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Date Posted: 16:45:32 03/16/02 Sat
Author: Harry Potter
Subject: Friend or fiend?...
In reply to: Ron Weasley 's message, "-Memory is a Fickle Friend-" on 16:08:05 03/16/02 Sat

Contempt of the satiric irony that life is chiefly comprised of flickers in the hardened, emerald eyes of the compact figure. Nearly five years ago, around the anniversary of this very day, did he discover the truth. It was utmostly surreal. Had he not been so innocent, he would have been more cynical of the motive of the gargantuan, blundering giant that had arrived to bring him into a world where everything was the inverse of the one he had been in. He had been so eager to escape the ten years of undiluted anguish that he had spent, trapped in that God forsaken and less than humble abode, that he had been gullible enough to go. What if he had refused to venture off into the unknown with a stranger? Could he have? Would it have mattered if he had protested? He frequently pondered what his life would be life if, perhaps, by chance, he had refused to venture off with Hagrid. He recalls the blustering, pure man with a sense of remorseful respect. A melancholy feeling washes over him and a familiar voice shakes him from the angsty deemings infiltrating his mind without end.

A disdainful sort of "hmph" is emitted in a low undertone to the crimson crowned confidant in reply. A distinctly flummoxed look briefly comes to his usually unreadable, verdant optics as he glances surily at the male that he has developed and enduring companionship with. "Look on the bright side. We're alive." The tousel haired boy is inwardly shocked by a sudden sense of merciful pity and guilt for his ruby apexed crony. Shouldn't have mentioned life in front of him; he's going to dwell on Fred's death now, admonishes his fervently attentive mind. A certain sort of dreadful apprehension creeps into his system as the reality of everything dawns on him; as if someone exposing another human to a blindingly ardent sphere of light when they have been living in the dark for years. The dawning of reality is now redundant to the irritably tempered Boy Who Lived. He finds it nearly unfair that he somehow manages to perpetuate his exsistance and yet, so many others unjustly do not... and he is confident, in hsi pessimist, masochist way, that it is because of him. And truth be told... it partially is.

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[> [> [> -Only When You Look For It Does the Truth Surface- -- Ron Weasley, 19:52:06 03/16/02 Sat

-A faint frown graces his lips as he gazes broodingly at the castle-

"Oh God, he's alive! Thank God, he's alive!"

-Unconsciously, a gaunt hand rises to brush the youth's chest-

I am alive, right Harry?

-He panicked as his mother embraced him, pulling free with a sharp yell. Staring with wide eyes at her astonished face and feeling a surge of guilt, he looked away. For some reason, it had felt too much like the arms of Death surrounding him-

-Despite the warm weather, the boy shivered-

Fred and George probably will take all our minds off things.


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[> [> [> [> It seems even the truth is mendacious. -- Harry Potter, 20:44:21 03/16/02 Sat

The maelstrom that had been encroaching upon his swimming mind fully ascends as he follows his thin familiar's cedar colored gaze towards the castle. The moment seems very unreal, and as cliched as it is, the tousel haired boy feels as if this is one prolonged, loathed nightmare that they will all soon awaken from. Reality tells him that this quixotic fantasy of his, that it is all just a thing his mind conceived in his sleep, holds as much truth as a blackened lie does.

A painful pang of irresolute sympathy for his vermilion topped cohort multiples within him as he queries so listlessly. His pate inclines towards his chest and pale digits trail through mussed, ebony locks as he responds. "Yes, Ron. You're alive. Thankfully." He surpresses the tremendously overwhelming itch to exhale because he knows things can never be the same. Instead of being disheartening, he does the opposite by offering the freckled friend a weakened smile.

He sincerely wishes there was something he could do to ease the ache of denial inside the friend that has managed to put up with all of his quirks for nearly five years now. He silently swallows a lump in his throat, in debate of awakening the logical side of his grieving friend and merely going along with the idea of Fred being extant as not to upset him. An undilutedly sad, dreary sort of look onsets upon his visage of pallor, and he murmurs, barely audibly. "Ron... they're upset as we are about all of this." What pain it brings him to pronounce the words. Fred is gone, and Harry knows this fact well, yet Ron's kinship inspired love for his brother prevents him from believing the obvious. The things a human being can do to another human being never cease to amaze the Boy Who Lived.


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