Thoughts of an Autumn Night

Thoughts of an Autumn Night

I can't afford this any longer. I have to change. To change the way I am living or myself. It's three in the morning and I'm in my bed, my fortunately curtained bed, curled up in a fetal position. A thumb in my mouth is the only thing missing and then I would be sent without a word to St. Mungo's.

I've been panicking for an hour but it's not getting me anywhere. Deep breath, Potter. Inhale. Exhale. Once again. Deep regular breathes. No sobs. No--no sobs I said! Okay. Okay. Let's analyse this thing now. Quietly, logically, rationally.

I'm at Hogwarts. I'm safe. He can't get me here. Now, is that a pro or a con? Dumbledore told me about the prophecy last June. He took his damn time, by the way. And he cried. He fucking cried. Now, how am I supposed to hate him if he was crying? And hate is an emotion so liberating, so absolute, so easy to manage. But no. Nothing in my life is easy to manage. There's a connection between me and the Saruman of the twentieth century. A connection he created. He himself. Not really what you call a smart move, isn't it?

To sum up, to let this world enjoy once again rainbows, butterflies and peanut butter I have to kill him or to be killed. This is what Dumbledore told me. But how? How can I? I have to mean it, that's for sure. And this is not really an easy point. When I sent the Cruciatus on Miss Heavy Lids because she, she, she did it to him, it didn't work. So what do I have to do? It's not like when I couldn't master 'Accio'; I cannot go to McGonagall and ask her a room where I can practice some Unforgivables.

And I've thought about this point for many nights, surrounded by the snores of the whole Dursley family, yes, even Aunt Petunia's, and I still can't come to a conclusion. Let's be rational, like Hermione. Voldemort. Voldemort, the so-called Dark Lord, killed... He killed. He, he killed my parents. What if he went to the Longbottoms before coming to kill me? To try to kill me, to be precise. Neville was already living with his granny, so I doubt he would be a problem if he wanted to kill him. But he came to me first. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered if he had went to Neville before, because then he... wait, he wouldn't have come to kill me! He might have thought that he had killed his possible antagonist so Voldemort might have gone to his snake-ish house with his snake-ish... snake to enjoy a cup of snake-ish tea not bothering to kill me. And so.. In this way... my parents would... Don't hyperventilate, Potter, self-control. Self control. Inhale, exhale. The last thing I need now is to be called The Boy Who Is Asthmatic.

Voldemort. Dark Lord. He wouldn't have left things unfinished. So, to be sure, he would still have come to get me then. And my mother would still have... So I'd still be... So that's my fate after all.

I know I didn't believe in fate before, but... you can't believe in a prophecy and then not believe in fate, that's all.

Having proved that I had to be The Boy Who Lived, let's get back to the main point. To kill or to be killed. As I'm not Draco Malfoy I know that... damn it all, I don't know anything. Probably even Malfoy would know more than me.. After all where he lives, in that ridicously expensive gothic manor he breathes Dark Arts. Knowing that even Malfoy may have more knowledge than me is not really comforting...

Sirius did. He used to breathe Dark Arts too. But it didn't matter. He got... he got... Damn it! I'll have to say it eventually. Sirius got killed. Sirius Black died last June. The twenty-first of June. The beginning of summer.

Ron is not snoring anymore. He is getting up quietly to check on me. He's being doing this since September; I think his mother asked (or ordered) him to do so. Probably he would have done it, even if Mrs. Weasley hadn't said anything. I close my eyes, pretending to be asleep. I'm not sure it works, though. He's pulling the curtains open, slowly. Bandages do not cover his arms now, but he nonetheless has to go to the infirmary every week. He still bleeds if he has to support too much weight. Actually, he bleeds after every Quidditch practice. Hermione keeps saying he should stop, she's afraid it might prevent him from fully healing. Not that she's working that hard to heal herself, though. Madam Pomfrey told her million times that she should reduce her reading because it prevents her to fully heal. However, she still sits near the window with a tome and Crookshanks on her lap..

They have never said anything. They don't know about the prophecy, no. But they have never said anything about their wounds, never. And I'm the one to be blamed about them, but they don't say anything and live -or act? - like if their wounds are the results of something they have done knowing all the possible consequences.

But they don't.

Nor do I.

And this is slightly worse, isn't it?