maudite_a_deux | Found Art

YARRRRGH, THE ANGST, PLEASE MAKE IT STOP!

"In his darkest moments, Harry felt that somehow it was his own personal failure, that he was responsible for each Death Eater attack -- each victim. He’d felt each with a piercing agony equal to the plunging of a knife in his heart. If he’d been able to read the bastard’s intentions, he could stop him. But his only success had been in keeping the Dark Lord at bay from his own thoughts. Both Professor Dumbledore and Remus Lupin had told him it was a considerable feat in its own right, and not to downplay that accomplishment. In fact, only two others had been as successful at keeping the Dark Lord out of their minds: Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape. Harry loathed being grouped with the spy in any manner at all. However, the knowledge that he was in such a select group had initially been a source of satisfaction to Harry, but, lately, it’d chafed. It simply wasn’t enough. With each victim, the guilt he carried seemed to weigh more heavily upon his already burdened soul.

With a groan, the lanky wizard shut his eyes, covered his face with his forearm, blocking out the light, and swore viciously and profusely. The thought that everyone he loved was eventually killed in the ongoing struggle to defeat the psychotic, self-styled Dark Lord writhed malignantly in his mind. His parents had been the first. The fact that he couldn’t remember anything about them wasn’t relevant. He missed their presence in his life; had always missed it. Perhaps if the Dursleys had been any other type of family, and had welcomed him, it might’ve been different. Regrettably, the reality was that his aunt and uncle were miserable excuses for human beings, let alone relatives; and they’d never missed an opportunity to abuse or humiliate him.

Rolling over on the narrow bed, Harry buried his face in the pillow as his brain inexorably pulled him down the well-worn path of the fallen. His losses hadn’t been limited to those he loved. Harry remembered Professor Quirrell in his first year at Hogwarts. The man had disintegrated before Harry’s eyes as a result of touching him. What a horrifying truth: his touch was deadly. That image alone had haunted his dreams. He hadn’t touched or hugged anyone for months following the incident, especially Ron or Hermione. He’d been terrified that the same result would occur. It’d taken the entire summer at 4 Privet Drive to truly accept the Headmaster’s words; that it wasn’t his touch, but rather, that his mother’s love had formed a semi-permanent ‘shield’ against Voldemort’s murderous intent.

He’d been able to put that death into perspective..."

Thank goodness he's such a well-adjusted young lad.