Fic | Purpose | HP
Apr. 18th, 2011 03:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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day_by_drabble's April Showers: Prompt 11
Rating & Warnings: PG. SPOILERS FOR DEATHLY HALLOWS.
Word Count: 251
Summary: He doesn't have a purpose anymore.
Author's Notes: Apparently angst is the name of the game, lately. I don't even know.
It’s been a long year.
Winter was full of re-order, and re-building, and fixing things that they had all thought to be broken irreparably. It’s spring again, a year since he watched Riddle die from his own rebounded spell, and fall to the floor of the Great Hall; motionless. It is still hard to believe even though he sees it every night when he closes his eyes, watches it in slow motion, and wonders why he’s still here.
Harry sighs heavily, leans back against the old bench beneath the blooming tree, and closes his eyes. He thinks maybe he’s too broken to fix, that he shouldn’t have survived beyond the war because he doesn’t know how to live in this world, where he’s a savior, and allowed to have a life beyond running, and dying.
He still startles at the slightest thing. The breeze rattles the branches of the tree, sends a small shower of petals, and dew falling down on him, and he stiffens at the first touch before his brain catches up to his instincts. He closes his eyes, breathes in, and out; slow.
He lets go of the tight hold on his wand, reaches up to pluck the small petal off of his shoulder, and stare down at it. The smallest sign of spring, already falling, and dying; it lived for so short a time, and it doesn’t have to live beyond what it was meant for.
Harry envies it, a little. He doesn’t have a purpose, anymore.
day_by_drabble's April Showers: Prompt 11Rating & Warnings: PG. SPOILERS FOR DEATHLY HALLOWS.
Word Count: 251
Summary: He doesn't have a purpose anymore.
Author's Notes: Apparently angst is the name of the game, lately. I don't even know.
It’s been a long year.
Winter was full of re-order, and re-building, and fixing things that they had all thought to be broken irreparably. It’s spring again, a year since he watched Riddle die from his own rebounded spell, and fall to the floor of the Great Hall; motionless. It is still hard to believe even though he sees it every night when he closes his eyes, watches it in slow motion, and wonders why he’s still here.
Harry sighs heavily, leans back against the old bench beneath the blooming tree, and closes his eyes. He thinks maybe he’s too broken to fix, that he shouldn’t have survived beyond the war because he doesn’t know how to live in this world, where he’s a savior, and allowed to have a life beyond running, and dying.
He still startles at the slightest thing. The breeze rattles the branches of the tree, sends a small shower of petals, and dew falling down on him, and he stiffens at the first touch before his brain catches up to his instincts. He closes his eyes, breathes in, and out; slow.
He lets go of the tight hold on his wand, reaches up to pluck the small petal off of his shoulder, and stare down at it. The smallest sign of spring, already falling, and dying; it lived for so short a time, and it doesn’t have to live beyond what it was meant for.
Harry envies it, a little. He doesn’t have a purpose, anymore.
