him angry that they would only confront him with decisions and conclusions, without even giving him as much as a possibility to participate.

"So what did you come up with this time?" he forced out, trying to seem as controlled and unimpressed as possible. He caught Dumbledore looking at him, irritated, and walked towards the fridge to get out some milk.

"We think it would be good for you to get out." Surprisingly, it wasn't Dumbledore who spoke, but Tonks - but that didn't make better what exactly she had said.

"And why is that?" Harry nearly snapped, preparing himself a breakfast, but getting worked up by feeling all their looks at him.

"We figured it might be too lonely in the house, you being all by yourself," Moody's hoarse voice raised and Harry slapped together to slices of bread.

"Surely." He just couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice, no matter how hard he tried. Which wasn't very hard, though.

"And there are some tasks in which you could be of very great help for us and the Order, Harry," Molly Weasley added, while Harry slammed the door of the fridge back shut.

"The Order, I see," he retorted shortly, not even looking at them.

"We organized you a good task in the Ministry, which you can take up as soon as you feel ready to." Dumbledore's words struck Harry, and his head shot up, taking them all in with one shocked look. "We consider this to be rather sooner than later, we think it might be a very pleasant change of scenery for you." Harry went on staring at them, about to decline, when he locked eyes with Dumbledore and understood. There was no way in saying "no". He was being overruled. He was shut up and put out if the way.

Harry fled the kitchen, scrambled up the stairs and threw the door to his room shut after himself. He didn't even catch Dumbledore saying with a sigh,

"Well, I think he took it rather well."