My Flood

tkra

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Drama
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 28/09/2004
Last Updated: 28/09/2004
Status: in_progress

"Someone once said that into each life, a little rain must fall. Welcome to my little rain." Harry snorts. "My rain? I’m sorry, that’s a little misleading. Welcome to my flood, Hedwig." Updated version.

Chapters

1. My Flood

1. My Flood

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Thank you JK Rowling for sharing with us such a magical world! J

Author’s Note: A special thank you to my friend Forge for her continuing support of my writing. Thank you also to Jetta887 who beta’d this story. This is my first Portkey story; any reviews will be much appreciated.

My Flood

The day was gloomy. The sky was ominous, with dark clouds rolling, thunder rumbling, and bright streaks of lightning cheering the sinister storm on as it continued on its relentless journey. Wave upon wave of hard rain battered his window while the wind whipped violently through the air, bending and snapping tree limbs, power lines, and anything else it could get its eager fingers on.

The way this day mirrors the recent events of his life was more than an ironic coincidence; it was fate daring him to delve deeper into his desolation.

His world was now as murky as the unwelcoming sky outside. Each moment was filled with aching; a disturbing ache that could not be cured by any Muggle or magical remedy. His heart cried out in anguish with each thought that passed through his mind. A gaping fissure existed inside him, and he could think of nothing to fill it, nothing to make him complete.

He sat alone, all day and night, in the confines of his small room on Number 4, Privet Drive. He had no incentive to do anything else; all his strength went into making himself as depressed as possible. Though members of the Order had stressed that he was not responsible for what happened to Sirius, he knew they were wrong. His head was telling him the truth: he was the cause of his godfather’s death. He led the only family he had ever known to a monotonous end. One moment, Sirius was there, fighting valiantly against his cousin Bellatrix Lestrange. And the next, he had vanished, behind the veil, never to return. His thoughts crashed against his skull, echoing every ounce of guilt he felt over losing Sirius.

The only reprieve he had from the relentless battering of his thoughts was the frequent letters from Hermione and Ron. Hedwig arrived each morning, with a letter marked with Hermione’s crisp, clear handwriting. And every three days, Pig flew in through Harry’s open window, with a letter in Ron’s messy scrawl attached to his tiny leg. The letters always brightened his life for the briefest of moments. Then, all too soon, his shadowy thoughts would once again eat away at the small doses of happiness.

As lightning streaked across the darkened sky, he could feel his thoughts turning towards that fateful day in the Department of Mysteries. He had gone to the Ministry of Magic with five of his comrades, hoping to save the life of his godfather, Sirius Black. But when he had reached the deserted building, he did not find Sirius; instead, he found that he, along with his friends, had fallen into a trap. Voldemort had set him up, sought him out, and had taken one more precious soul from him.

He shuddered, remembering the awful events of that day. He spent much of every day shuddering, as the earth shuddered with each rumble of thunder. The only time he did not shudder was the few measly hours of sleep he got each night; when he finally fell exhausted into a dreamless, meaningless sleep. He would stay up for hours on end, reliving what he saw, a marathon of the day's events at the Department of Mysteries. His silent hell would envelope him in minutes, and he rode his roller coaster of memories all day, never stopping to get off.

Eventually, the ride would end, and Harry would wait, sick and weak, until sleep would claim him. There was little time for much else in his life.

Hedwig arrived at the window, pecking lightly with her beak to notify him of her arrival. Harry stood, walked over to the window, and let his rain-soaked snowy owl in. He stared out at the hideous, mottled sky, wondering if his life would always remain as hideous, before closing the window.

Hedwig fluttered around the room once before dropping something on Harry's bed. Then she floated to her cage, where she shook herself clean of the rain droplets plaguing her feathers.

Harry settled back onto his bed, staring at the parcel that Hedwig had left for him. He could tell from the handwriting on the letter that it was from Hermione. She had placed it inside a sandwich bag as a deterrent from the rain. A letter from Hermione was not out of the ordinary; however, it was not like Hermione to send two letters in one day. Although he was not in the mood for reading, he reached over and picked up the letter. After removing the envelope from the sandwich bag and the letter from the envelope, he began to read Hermione's second letter of the day.

Dear Harry,

I do wish you would respond to my letters. I am positive you are receiving them, as Hedwig comes by each day begging for another. She’s worried about you, Harry. We all are.

In my previous letters, I’ve told you mundane things about my various daily activities, hoping that my boring life will be a welcome distraction from your own. But maybe that’s not enough any more.

You are my friend, Harry --- a dear friend who I have come to know and love as family. To me, you and Ron are family. I hope that you feel the same way. I understand that your lacking of a proper family puts you at a disadvantage, but one fundamental feature about families is that they lean on each other when the course is grueling. Do not think that you are alone because you are not. In a time of mourning, we are at our weakest. We have to continue relying on one another, to stand united, especially in our weakest state.

I’m sure you must have heard this several times by now, but you are not at fault. I have no doubt you are still blaming yourself for what happened to Sirius. And you have to stop. It does not help matters for you to continue to blame yourself for something that you had no control over.

You need to talk to someone, Harry. I’m not saying that it has to be me (although I am more than willing to listen). You can’t keep everything bottled up inside. You can’t keep blaming yourself.

Circumstances are challenging for you now, Harry. And they are going to be rough for a long time. But you can’t let yourself go through something of this magnitude alone. Depend on us; confide in us. We love Sirius too, you know. You are not the only one hurting.

Please, Harry, think about what I said. And take care of yourself.
Love from,

Hermione

A sour look crossed his face as he threw the letter in the floor. What right did anyone have in telling him how to act or how to feel? Why couldn't everyone just leave him alone for once?

He hadn't responded to any of Ron or Hermione’s letters all summer. But this one, he felt compelled to send a reply. After rifling through his trunk for a bit of parchment, he grabbed his quill and sat down at his wobbly desk. Without thinking, he began to write.

Hermione,

It's not that I think you’re lying to me. You believe that I’m not at fault, and that's fine. But I was there. I saw what happened. I am the cause of his death. Without my "hero complex", Sirius would still be alive today. But as you said to me earlier, Hermione, I rather enjoy playing the part of the revered and admired hero. According to you, I love having millions of fans idolizing my every move. I don't know if you realize this, but Sirius was my biggest fan. I had to save him. I couldn’t wait for facts. By acting this way, I lost my number one fan -- my hero.
I am to blame.
No matter how much you, Ron, Lupin, Dumbledore, the Weasleys, etc., tell me otherwise, I know the truth. I am to blame.
So, please, let me take responsibility for my actions. Let me be punished for what I have done. Let me deal with it.
You may say I'm the one with the "saving people" complex, but look at yourself, Hermione. You are continually trying to save me, keeping me out of trouble, rescuing me from harm. If there's one thing I've learned from Sirius's death, it's this:
You can't save everyone, Hermione. Including me. I’m going to die before it’s all over with anyway.
Harry

Reading over the letter, he realized that he had come across a bit harsh. But frankly, he didn't care. Hermione needed to learn to keep her nose out of everyone else's business. What did she know anyway? He didn’t need her, Ron, or anyone else for that matter. He was fine.

Okay, so maybe he wasn't fine.

In fact, despite his dark demeanor, even Harry realized that his gloomy behavior would not last. With time, he knew things would get better, get easier. The hole left by Sirius would always remain, but life would eventually go on. Although Harry’s world had been stopped since the moment Sirius had passed through that wretched veil, the rest of the world had gone on turning. Life had gone on; Harry just wasn’t apart of it. After a brief vacation from his reality, he would have to rejoin the rest of the world. And when he was ready to return, he didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to know that he would still have his friends, like Ron and Hermione, on his side.

And so, Harry decided that it would be best to add a small message to the end of his letter: I just want to be left alone right now. But thank you for your concern. If I need anything, I will let you know.

Satisfied, he folded up the parchment and firmly printed Hermione’s name on the outside. He stood, sighed, and walked over to Hedwig's cage. "Take this to Hermione," he told her, after attaching the letter to her leg.

Hedwig looked towards the stormy window and hooted sorrowfully.

Harry shook his head, casting a sidelong look at his snowy companion. "Don’t do that. It’s just rain, Hedwig. It won't kill you." Under his breath, he added, "If it did, I'd already be out there dancing on the sidewalk." Sighing, he looks back out into the storm, searching for something that doesn’t seem to be there. "Someone once said that into each life, a little rain must fall. Welcome to my little rain." Harry snorted. "My rain? I’m sorry, that’s a little misleading. Welcome to my flood, Hedwig."

He walked back to his lumpy bed and threw himself face down on to it. After a few minutes, he raised his head and continued talking to his only friend on Privet Drive. "I know you're looking at me. What do you want from me? I can’t stop the rain, no matter how wonderful you think I might be. But if it’s that much of a problem, wait until it stops. Or don’t take the letter at all. I don’t care. God forbid your feathers get wet."

Flipping his body over, he sits up, throwing his hands around. "Wait a minute! You flew here in the rain from Hermione’s house. And now you won’t fly back in the rain? Is it because Hermione asked you, instead of ordered? You are my owl, not Hermione’s. You’re to do what I say. But, I bet you'd rather be with Hermione anyway. I’m sure she's a lot nicer to you than I am. I’m sure she gives you hugs and kisses like all the mums and dads do to their children."

And suddenly, he was back on his feet, pacing across the floorboards once more. "Furthermore, what do you do in the wild? I’m not always going to be around to keep you from the rain, Hedwig. What will you do then? Go around crying because it’s raining? Good luck with that; crying doesn't solve anything. It's time you learned that. Crying doesn't stop the rain. Crying doesn’t stop you from losing people. And crying certainly doesn’t bring them back."

He fell to his knees, his palms pressed against his eyes. He took a few ragged breaths, his body shaking. Gaining some sense of control, he removed his hands, but even his owl can see the tears threatening to fall as hard as the rain outside. "The truth is, it doesn’t matter how much you love someone. No one stays forever, Hedwig. No one."

With that revelation, Harry stood and took refuge in the small battered armoire in his room. Although it’s quite a bit smaller, it substituted well for the cupboard under the stairs, the tiny room where he spent his youth. After settling in, Harry closed the door, and began to rock himself as the storm of tears plummeted down his cheeks. When he thought of the many times he had cried in the cupboard under the stairs, the tears fell harder and the armoire shook with his sobs.

After a while, the tears slow. Harry stared into the dark of the armoire, feeling the sticky trails on his cheeks left by his tears. No matter what anyone told him, right now, he was alone. But they were right: he wouldn’t be alone forever, nor would he feel this desperation for all eternity.

Harry knew his pain would lessen someday. He just didn’t know when.