Harry Potter and the Survivor's Curse

Prologue

Sep-1-2020

A/N: Hello lovely person reading this, whoever you are! Thank you so much for choosing to read my story. I'm really early on in this whole writing thing, so please feel free to give me advice. I know I could really use it. Please, though, don't make comments just to be rude.

Also, please check out my other stories! At the moment, I've just published the first chapter or portion of each. Comment on which you'd like me to update on first and I'll see what I can do. Honestly, I'm new to this entire thing so... yeah.

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Harry walked back to Dumbledore's grave, knowing that his two friends weren't following him. They were probably glued at the mouth again. He hadn't seen either all morning. As Harry pushed aside the shroud of cloth surrounding his old headmaster's body, he took extra care to not look at his face. It would only cause more memories. Memories of things he would rather forget.

It was now the morning after what the twins would most likely call The-Most-Epic- Battle-In-The-Universe. But of course, they couldn't. It wasn't the twins anymore, just George. Fred had... Harry felt tears prick his eyes. Not ones of sadness, though he was sad, no. Those tears had long passed. Passed many years ago, not that anyone noticed. These were of guilt. He knew it was his fault. All those people lost in the war effort. All those families torn apart. All of the people who would never be found, never be remembered, and, perhaps worse, were the ones who would.

They would be known, and celebrated for years to come because they had 'given their life to the cause.' But that wasn't always true. Over a third of the dead during the past two years of war were muggles. Innocents who had no idea what was going on. Those people hadn't 'given their life to the cause.' They had been killed, by no fault, or choice of their own, but only because they had no possible escape. Because he hadn't been able to save them.

These were the typical thoughts he had racing through his head on a regular basis now. As he replaced the wand to it's past owner's hand, he realized that he couldn't remember the last time he had felt genuinely happy. Sure, he had pretended around his friends, but almost none of those feelings were real. None had been since Sirius' death. That had been the last straw. Since then, he had become emptier and emptier, until he was almost unrecognizable out of character.

But guilt, guilt and self-loathing were the only things he could feel. Everything was his, Harry's fault. It was his mess, and he'd have to clean it up. But in this metaphor, he'd cut his hands on the metaphorical broken glass, and had shied away. He had been scared, hurt, and disabled and unable to clean the rest of the mess. So Sirius died. Cedric died. Dumbledore died. Remus, Tonks, Mad-Eye, Snape, Lavender, Colin, Fred. He couldn't even keep his own pet owl alive.

And it hurt.