Harry Potter and Recurring Day
The timing was not right. Harry was getting used to that aspect of life on the island, how things did not always sync up the way they should. It wasn't something he could fix. Sirius had told Harry what happened in his future, briefly, and that had sort of been nice but had left him with more questions too, questions that he didn't want answered by anyone here. Harry himself had told Remus what happened in his future, but Harry was not sure he had done either of them any favors there, only lessened the weight of knowledge on Harry's chest. No, there was nothing to do about the mismatch of time around here but bear it.
So even though it couldn't possibly be, it was. May 2nd. The day Harry Potter killed Lord Voldemort. Somehow.
The dream-like trip home hadn't explained it. The island magic had skipped over the hardest parts and Harry had skipped over the rest, zooming around on a broom rather than deal with the realities of the aftermath of a war. They had won the war and he had lived through it. Hadn't that been enough? But now the day had rolled around a third time in a matter of months. Harry still had no real answers and no real closure. He had a great deal of nothing at that moment, sitting on the beach, except a formerly magic mokeskin bag containing what was essentially a lot of trash and a scar that didn't hurt.
Sighing, he tossed the bag onto the sand in front of him before crossing his legs and opening it. For what felt like the hundredth time, but what could have only been the fifth that day, Harry pulled out the letter that his mother had written so many years ago and read it again, all the way up to its sudden end. He missed them, but this wasn't about missing them, not just then. It was about wondering what they died for. They'd died for Harry. And for the cause, others would insist. They chose to fight against Voldemort and accept all the risks that came with it. The same would be said for everyone who had died. But to Harry it felt like they had died for him.
And here he was, sitting on some island, doing nothing much with his life. He couldn't even think of a proper way of remembering them, crippled as he was without magic and cursed with his own stupid brain.
He sighed again in impotent rage and fell back onto the sand, lifting up the letter to read it once more.
[Okay time to meet him though he is frustrated. ST/LT welcome. I won't be able to tag back until late so please give me lots of tags to reply to.]
So even though it couldn't possibly be, it was. May 2nd. The day Harry Potter killed Lord Voldemort. Somehow.
The dream-like trip home hadn't explained it. The island magic had skipped over the hardest parts and Harry had skipped over the rest, zooming around on a broom rather than deal with the realities of the aftermath of a war. They had won the war and he had lived through it. Hadn't that been enough? But now the day had rolled around a third time in a matter of months. Harry still had no real answers and no real closure. He had a great deal of nothing at that moment, sitting on the beach, except a formerly magic mokeskin bag containing what was essentially a lot of trash and a scar that didn't hurt.
Sighing, he tossed the bag onto the sand in front of him before crossing his legs and opening it. For what felt like the hundredth time, but what could have only been the fifth that day, Harry pulled out the letter that his mother had written so many years ago and read it again, all the way up to its sudden end. He missed them, but this wasn't about missing them, not just then. It was about wondering what they died for. They'd died for Harry. And for the cause, others would insist. They chose to fight against Voldemort and accept all the risks that came with it. The same would be said for everyone who had died. But to Harry it felt like they had died for him.
And here he was, sitting on some island, doing nothing much with his life. He couldn't even think of a proper way of remembering them, crippled as he was without magic and cursed with his own stupid brain.
He sighed again in impotent rage and fell back onto the sand, lifting up the letter to read it once more.
[Okay time to meet him though he is frustrated. ST/LT welcome. I won't be able to tag back until late so please give me lots of tags to reply to.]