Despair

      Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Harry was aware, of course, that such thoughts led down a dark path. But a louder, more insistent voice in his head argued that there was no escaping this quagmire. His life was slowly, inexorably, bleeding of all meaning. And no one, nothing, could help him now.       “Hermione?” Potter’s voice was quiet, pulling himself from the sticky morass of his thoughts.       She started. “Hm? What? Oh, Harry! Is something wrong?” she asked, finally looking up from her parchment.       “Why does everyone hate me?” he asked, his tone distant. “Even you.”       “Harry, what are you on about?” the girl wondered, setting her quill down entirely. “What gives you the idea that everyone, least of all me, hates you? I’m just—”       “Yeah?!” Harry exploded. “Then how do you explain all the scornful looks and the refusal to even talk to me! Why are you denying what’s right in front of you!”       “Harry, there’s no need to shout,” Hermione began, her tone taking on the calm, lecturing quality she used in class. “You have to understand that a lot of people didn’t accept your name coming out of the Goblet. They think it’s unfair.”       “And that’s my fault?” Harry asked, a dangerous detachment in his voice, though fury was boiling within him. He was on the verge of snapping. “It’s my fault someone entered my name? It’s my fault the damned Cup chose me? It’s my fault I now have to compete with those seventh-years who look like mountains?”       “Harry! Harry!” the girl tried to shout over her enraged friend. “I understand completely! I know this is incredibly hard for you! I think Ron understands that, too. And the rest of your friends. But you have to try and understand them. The Tournament rules are very strict, and they don’t like it when they’re broken, even if you didn’t do it on purpose. In your fourth year, something incredible happens to you. You become a celebrity! And all they do is stand in your shadow. It’s irritating. They probably wish they could make up with you by now, but their pride won’t let them take the first step.”       “Are you being serious?” Potter let out a bitter, mirthless chuckle. “Serious? Their pride won’t let them? Did they ever stop to think about me? Did it ever cross their brilliant minds that my life is going to hell, that the only thing I need right now is their support? And what do I get from them? Nothing but disdainful whispers behind my back!”       He couldn’t take it anymore. The sight of Hermione’s astonished and flustered face was nauseating, and the boy felt he could no longer breathe in the Gryffindor common room, where the tension was a physical presence. He had to get out. He needed to walk. And right now, he paid no heed to Hermione’s cries or the fact he was still in his pyjamas. He strode out of the common room with a silent, grim determination. Once in the corridor, he glanced around. It was late evening, and many students, particularly the younger ones, had already retired to their dormitories. The castle was more crowded now, true, with the visiting schools, but their students seemed to have withdrawn to their own quarters as well.       He wanted to be somewhere no one would see him. To collect himself. After a moment’s thought, Harry headed for the nearest staircase. The Astronomy Tower. There were no classes scheduled, which meant he could count on being completely alone.       There was a time when Harry had ached to be back in the company of his friends. Playing chess with Ron, laughing at Dean’s jokes, watching Seamus’s explosive but fascinating experiments… But now, having heard Hermione’s true feelings, Potter found himself, for the first time in his life, craving solitude. It would have been unthinkable before, but now it felt like his only salvation. Salvation for his weary mind and exhausted soul. Only now did Harry realize that being alone was the best solution. Even when he’d first arrived at school, Potter hadn’t adapted to socializing quickly. He had been alone too long, had relied only on himself. But he had tried! He had tried so hard! For Ron, then for Hermione, then for the others… But he hadn’t tried for himself. And that was the most galling part of it all, especially now.       Perhaps he had simply grown accustomed to it. In just three years, he’d grown used to a soft bed, good food, and loyal friends. Before that, Harry had no friends. There had only been the small cupboard under the stairs, the one safe place in his aunt and uncle’s house that couldn’t begin to compare to the spacious rooms of the castle.       Perhaps it was his age. The Gryffindor had heard somewhere that teenagers were morally unstable and prone to depression. And Harry was fourteen. Not seventeen, an inner voice sighed heavily. How wonderful it would be if Harry were truly seventeen! Then he’d get universal recognition and fame, not a knife in the back. But there was no aging spell or potion. A real pity.       His thoughts drifted in another direction. Harry tried not to dwell on the feeling, but sometimes it surfaced anyway. Fear. Panic. Suffocating. Overpowering.       Primordial, animal fear.       The Gryffindor was afraid to admit it even to himself, but he truly had no plan. Not a single, coherent idea. And it was agonizing. He’d heard somewhere that the waiting was the worst part, not the doing itself. It was like that with exams. And the Tournament was an exam. A brutally cruel and merciless one. He could hope that the adrenaline would eclipse everything during the tasks themselves, but the first one was still a week away. And Harry had no idea what to do. Or who to ask for help. Yes, he could go to Professor McGonagall, but she wouldn’t tell him what the tasks were, even out of affection for him. Or perhaps she would just brush him off like a pesky fly. After all, participants had died in the Tournament before.       And Harry was terrified of death. Despite all his feats and sacrifices, every time he had faced death, Harry had been afraid. Few could claim that Potter’s life had been a happy one, but he loved it nonetheless and wasn’t ready to say goodbye to it at the very start of his journey. And the Tournament was noticeably shortening that journey. This was no laughing matter.       So immersed was he in his heavy thoughts that Harry didn’t notice he had reached his destination. He was pulled from his brooding by a girl’s voice, whose words were calm and declarative:       “Harry Potter.”