Does It Hurt?

Created: 8-20-09

DOES IT HURT?

He staggered breathlessly down Privet Drive, clutching his bleeding arm. It throbbed like it was still under the effects of the Cruciatus Curse, and he could feel the blood trickling down and dripping onto the pavement, creating a trail.

But that was the least of his problems.

He had to get away. He had to run. He had to escape, disappear, anything as long as he was not facing him.

The Dark Lord. You-Know-Who. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Lord Voldemort.

He felt like he had just been through hell and back. He remembered how the Dark Lord, angered by his defeat to a mere 1-year-old child, ordered his loyal Death Eaters to search for the boy after he had disappeared out of the face of the wizarding earth. He remembered how the Dark Lord could not hold onto one body for long and always had to attach himself to numerous people to stay alive, to maintain his order among his loyal followers. He remembered having to keep up with the façade in front of the Ministry, claiming to be forced into submission to the Dark Lord by the Imperius Curse and feigned innocence in front of the entire wizarding committee while continuing the search for the boy, whose whereabouts were concealed, behind everyone’s back, continuing to swear his allegiance to the one and only Master he would ever serve.

Lord Voldemort…that name left a bad taste in his mouth now that he uttered it.

He stumbled on a tiny pothole and fell almost face first to the ground. He let out a strangled cry as his whole body wracked with pain while he tried to get back up on his feet. The aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse still lingered after it had been lifted, plus other painful wounds he had been inflicted on during the fight was a little more than he could bear. He was tempted to just lay there and let fate handle him, but the image of his wife and son, and the thought of those bloody Death Eaters possibly still on his tail, forced him to endure it as he finally stood just barely on his own two feet.

As he continued to stagger on, his thoughts flew to the tragedy that led to his fugitive demise. He had returned after another fruitless search, and the Dark Lord was not in the best of moods. Worse, the Dark Lord’s latest hideout had been discovered by the Aurors after the body he inhabited was careless in concealing his acts of killing unicorns for its blood to sustain him. He was accused of treachery, accused of being the one to alert the Aurors of his hideout and of being a double agent. He denied it, of course, because in reality, he was doing the Dark Lord’s bidding to find the boy, but the Dark Lord was adamant, believing that he had defected and that he betrayed his Master by making use of his connections with the Aurors to destroy him.

He remembered being hit with a Bat-Bogey Hex by Goyle into unconsciousness. He remembered waking up to see himself against the Dark Lord’s parents’ gravestone under the effects of the Body-Bind Curse and was forced to watch as the Death Eaters dragged his wife and son out kicking and screaming at the Dark Lord’s feet. He remembered watching helplessly as the Death Eaters came onto his wife, stripping her bare until there wasn’t a single fabric left on her body before they had her way with her. He remembered seeing his wife crying and screaming as the Death Eaters raped her one by one, reducing her into someone worse than a Muggle prostitute, and his son struggling in the Dark Lord’s arms as he begged to be let go and shouted at the Death Eaters to “stop hurting his Mommy”. He remembered her being cast the Killing Curse as soon as the last Death Eater was done with her, then his son being shot multiple times with the Sectumsempra curse, making his son bleed to death from every pore of his skin before he himself was being released from his Body-Bind Curse, rendering him a screaming, sobbing fool as he mourned in loud desperation for the death of his family.

He found himself stumbling into the backyard of a quaint little home. He saw the sign marked ‘Privet Drive No. 4’ and slumped against the wall of the back of the house, catching his breath. He hoped that whoever lived there is snoring soundly in their beds. The last thing he needed was being manhandled by Muggles.

Though ironically, he was feeling just as helpless as they were when he was still under the Dark Lord’s service, killing and torturing those filthy little Mudbloods.

Mudblood. Even that left his mouth with a bad taste and a pang of guilt in his heart.

The Dark Lord’s maniacal laughter at his family’s death echoed in his mind, bringing back the horrifying images of his wife and son’s faces of death. He was filled with rage at that point and wanted to kill him there and then, along with the body he inhabited, but the Death Eaters were ahead of him, shielding their Master as they clashed wands with him. He was soon outnumbered and his body taking critical damage after damage. He knew he had no choice but to leave his family’s body there and flee for his life. He had wanted to just let the Death Eaters kill him and end his misery, but he knew his wife wouldn’t want that, nor would his son.

Thus his predicament now.

He lifted his head up to the sky, wondering how it come down to this, wondering how could he let fame and fortune get into his head and let pride run his life, wondering how he could stoop so low as to serve a man who had killed mercilessly for more decades than any living villainous wizards and witches had ever done. He wondered how could he ever be so prejudicial to everyone before him, and wondered why did he even hate Muggle-borns and half-bloods in the first place. Was it because they were impure? Was it because they were poor? Was it because they were socially lower than he was? Was it because he just simply didn’t like them for no particular reason whatsoever, like the Muggles did to each other during the Klu Klux Klan era? He didn’t know. He couldn’t even remember the reason why anymore.

How long will it be before the Death Eaters catch up with him? How long will it be before the Ministry finds out that he had lied to them about his ties to the Dark Lord? How long will that Azkaban sentence be for that kind of crime?

He didn’t know.

He didn’t want to know.

“Are you OK?”

He almost jumped as he saw a little boy squatting beside him. He cast a Lumos spell and saw that it was a child no older than 10, probably coming to 11. A perfect age to be receiving a letter from Hogwarts to study for the rest of his 7 years in life to become a full-fledged wizard. That is, if he was confirmed to be a wizard by birth.

But that wasn’t important.

His breath almost got caught in his throat when he saw those sparkling jade-green eyes behind those round glasses and unkempt hair, and the famous lightning bolt scar that hid behind his fringe. He’d recognize that scar anywhere. He had seen it when the boy’s picture was all over the Daily Prophet after he survived the Dark Lord’s Killing Curse, and had used that as his way of identifying the boy.

There was no doubt about it.

It was him, right there.

Harry James Potter.

The Boy Who Lived.

He breathed hard as he tried to get up and reach for him. There he was, the source of all his problems, the cause of all his troubles, the reason his family died. He was just right there. All he need was to say the spell and be done with it.

“Wow~! Are you a magician or something?” the boy cooed as he saw the light on his wand. “How do you do that?”

He didn’t reply. All he wanted was to give this wretched boy who created his misery a taste of his own medicine.

All he need was just one word.

“Oh my god, you’re bleeding!”

This boy killed his wife. He killed his son. He ruined his life. He deserved to die. To hell with the Dark Lord wanting to find him. He’d want him dead as well anyway. Make this his last service to the Dark Lord.

“Oh dear,” the boy pondered, totally oblivious of his killing intent, “I really wish I could go into Uncle Vernon’s room right now. He’s the only one who has the first aid kit.”

Kill him! Kill him now! he thought. Kill him now and the rest will be dealt with by itself!

The boy rubbed his chin, as if trying to figure out what to do.

Do it! Do it now!!

“Does it hurt?”

His heart skipped a beat at his hands cupping his cheeks. Those hands…it felt so warm. A little calloused from housework, probably, but they were gentle and warm, holding onto his cheeks like he was the most fragile thing in the world.

His hand gripped at the wand, reminding himself what he was supposed to do.

This boy ruined his life.

This boy killed his family.

He must die.

“Does it hurt?”

His heart broke into a million pieces at that sad little concerned voice. He looked up at the boy and saw there wasn’t a single trace of malice or prejudice or devious intentions. It was just pure unadulterated innocence as his jade-green eyes looked into his grey orbs in genuine worry and concern.

Even his own son did not have the radiating innocence this boy had.

His son…

Tears flowed freely from his eyes as he was again bombarded with the image of his dead son. His son bleeding and torn from every pore of his skin, lying on his own pool of crimson red, his eyes fading away into nothingness…

Into death.

“Oh, oh, don’t cry. Does it really hurt that bad?”

Yes, it hurt.

It hurt so bad…

It hurt so bad to know that this boy didn’t deserve death. That he had brought this upon himself.

It really hurt…

He sobbed long and hard as he wrapped his arms around the boy, hugging him like his life depended on it, dropping his wand to his side.

He didn’t care anymore.

Let the Death Eaters come. Let the Dark Lord come. Let the Ministry come.

He didn’t care anymore.

“Aww, don’t cry. Once we get the first aid, I will make the hurting all better, OK?”

It only made him hug him tighter and cried harder.