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Dress him in steel, standing tall. The little soft organs protected by the weight of metal over his shoulders.
Make him a soldier.
Carved, every feature crowned by the chisel; the blade wedging in the tiny crevices chipped from the stone his form.
In the middle of the Ministry atrium, Harry was immortalized like his parents before.
The first of May, around the statue, feets twirled, tapping along the floor. They followed the thread of music that pulled them in, sucked into the melody like corpses long forgotten, barely visible to his eyes.
Translucence, light flicked through his body, pouring down his clammy skin.
Bleary eyes looked at the figures curling around and flitting about, paired up, united; he saw himself, long ago, a little boy in a kitchen listening to the radio.
The tune wasn’t for him; nothing was. Yet, he still traced with the tip of his toe, turned about, lost; losing to the life he wasn’t allowed to have, inside his chest. The little organ pounding beneath a thin shirt.
They made him a soldier long before he was strong enough to hold a sword.
“To Harry Potter, our Savior,” the Minister had said, raising a glass, raising his glance to him.
“Our Savior,” the crowd chanted back, breathless, mindless, inhumane. He couldn’t see anyone’s face under the light. There was no one, the sound had floated from empty mouths onto his indivisible skin.
He was adorned. Honored. Given intense eyes, shoulders back; a warrior's position. He still had smooth skin, a skinny body, and immature features of youth. He was given an armour
.Little child of lifeless courage. A great vessel of virtue.
He walked along the wall until he met a corner, and turned; little organs failing, or so it felt.
Tears are tinted, glowing, diamonds on his blessed cheeks. The metal plate wrapped around his lungs prevented them from expanding.
Harry’s arms had been so small when he first murdered someone. Chubby fingers, rough from labour, had simply touched, grazed the enemy.
He hadn’t felt any remorse.
He fed from fate’s hand and didn’t bite; he licked, caressed, leaned into her cold touch, let her lead him forward into death’s arms, only to be pulled back by her.
No rest for the pure. He still had a path to follow.
An auror. A wife. Children.
He choked on the mucus in his throat, leaning against a wall—the echo of the reverent music and the adoring people breathing against his back.
Make him melt in morality’s favor. Make him an ideal victim. Make him a king of martyrdom.
Pretend he wasn’t a starved, desperate little boy with no sword, no armor, no crown.
Make him a child soldier, forever.
Let destiny take his hand down the narrow path that’s left, toward the breathless commemoration and eulogy of the Savior.
As Harry looked back at the hall, he knew he would never truly make it out. He knew he would die at the feet of his heroics, bowing over the marble of his image.
He wished he would be made human again.
Make him just a child, just once.