Journey to Solace

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything relating to it…if I did I would not be worrying about how much my tuition is going to be next semester!

I know this may be a bit confusing at first…but I believe in you, you will get in the flow of things. This is just a sort of “teaser” chapter, so let me know if you want me to continue…which means REIVEW PLEASE!!

So, on with the story…

>> 19 July, 1998

The sky is slowly morphing. It is twilight—one of my favorite times of day. The edges of the horizon are dancing with a scattered spectrum: reds, oranges, yellows, pinks and a small bit of light translucent blue. It takes my breath away. Every time I see a sunset it makes my breath catch and my eyes water. I know that it sounds corny—but it still blows my mind. I can still remember one night as I was watching the same scene play out; I truly believed that it would be the last time my eyes would bear witness to it. As I sit here, staring at the darkening sky, I find it so hard to believe that I am still alive. <<

Mocha colored eyes look up from the parchment journal perched on her lap. Shifting slightly she pulls out her wand—light, beige colored wood, with a vine pattern creeping its way gradually up the base—and said an incantation to light the lamp sitting next to her on the rooftop.

>> For so long I have not been able to get along. The memories still haunt me endlessly. They replay again and again in my subconscious. For some reason, they are wrestling with my resilient mind more vehemently than usual tonight. I feel as if I cannot get away. Maybe I should just stop running, Stop trying not to feel. Just open up and let my heart break, let the tears flow and become truly vulnerable for the first time in my life. <<

A noise inside the room beyond the window at her left startles her out of her reverie. She turns toward the window, the moonlight bathing the shroud of the bed with an eerie, luminescent glow. With quill still perched in her light, fragile seeming hand—violet ink dripping melodiously onto the rooftop—she stands. Setting her journal beside the lamp, the quill on top, she slowly crawls through the window and into the small, harboring decadence of the room.

His coarse, rapid breathing resounds harshly in her ears; making her heart stop and her steps quicken to his side.

The lamplight mixed with the glow of the moon, casts long shadows on the floor and walls; creeping slowly, gently as an infant into the room and onto the sleeping figure in the bed. His raven hair gives off a soft aura as the waning lamplight seizes the darkness incessantly. She reaches his side, kneeling slowly by the bed—she reaches out her hand, shaking as her brown eyes glisten with the unshed longings of her heart.

Her hand reaches toward him, coming to rest gently on his forehead; the smooth porcelain skin of her palm and fingertips gracing his chiseled, yet boyish, features.

She frowns slightly and runs her hand slowly through his mass of untidy raven-feather hair. Her hand falls back gently to her side as she exhales the breath she did not realize that she was holding. She stands—slowly, trying not to wake him with any quick movements. She walks back toward the window, turning back slightly just to ease her mind, and crawls out of the window once more onto the rooftop. She picks up her deposited quill. Dipping it in the violet ink, once again she puts quill to parchment…

>> The nightmares still come. Some nights are worse than others. Sometimes we switch off. Tonight his dreams are more stoic, whereas mine were nearly earth-shattering. I will never become accustomed to waking up in the dead of night with a cold sheen of sweat on my face. With terror in my heart, hoping—praying, even—that when I wake up he will still be there; that the past year has not been a dream. There is a distinct difference between us however: he has come to expect the nightmares. He has become as accustomed to them as is humanly plausible—while I have yet to learn that wonderfully useful skill. My nightmares truly began when I was thirteen, after the Chamber of Secrets, but they became incessant after fifth year. I was sixteen, nearly seventeen when my world began to shatter, by the end of sixth year it had become something completely unrecognizable to anyone, most especially myself.

He does not realize how much strength he has—I know that I could not handle the pain he has been forced to endure, the burden that our world placed on him at such a young age. I am beginning to fear that I may not be able to help him. This man, my best friend, my love, the one person who knows everything about me, does not know how I worry about him. I have come to realize over the past nearly eight years that to know and to love Harry Potter—is to worry about him.

He hates it. He hates all of the attention. He hates people, especially me, worrying about him all the time. I know that he resents people for treating him as if he will crack at any moment; walking on eggshells around him for fear that they may end up on the bad side of the man that defeated the most evil wizard in the world. He was only seventeen. I still cannot believe everything he has accomplished. Although, he still feels as if it is not enough. He does not know that I can hear him crying. His sobs echoing through the hollow halls of our flat; making my tears flow and the pain push up to the surface once again.

The memories are haunting, and of course, so are the nightmares. Oh, the bloody freakin' nightmares. At times I can imagine what he must be seeing in his mind's eye as he trashes around on the bed. He screams sometimes, others he just moans. It breaks my heart every time to hear it, to see it, and not truly be able to help him. I wonder if that is how you felt sometimes.

I promised myself that I would reveal everything to you one day. There was so much that I never told you—fearing that you would be hurt. I guess that point is moot now, huh? Now my dilemma is: where do I begin? I suppose I should start with the most important part of what I hid from you—what I should have told you in all of my letters, but was too afraid to. So this is my journey—my attempt to find peace, hope, safety and love in a world torn apart by war. <<

A/N: See that pretty little box at the bottom of the page? Please leave some nice words in it and let me know if I should continue this little story of mine, or if I should let it die a rightful death!