Veritas - HP fic - PG13

[tigriswolf]

Title: Veritas
Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: not my characters.  just for fun.
Warnings: takes place after Harry's time at Hogwarts; ignores HBP
Pairings: none
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 730
Point of view: first

Take your hate and use it—in the end, it’s all you’ll have.

Listen to me, I should know. I was you, once upon a time. I felt what you feel and I saw what you see, and I did exactly everything you’ve done and will do in the days to come.

People don’t speak of me anymore, don’t mention my name, even in whispers. I am forgotten, one of those lost to shadows and time.

Ride the hate, hear my words, and know that you’ve lost. Even if you win, you’ve lost.

Who am I? One of the faceless—I still stalk the halls, cloak swirling around me, but there are others to talk about now, others to remember in my stead.

I’m not bitter and I’m not hurt; I’m not angry and I’m not sad. I merely am.

Let me tell you a story; honestly, do you have anything else to do?

-

In the end, there is no such thing as freedom.

Chains always bind the hero; he has no choice, come morning, but to fight. He may dream of more, for a life of his choosing, but he’s bound to the war with no way out.

He will fight and he will bleed and, mayhap, he will die for the cause he never had a choice in. People sing songs and tell stories about the glory in war, about the wonderful heroes who sacrifice more than they ever had to give. Glory, honor, truth, justice—glory is fleeting, honor a lie, truth stifling, and justice unknown.

The hero dies. Always, in some fashion. If not physically, then emotionally; if neither, than the parts that made him good fade.

Heroes die because after the fight, they are not heroes anymore. They are survivors. What made them innocent and ‘heroic’ dies on the battlefield, bleeding out and leaving only bitterness, pain, and hate.

-

Is that not what you wanted to hear?

I am not a liar. Nor am I a pawn. I am a shadow, a memory—only these walls know me now.

And you… I cannot call you innocent, or a child. Your eyes tell me you are too old for that.

Some part of you still looks at the world and expects—what? Rainbows and daisies and puppies romping through a field? I’m sure someone, somewhere, gets that. But not you. Not us.

You have been branded a hero, by the villain of the tale. And the wise, old soothsayer, the Merlin to your Arthur.

You know, in the end, Arthur died. Merlin, too, though not forever.

Have you ever tasted freedom? I’m sure it’s wonderful, like hot chocolate, or cheesecake, or even mashed potatoes drenched with gravy. Maybe it smells like the earth after a storm, or feels like… like… I cannot think of a comparison.

I look at you—I see no hero. I see a boy given a task far too big, thrust into a role no one could fill.

I see pain, anguish. I see hidden tears, hidden rage. You pretend you do not feel those things—aye, you pretend well.

As did I, once upon a time.

I see hate. Such hatred, deep in your bones, will one day seep into everything you do, color everything you say.

You are a pawn, a beautiful lie. But no lie is flawless.

You’ve already lost. Heroes always lose.

And you’ve been cast as the hero in a play you’ve never wanted to perform.

-

Take your hate and use it—in the end, it’s all you’ll have.

Your friends will fall to the wayside. Either you’ll abandon them or they’ll abandon you. You’ll have dust and a task, nightmares and scars. Bloodstained clothes and bruises that don’t have time to fade.

Are you listening?

No… I can see that you’re not. No matter.

In the end, you’ll remember me.

In the end, you’ll be me.

I once stood where you stand, and I didn’t hear myself, either.

In the end… there is no such thing as freedom. Or magnificence. Justice flies away, on her flawless wings of white, and Truth lies bleeding, prone on the ground. Glory falls, sobbing, broken by the visions of war. And Honor… oh, Honor…

Honor has no place in the life you’ve been given. Honor has no place in our life.

And in the end… hate will be all that you have.