One That Stood Alone

    The light faded from the sky as the moon replaced the sun. Harry lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours. It seemed to be all he could do this past summer. His eyes clouded over, the once gleaming emerald fading to a dull forest of green. Cedric was dead. Sirius was dead. Hagrid. Tonks. Neville. His eyes fell closed, the pain almost too much to bear. Countless others had perished once the war was declared last year. And nothing he did could save any of them.

    Harry let out a guttural sound- not a sob, nor a cry, but more of a pained growl. He sat up in his bed as Hedwig flew through the window, moonlight illuminating her silver feathers. She chirped and nipped at Harry's ear as she took her place on his shoulder, dropping yet another letter into his lap. Another letter from Hermione or Ron, surely going on about how nothing was Harry's fault, but they really couldn't tell him what was going on in the wizarding world right now. It was busy- there had been many attacks; that was all they had leaked out to him. Apparently, they felt it was in his best interests not to know lest he blame himself for these as well. Not only that, but Dumbledore must have made it quite clear that Harry was not to stray from the humble abode of the Dursley's since Ron constantly apologized for not inviting Harry over to the Burrow for the summer. His father was so busy at the Ministry, they couldn't take on another right now. His mother had a terrible cold, most contagious- deadly, even- and no one was to be near the house (he somehow forgot to mention how all the other Weasleys were surviving then). Fred and George were going insane with the new tricks they were learning in Auror training- really, Harry couldn't possibly survive the torture. Each letter, another excuse. Clutching the new letter in his hand, Harry threw it across the room. It swayed in the breeze from the window before lightly falling atop its fellow discarded letters and packages. Hedwig screeched in protest and flew across the room to settle near her perch, most disgruntled with Harry's behavior.

    He knew bloody well that there were attacks- not a day went by without his scar pulsating in a sick sort of pleasurable pain. Voldemort was happy- no, he was downright pleased. For several nights, even his occlumency training couldn't ward off the dreams of the Dark Lord. That was how Harry knew Neville was dead; he had been there when it had happened. He had been the one performing Crucio again, and again, and again in the dream... Bile rose in Harry's throat and he pushed back the memories. Neville had not deserved it; he had done nothing to call for such a horrid way to such a short life. Nothing except aid one Harry Potter.

    He heard the chime of the new grandfather clock the Dursley's had bought last year in order to appear distinguished. On the twelfth ring, Harry pulled open the drawer near his bed. Metal flashed in the light streaming through the open window. Harry's eyelids fluttered closed, and his breath was drawn inward with a hiss. So tantalizing, this feeling of adrenaline as the blood poured down his wrist. A drop hit the worn wood floor, the sound echoing in Harry's ears. So... he was still alive, afterall.

    "Happy seventeenth birthday... Harry."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    Draco swallowed thickly, his mouth bone dry. Head held high, he checked himself over in the mirror. Platinum blond hair fell across his ice blue eyes. He had allowed it to grow so that it spilled over his collar, grazing at his shoulders. Yet he refused to slick it back like his father. Instead it was perfectly styled to flow about him as he moved, never a strand going out of place unless he so willed it. Giving a shake of his head to move the strands from obscuring his vision, Draco steeled his jaw firmly. He had grown another few inches, putting him nearly at six feet. Nearly his father's height. But not nearly enough.

    There was a pop and the house elf appeared behind him. "Master Draco Malfoy, sir, Lady Malfoy requests your presence in the grand hall, sir." Draco merely nodded in response, never taking his eyes from the large mirror he stood in front of. He had donned his best robes of a raven black silk with Slytherin green lacing.

    "Master Draco Malfoy, sir..."

    "I bloody said I'd be there, already! Learn to read your master's responses as you should well know." His voice wavered at the end and he closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. He needed to calm himself; he needed to control the emotions which swirled within him into a poised conviction.

    "Yes, Master Draco, sir... Kriggins was just wanting to tell Master Malfoy, sir, that he believes in his master. Master Draco will be surviving Senior Master Malfoy, sir. Kriggins is sure of it."

    "Thank you, Kriggins. Now, please do run along before my father begins to wonder what is taking his precious son so long."

    There was another pop and Draco was left alone.

    "I'm glad at least one of us is sure..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    "Oh, I can't believe we're going to be having Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts taught by a top class Auror! And look at the book listing for it!"

    "Only you would be excited by the alarming amount of books needed for one subject. Really, I can't believe he actually assigned FIVE different ones just for one class! It's almost as bad as Lockehart!"

    "You could stand to read more on the subject, Ron. Last year, you barely were able to cast the Patronus charm even with Harry's extra help." Ron rolled his eyes and silenced Hermione with a quick kiss on the lips. Sixth year had brought about much turmoil and strife, but with it their relationship had bloomed and flourished.

    "Not as though the bloke could be any worse than Snape last year, eh Harry?"

    "What? Oh, right." Ron and Hermione turned to face Harry as they stumbled through Diagon Alley in a mad rush to get all their supplies before boarding the Express tomorrow. Harry didn't even attempt the frail smile he had clutched to all through sixth year. Instead, in its place was a constant slack expression reaching to the boy's eyes, extinguishing what little light had remained. Hermione moved away from Ron, reaching out one hand to touch Harry but stopping herself before she could.

    "Harry... we really are sorry. We couldn't bear to tell you; I had thought it would be better without you knowing..." The bitter laugh cut off her speech. She pulled back her outstretched hand as though burned. The Harry standing before her was not the one she remembered. Harry had become withdrawn last year, and with her and Ron's new relationship they didn't seem to spend as much time together anymore. Yet still, even last year Harry had managed to remain... well, Harry. He would smile when they asked how he was, insisting that he indeed was fine and that they needed to stop worrying so much. The person who stood before her now was someone completely different.

    Harry's hair was shaggier and somehow even more reckless and tousled than usual. It fell about his face, sticking up in the back almost as though it was styled that way. His skin was paler and she could have sworn he must have lost at least twenty pounds from his already lean build. He had grown considerably- almost stunning for his usually short stature- and was probably soon to reach six feet. Most obviously changed was his face. Harry was only seventeen, yet he seemed so aged, so worn. There were heavy bags beneath his eyes as though he hadn't slept in years and his eyes... His eyes had lost all spark and were mere orbs of full green set into his tired face.

    "Harry, mate, what's wrong with you? You haven't said more than a few words since we arrived at The Three Broomsticks yesterday, and now-"

    "Nothing. Nothing is wrong with me, Ron. Nothing at all." Before anymore could be said, Harry's back was to them and he was making his way to his room at The Three Broomsticks. Hermione let out a sigh and leaned back into her boyfriend for support.

    "Should we have told him, Ron? Should we have let him know how many more have gone... how many..." Hermione's voice was choaked with unshed tears and she was soon turned, her face pressed into the warmth of the red-headed boy's chest.

    "No, we... maybe... I don't know, Hermione. I don't know."