Disclaimer: I own nothing. JK Rowling owns all. The chapter titles are from 'Walking in my shoes' of Depeche Mode. I ignore HBP
Walk in my shoes
Prologue: My intentions couldn't have been purer
Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. The sole survivor of the Killing Curse, ever. The boy who was prophesized to either kill the Dark Lord or die at his hand.
That boy was severely pissed off.
At the end of his fifth year he heard of that prophecy, right after his godfather died. Dumbledore couldn't pick a better time, could he?
After destroying half the Headmaster's office, and spending the next few days –okay, weeks, actually - in a seething rage, Harry Potter had finally managed to calm down and see things straight.
Something he hadn't done for a whole year, to be honest.
His Godfather was dead. Fell behind the Veil. It had taken almost two months before he accepted that, and stopped crying. There was nothing he could do for Sirius anymore. Life goes on, as harsh as that sounds.
The prophecy was disturbing, but he found he didn't really care for it anymore. What's coming will come, as Hagrid once said. If it's prophesized or not.
The letters from his friends were as short and empty as the year before. Hermione had written about her vacation in Greece, with a small paragraph at the end saying she and Ron were at Grimmauld Place again. Harry expected the Order members to fetch him anyday now, seeing as the summer holidays were nearly over.
The Daily Prophet offered no news either. Only horror stories about Voldemort's first reign, but nothing recent.
The Dursleys, who had been scared by the Order members, but even more scared by the events of the last summer, kept Harry locked in the house. Uncle Vernon made a point of checking the letters Harry had to send every three days, to make sure there weren't any complaints that would urge the 'freaks' to come to Privet Drive. Harry himself doubted the Order would mind his lack of freedom. They'd probably think it was a good thing; if he didn't leave the house, he couldn't get into trouble.
But, neither of these things was the reason Harry was so angry right now.
His scar was the problem.
He was lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, a hand firmly clasping his forehead. His scar felt as if someone was trying to burn a hole in his scull. The nightly pain made up for Voldemort's apparent non-activity. He hadn't had any dreams lately, but no day went by without a flash of pain in his scar.
That night it was even worse than usual. The pain was enough to make a sane man go mad, and Harry already had some doubts about the 'sane' part.
He turned on his side, so he could see through the window. Stars were flickering. A full moon stood regally in the sky, surrounded by drifting clouds.
The moon reminded him of Remus. Poor Remus. The last true Marauder. Harry wondered how he was holding up, after Sirius...
Another wave of pain coursed through his head. He mumbled a curse. Oh, how he wished Voldemort would feel this, instead of him! He deserved it! If only...
A star fell gracefully into the night.
After a while, the pain receded, and Harry slept.