Author's Notes: Drabbles equal love.
One on Luna going up soon …
that's the way the world crumbles
Truth. Hope. Love. Freedom.
These are things that Harry knows, and is sure that he almost understands. Yet he can't seem to grasp them for his own; like water dripping from his fingers despite how tight he clutches them. The world spins too fast, so fast that he's lost count of how many times it's turned and everything gets blended together in one big blur.
He tucked a picture of Ginny in his pants, saving her face for day when he needed something to keep him from going crazy.
There are holes in his pockets, and the picture has long since been lost into the oblivion of everything.
Sometimes it feels like he's twirling around and around in place, going to quick that he'll throw up. It's a pleasant feeling, though - one that's sort of comforting in its simplicity. He finds himself missing school and yes, potions, because it's all written and certain in its result. Things like life are more complicated and open-ended and he's so afraid that he'll miss a vital ingredient and end up exploding his cauldron.
So to speak.
There isn't any noise in the streets as he passes through them, and orphaned children with lonely eyes stare at him without speaking. The sound of laughter and jokes play on the edges on his mind, reminding him of days so out of reach that he isn't sure he even really had them.
He wants to believe that everything will be all right in the end, the way that Ron and Hermione do, but there is something broken in him, something that he can't find it inside himself to fix. It's all on his shoulders now, and there's no one at all who can help.
He's accepted this fate.
But sometimes he wishes he hadn't, wishes that he'd fought Destiny and God and whoever else had a hand in his future. He wishes that he'd refused to go to Hogwarts and spent the rest of his days living as a slave for the Dursleys.
Still, Ron is his best friend and he's sure that he wouldn't have the strength to face the path at his feet without him. He's happy for his best friends, because the world needs a little more love, but at the same time their smiles make him ache for sunlit days with a redhead beside the lake.
(There are holes in his pockets...)
Things like love and bliss were never meant for him, and he knows this. His happiness is always on queue, put on hold until he's completed his tasks. It's always been that way and maybe always will.
That's just way the world crumbles, he supposes.