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Chapter Text

Chosen:

“Severus?”

Snape looked up from his potion, brow frowned, and Dumbledore’s piercing blue eyes studied him carefully. The headmaster pulled his spectacles off his crocked nose, and began slowly wiping the lenses on his purple robe, smiling thinly.

“Ah. You disagree.”

At first, Snape did not reply. The potion he was brewing sizzled softly as he added root of aconite, and he wiped his hands slowly on a clean handkerchief. Dumbledore, sitting, unsteady in a reclining chair Snape had transfigured for him in his dungeon, was breathing heavily, his aged face wet with perspiration, his beard shoved over his shoulder, out of the way. 

“You’re letting it get out of hand,” Snape snarled finally, when he couldn’t take the piercing blue any longer. He pushed the morning’s Prophet towards the old headmaster. “Chosen One,” he hissed in derision, shaking his head in disgust, “In all honesty.”

“It’s the truth.”

“His head will explode before he ever gets to the Dark Lord.”

“I find it enlightening,” Dumbledore mused. “That you are so acute at reading the minds and truths of everyone— apart from James Potter’s son.”

Snape muttered darkly under his breath, poured herbs into the mix, and stirred counterclockwise, counting.

“When the war proceeds, he’ll need the attention,” Dumbledore said softly. “It could take years to fulfill the prophecy. Maybe decades. They may need to amass an army. And if Harry must lead wizards into battle, they’ll need to believe in him.”

“He’s a child.”

“He’s a beacon,” Dumbledore said. “An army needs a beacon, in war. To give people strength. To unite them. To help them face their fears.”

“Well, if the Chosen One doesn’t live up to their expectations, it all comes toppling down.”

“But he will live up to it,” Dumbledore said simply. “I’ve never been more convinced in anything. He will be the hope that stands before the Light side, and he will succeed in his mission. He’ll fulfill his destiny… or the prophecy, in any event. And he will kill Voldemort.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “I hope you have an alternative, for the... unlikely... event, that such is required.”

“It is odd, that the very thing that blinds you to his power is the very thing that will let him win,” Dumbledore said sharply, and edge to his calm voice. 

“Let me guess,” Snape said, pouring the finished potion into a flask. “Love.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore agreed, smiling. “It’s all he needs.”

“If you weren’t so often gallingly right,” Snape said, passing the old man the steaming flask, “I’d call you a fool.”

“Harry will not be able to back out of it,” Dumbledore said, so quietly Snape was unsure  whether he was speaking to him, or to himself. “He would not be himself, if he did. And he leads others with this fierce will. To guard. To protect. To love.”

He drank the flask empty. Snape began spreading the potion over the withered hand, and Dumbledore hummed in pain.

“He’ll keep fighting, and others will help him,” Dumbledore said. “Whereas the longer Voldemort fights, the fewer will support him. That’s the difference. That’s why love will win.”

“If you say so.”

Finally, the cursed ring came off. Dumbledore leaned back in his chair in exhaustion.

“And after?” Snape asked.

Dumbledore opened his eyes tiredly. “After what?”

“After the Dark Lord is gone,” Snape said, moving towards the cauldron and pouring more potion into more flasks methodically. “What then?”

Dumbledore watched him for a number of moments, wordless.

“I don’t know,” He said, frowning.

Chapter One: After

Harry woke to hear birds chirping.

He was lying in his old bed in the Seventh Year Gryffindor dorms. He still wore the cloths he’d worn when he stepped out of Aberforth’s inn. His glasses were on the bedside table. It was familiar, lying here, as he had for six years. But everything was different. Lord Voldemort was dead.

Outside the window, the grounds were growing light. Slim rays of a shy sun streamed down on Hogwarts castle, or what remained of it, and if he listened he could hear the calls of owls newly returned to the Owlry, of the Giant Squid splashing in the Great Lake, of the Whopping Willow turning its powerful limbs. He closed his eyes, letting the sounds wash over him. 

He tried to ignore the rest of the sounds, but he could hear them well enough. He heard rubble fall as spells attempted to right the fallen walls. Yelling of people trying to rebuild or rescue. Howling of injured giants. Cricking of armor. Ghosts.

Go back to sleep.

He glanced sideways to the rest of the room, hoping to see Ron, but his friend’s bed was empty, though they’d gone up here together. Harry pulled his glasses on and sat up on the bed. His body ached all over. He felt strange.

He thought he felt his scar prickling.

Motionless, he tried to make sure. How could he not know? He’d felt it flashing so often, he could never have mistaken it. But he wasn’t sure now. Was it really prickling, or was he just imagining it?

He traced it with a finger.

Imagining.

He stood. Pulled his boots on. He was starving. He reached for the familiar presence of his wand, found it, and started walking towards the door.

No, no, it was definitely prickling.

He stood frozen.

No. Imagining. When it prickled, he knew. It hurt. It couldn’t be confused. This was just a shadow. A memory. It was nothing.

He reached the door, slightly breathless, and rushed out of the common room.

When he got to the Great Hall, he found Luna.

“Hey,” He said, and she hummed. “What’s going on?”

“I’m glad you’re awake," Her eyes were closed, listening to something he couldn't hear. "You’ve been asleep for awhile. Ron and Hermione are worried.”

“They usually are,” He stood next to her. “You know where they are?”

“Oh, yes. The Room of Requirements. Everyone’s there.”

“Why?”

“The infirmary wasn’t big enough.”

Harry felt his scar prickle again. “Oh.”

The Great Hall was in ruins. He and Luna stood on what was left of the large staircase, facing the destroyed house tables and the cracked enchanted ceiling. Outside was a shockingly beautiful day, the sky blue and cloudless. Harry looked at it.

“You never said anything about your godfather dying,” Luna said suddenly, opening here eyes and looking where he looked.

Harry glanced at her. “What?”

“After Sirius Black died,” She repeated. “Ginny thought you’d be upset. But you never said anything.”

There was silence. Harry looked back at the rubble. 

“Nothing to say,” He answered.

He didn’t want to see the bodies. But they had died for him, while he was taking his time finding the horcruxes. So he walked slowly up to the Seventh Floor, taking in the damage.

It would take a while before they put the ancient castle back together, Harry thought. The pieces of armor were back in their rightful places. Most of the pictures were intact, but the ones that stood at the outer walls lay littering the halls, their occupants fled. The forest was partially burned down. He could glimpse the centaurs within it, trying to put out the last of the flames.

He stood by the crumbled wall where Fred had died and looked down at the Quidditch Pitch, three of the six hoops fallen. He couldn’t take his eyes off it until he felt a hand on his.

He looked down. It was Ginny. She was pale, her arm bandaged, but she looked up at him with a glint in her eyes.

“Everyone’s looking for you,” she said. Harry nodded. He turned back, stepping over the stones where Fred bled, and walked through the door that had appeared in the middle of the hall. 

He was immediately surrounded by noise. Rows upon rows of beds were spread all over a large, well lit room. Madam Pompfrey was one of six or seven white robed Healers rushing back and forth, and a large fireplace in the middle of the room periodically spewed more, laden with potions and odd instruments. Harry managed to stand unnoticed for all of two seconds before voices spoke his name from every direction.

Hagrid was the first to enfold him in a crushing hug. “Couldda let me know, ye could,” He said, but he was smiling, and Harry smiled back. They walked together towards the Weasleys, who were huddled around a bed where Percy was lying, looking sheepish.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked, fear dawning on him, but Percy nodded quickly. 

“Of course,” He said, his voice breaking. “Just… a stray spell, nothing… “ His eyes were wide. He swallowed with difficulty. “…serious.”

Harry looked at the rest of them. Charlie had something pressed over his right eye, and Fleur’s blonde hair was singed. The rest of them seemed tired, but otherwise unharmed. Mrs. Weasley started crying as she pulled Harry into a hug.

He hugged her back as she sobbed into his shoulder. George wasn’t there. Harry watched Ron and Hermione walk towards him. They’d been sitting with Neville, who was being treated by Hannah Abbot. They were deep in conversation. She rubbed a lotion on his burnt face, and he was laughing at something. 

Where was Fred’s body? Where were all the bodies? How many bodies were there?

He felt cold. His scar hurt. Why wouldn’t it stop? It couldn’t be hurting. It didn’t make any sense for it to hurt. 

Finally, Mrs. Weasley let him go. She smiled sadly and ran her hand down his cheek. “Have you eaten anything, dear?”

“Yes,” He lied, because he couldn’t think of eating anything at all anymore. Actually, it seemed more likely that he’d throw up. Ron was holding Hermione’s hand. She was also hurt— a nasty cut across her collarbone. But when they stopped next to him, she held his hand, and hers felt warm and small in his.

“We didn’t want to wake you,” She said softly. Ron was looking at him with a strange expression. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Harry lied again, turning his gaze back to the beds, catching sight of more injured people. He saw Seamus Finnegan unconscious by the wall, his mother over his body, but she wasn’t crying so maybe that meant he wasn’t dead. 

His scar hurt.

“We should go outside,” Ron said suddenly, and when Harry looked back at them, he realized Ron and Hermione were wearing identical, worried expressions.

“I’m fine,” Harry said again. “Where are the bodies?”

“The other room,” Hermione replied. “But Harry, I don’t think—“

He ignored her, and started walking towards a large doorway he hadn’t noticed earlier. The second room was much quieter. Instead of beds, the dead were lined one after the other on the floor, covered in sheets. Some people sat between the bodies, and a Healer walked around, marking things on his board. Harry caught sight of Rita Skitters, marking off names. She nodded at him when their eyes met. The Daily Prophet would be getting a list of the dead. 

Harry couldn’t tell anyone apart, as they were lain with their faces covered. But he knew where Fred was, because George was sitting next to him, looking at the wall in the other side of the room.

He didn’t see Harry staring, and Harry studied his expression, memorizing it. His face was pale. His hair was sticking to his forehead. He wasn’t crying anymore, but his eyes were ashen, his lips white, his hands held awkwardly at his sides, as though he wasn’t sure where to put them. He wasn’t looking at the body next to him. His eyes never wavered from the stone wall, as if he was trying to cut through it with will power alone. 

“Harry.”

His scar hurt.

“Harry, let's get out of here.”

There were three rows of them. He estimated twenty a row. Another, smaller row was pushed to the side, and laid down less ceremoniously. Death Eaters? It seemed likely. 

He felt a hand in his. It didn’t feel warm this time. His fingers were numb. Hermione pulled him gently, and he felt Ron’s hand on his shoulder. Two of these bodies were Remus and Tonks. Where they next to each other? Where was Colin Creevey? Did someone bring Snape’s body here, or was it still in the Shrieking Shack?

His scar hurt.

He let them lead him back out through the doorway and into the makeshift infirmary. He would have given anything to go back to the dorms. But more people had noticed him, and they were coming in their direction.

Soon, they were surrounded by happy faces. 

“Always knew you were the real deal, Mr. Potter, I did!”

“—Magnificent spell, absolutely amazing, I’d be telling my grandchildren about this day—“

“…Tricking the Dark Lord— who’d have thought— I was near faintin’, knees so weak—“

He was shaking hands numbly, being hugged by crying mothers, and soon Ron’s hand was gone from his shoulder and he and Hermione vanished into the crowd. Harry blinked and smiled and muttered thanks, and more and more people came and he tried to listen to their words but it didn’t seem to matter, and all the while behind him was a room full of corpses that wouldn’t be dead had he only gone to Voldemort the first time, and thoughts whirled in his head so fast and furious and he had never actually seen George without Fred and the idea of it was so odd, and he would never see the two of them together, and Teddy Lupin would see his parents look down at him from the Mirror of Erised and Denis Creevey would write his brother’s eulogy and now names and faces rushed through him in a torrent, so that he could hardly see the people who were celebrating his victory behind the shouting of the dead in his ears.

Stop it. Stop.

He fit his face into a smile, pushing the images away. Later. There will be time later. He couldn’t do this now. 

Eventually the mob dispersed, and Harry found himself nodding numbly at a little wizard, the father of a Hufflepuff sixth year who’d died in the battle. His eyes were shining with tears.

“She spoke about you often,” He said, Harry’s hands trapped in his. “All the time. And she was right. My girl. You saved us all. And now it’s over. You saved us all.”

Harry nodded, but the man wouldn’t let go. His eyes were imploring. Harry didn’t know what he wanted him to say.

“The Boy Who Lived,” The man said finally. “You’ll be our light, even now. It’s you. You’re the only one who can.”

Harry didn’t feel like much of a light. He felt like happiness was swallowed by him and transformed to darkness, as if he was halfway to becoming a dementor. But he smiled, and nodded, and finally, the man let go and stumbled away.

When he looked up, more people were looking at him, their eyes bright, hopeful. What did they expect of him now? What did they want?

Healers swarmed past, and he saw a young man spread over a bed to the side, horrible wounds all over his body. He watched motionless as Madam Pomfrey cast spells over his still chest. Two people rushed over with vials and outstretched wands. But Madam Pomfrey shook her head, and pulled the sheet over the man’s wide, staring eyes.

He had to get out of there.

He made it as far as the corridor before more people met him. They smiled happily, opened their mouths, said things of victory and joy and Harry pushed past them, not even apologizing. He heard their calls of surprise, but he was already turning the corner, half running, not sure where. The inhabitants of the pictures called after him, congratulatory, and ghosts came in and out of vision, but he just walked through them, and the cold chill that usually filled him when passing through a ghost was indecipherable from the cold that was in him already, and then he was running, his feet banging at the floors, echoing through the halls, and outside the sun shone as if dozens of people weren’t lying dead and staring, and he couldn’t, he couldn’t—

He came to a stop at the edge of the lake, looking out at the other side, where once he thought he’d seen his father cast a Patronus.

You'll be our light. You’re the only one who can.

He picked up a stone and watched it skidding over the water. The ripples overtook each other, and his hands were limp at his side. His mouth was dry. His scar hurt. He swallowed.

You'll be our light.

I need to pull myself together.

Breathed deeply, shut his eyes, picked up another stone and threw it.

Our light.

Ok.

Ok.

Our light.

There were many funerals.

Harry sat at the front row, most of the time, asked there by family members and Ministry officials. Some of them asked him to speak, but he always declined. As others cried, he kept his face empty, pushing thoughts away.

Rita Skitters was one of a dozen reporters who asked to speak with him, three of them foreign, and to his friends’s surprise, he spoke to them all. When he walked down the street, people stopped him, looking for brave words about the world they'll all build together, and Harry had phrases prepared, which made them smile tearfully with hope in their eyes. He’d smile back, mimicking the hope. They quoted him in the papers, and posted large photographs, and he studied the expressions on his face and worked to improve them. A little magic didn’t hurt, and it was easy, to smile and nod and encourage, to speak about rebuilding and unity and the future. As long as it wasn’t about the past.

Usually he stayed at the Burrow. The house was cold and grey, and people walked around as though in a daze, and he walked amongst them, with his empty smiles and his empty words making their eyes shine. He could cook fairly well from his days with the Dursleys, and it felt good, to keep his hands busy so that Molly Weasley could sit and stare into a bellowing fire. 

Ron and Hermione spent a lot of time together, and Harry was glad, because when they did see him they’d frown at his smile, as though seeing right through it. They went to find Hermione’s parents in Australia, and came back three days later, exhausted but successful. They sat in the living room and relived the tale, to everyone’s rapt attention. It was something other than grey, and they were all hungry for non-greyness.

George hadn’t left his room in days, and the stillness of it was what made it frightening. Where once there were loud bangs and explosions, now there was nothing, but Harry didn’t dare go in. He knew Ron was, and Bill, and some of the others, but he knew that if he saw George, the smile would slip right off of his face and he wouldn’t be able to plaster it on again.

Days passed. Andromeda Tonks came often to the Burrow, and whenever she did she cried. She’d lost her entire family in the war, and Teddy was the only thing she had left. She hardly ever let him out of her sight, which was fine with Harry. More often than not, he couldn’t bear to look at him, and see Tonks’s hair and Lupin’s eyes. 

He kept himself busy, but soon Molly wanted her kitchen back, and prodded him to leave the cooking to her. He’d spend time listening to conversations in the living room— people came and went, with news, sightings of Death Eaters, the reconstruction of Azkaban, rebuilding at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall came one night, morbid, muttering about inadequate Americans, to relate that she had yet to replace all the teachers in her staff, with the school year three months away. “We will perhaps start later,” She said, and Mr. Weasley nodded, as if he’d expected as much. Was it a normal occurrence, in the last war? “October, perhaps…”

Ginny caught him one night, sitting staring at the fire, keeping his mind empty.

It was a good exercise, even though it made him think of Snape. The emptiness was comforting, calming, and it made his expressions during the day more believable.

“Hey, Harry.”

“Hey. How are you?”

She sighed, and sat next to him, bringing her legs to her chest. 

“I wish George would come down.”

He nodded, mouth dry. Ginny put her head on his shoulder, which she’d started doing again, and it made him feel horrible, but he knew she’d be hurt if he pulled away.

“If seems foolish,” She was saying. “Going to Hogwarts. Studying for NEWTs. Worrying about grades.”

He nodded again, and she pulled away from him, which made breathing easier. “What are you planning for September?”

He shrugged. “Haven’t thought about it yet.”

“Kingsley wants you to join them. Hunting the last of the Death Eaters.”

“I don’t know that I want to do that.”

She was studying his face. He wished she’d stop. He looked back at her, smiling.

“Are you alright?” He asked, before she could, and she nodded, again, blushing, looking into the flames.

They were alone in the living room. Most everyone had already gone to bed. Harry slept in Ron’s room, but as usual, he didn’t feel like going to sleep yet. He’d been taking Dreamless Sleep Potion, to make the nightmares go away, but it made him tired the day after, heavy, and made it harder to smile. So he stayed up instead, dreading it.

“Hermione says she’ll try to convince you and Ron to go back to school next year,” Ginny said. “Ron’s not gonna take much convincing, I think he’ll jump off a cliff to get her a popsicle if he knew she wanted one.”

Harry didn’t miss the cue, and laughed. Ginny’s frown deepened. 

“Well,” He said quickly. “That’s one option.”

Her lips were pursed. He stretched, planning to make an excuse and leave, but she was faster.

“Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“What happened in the forest?”

He swallowed, glancing at his watch.

“That’s… that’s a long story,” He said, half jokingly. “And I’m real tired, Ginny, maybe another time—“

“He thought you were dead,” She said, stubbornly. “Why would he think that if… Did you…” She seemed to be battling with herself. “Did he use the curse on you? The Killing Curse?”

“Ginny—“

“And you survived again.” She was smiling. Stop. “How did you know? That it wouldn’t kill you?”

“I didn’t know,” He muttered.

It was the wrong thing to say, because Ginny’s eyes widened and she leaned away from him.

“Er… What?” He asked, confused, and she gaped at him.

“But… Harry—“

“Ginny, I’m really tired, if you’ve got something to say then just—“

“You went there thinking you’d die?”

“Well…” Her eyes were huge. Harry felt his neck reddening. “Er. Yes.”

“And you…” She was shaking her head. “You…”

Every freckle was evident over her pale face, and Harry had had enough of the staring.

“Listen,” He started, annoyed, but just then a figure walked out of the stairwell, and he fell silent, his insides in turmoil.

George looked skeletal. He was wearing robes that hung over his body, and his face was ashen, his eyes dark and deep-set and dead. He moved slowly, as if every motion was a struggle, and when he caught sight of them, he raised his hand in greeting, but let it drop back down almost immediately.

“Hey,” Ginny said, as Harry sat frozen behind her. “Hey, how are you?”

George nodded, the movement too elongated, and shuffled painfully into the kitchen.

“Want me to make you something?”

Ginny followed him, her voice gentle, as if she was speaking to someone fatally ill. She motioned for Harry to follow, and he did, numbly, so that he saw George pull a glass from a cupboard and fill it with water.

When he was finished, he put it to his lips, took a swing, slow, hardly moving, and then put it on the counter again, almost full.

“Hey, wait—“

But he was already making his way back up. She grabbed his hand and he froze at the touch.

“George,” She said, pleadingly, and he didn’t look at her. “Hey. Listen. George.”

But she had no words, and George pulled his hand gently out of hers and was gone again.

Ginny turned, crestfallen, to Harry, who hadn’t moved from the doorway.

“He’s not eating anything,” She said, tears in her eyes. “I don’t know what— I wish there was something— but I never have anything to say,” She finished, and Harry nodded, and she must have wanted him to say something but he didn’t know, either.

He made a decision, and went though with it, uncertainly, not sure if it was right or if he just needed to get out of that house. He went back to Hogwarts, and spent two days sleeping at Hagrid’s hut, looking through the forest.

He could never forget the trail he’d gone on his way to die. And sure enough, he found his quarry, innocent but obvious on the forest floor. The Resurrection Stone.

He didn’t want to touch it, because he didn’t want to see them. So he pulled it up with robes covering his hand, and placed it in his pocket.

It had been a month since the battle, and the castle was rebuilding itself. It took more than some giants and a Dark Lord to destroy Hogwarts, and most of the walls were back in place, the towers righted. Harry studied it as he stepped out into the bright grounds again, and thought he saw silvery figures passing through the windows. The Ghost of Ravenclaw? He couldn’t tell.

He walked off the grounds, and apparated back. It was a short walk to the Burrow. He tried to empty his mind, but it was harder than usual. The stone weighted him down. His parents, Sirius, Lupin. Would they know what to do? They’d say to hold it together. You will be our light.

He waited until night fell. When he was alone in the living room, George came again, but at first did not notice him.

“George,” He said, and the older boy turned. His hair wasn’t as red as Harry remembered. It looked grey, like everything else at the Burrow. Harry walked toward him steadily, keeping his mind empty. His scar hurt.

“I want to show you something,” He said, and George’s face was impassive, and he seeped one seep from the glass. “Please?”

He followed him. Harry led them outside, to the shed where Mr. Weasley’s car had been. There were piles and piles of muggle garbage, untouched for months, ever since Mr. Weasley had become too busy with the Order to pursue his hobby. Harry wondered if he’d ever pursue it again. Then he scolded himself, and emptied his mind once more, turning to George.

There was a lamp dangling over their heads, and Harry lit it with a flick of the wand. George looked even worse beneath it, and he stood on edge, not curious, not intrigued. Harry breathed in, wondering how daft an idea this was. But the Burrow was grey, and he couldn’t bear it.

He pulled the stone out of his pocket. George glanced at it, uninterested. Harry cleared his throat.

“It’s dangerous,” He said. “To… do this. So… So I’m going to take it away. Fifteen minutes, that’s what you have, alright? Then you give it back. If you don’t…” He swallowed. Shit. Empty. Empty. “I'll take it in fifteen minutes. Alright?”

George didn’t answer. His face was as empty as Harry tried to make his mind.

This is a bad idea.

Shit.

He raised his hand, holding the stone between folded robes.

George stepped forward, and his movements were painful to watch. He put his hand under Harry’s, so Harry dropped the stone into his unsteady palm.

There was silence.

Then George’s eyes filled with tears.

“Heya, Freddie,” He said, hardly a whisper.

Harry turned quickly and ran for the door. He shut it firmly behind him, and shut his eyes tight. 

Empty. Empty. Shit. Empty.

He dropped to the ground, put his back to the door, and wiped his eyes. He was shaking. He couldn’t stop. Empty. Empty. Empty—

Mrs. Weasley had cried at the funeral, and her wails filled his ears now, piercing and harsh. Percy had stood a ways aside from his family, until Bill went over and pulled him to them. Ron’s face had been in his hands, and Hermione had hugged him, tears washing her face, and Fred’s coffin had been opened and the smile was still a shadow on his grey face, his joke never finished, never to be finished, never again—

Harry pressed his hands to his forehead. His scar burned. He was gasping, but he needed to stop. Keep it together. You will be our light. Empty. Empty. You will be our light.

Thoughts whirled unbidden in his head, uncontrollable, rendering him helpless. Lupin and Tonks’s headstones were similar to the headstones he and Hermione found in Godric’s Hollow. Teddy had been whimpering. His grandmother held him, and she was shaking, and it made him nervous, and his hair was grey and his face was Lupin’s, his large eyes tearful, and the coffins were lowered and they were far apart, not touching, and it felt horrible to Harry, that they should spend all eternity a coffin away, never to be together again—

Stop it. Stop it. Please—

He pressed harder, his glasses digging into the flesh. The pain was comforting. Empty. Empty. Stop. His breathing was more even. He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes. Shit. Twenty minutes.

He stood up, swayed, steadied himself. Took a few deep breathes, trying to wipe his eyes clear. He put his hand on the door handle, trying to make it stop shaking, and pulled the door open.

George was sitting on the floor, but he stood up quickly when Harry came in.

“Give it to me,” Harry said, and his voice was foreign in his ears. He pulled his hand outward, and George looked at it, and his face was running with tears, and he was breathing heavily, panting, and he shook his head, closing his hand over the stone.

“George,” He said, choked, and he couldn’t stop the tears anymore and he wiped them angrily. Stupid. So stupid. “I gotta—“

George seemed to be struggling for words, and he looked to the side, next to him, where he must be seeing—

Empty, Empty, Empty—

Harry was shaking, and he gave up on the tears, and they just fell unhindered onto his robes. George’s eyes were big and wide and pleading. Harry pulled his wand out.

“Harry… You gotta listen a minute,“ George said, his voice hollow, and Harry had not heard it in weeks and it sounded like a record he had used to love, scratched beyond recognition. “You gotta listen. I don’t— You don’t have to— see, Freddie’s—“ 

He couldn’t listen to this. Putting away the wand, Harry stepped forward, and pulled George’s hand towards him, trying to force his fingers open. 

“Wait— You don’t understand—“

They struggled, and George fell to the ground, cursing, hiding his hand behind his back. Stupid. Stupid. Empty. Shit— 

Something distracted George, and his eyes breamed faster, tears sliding down his cheeks. But Harry ignored this. He forced the stone out of George’s fingers, and turned around quickly, bumping into Lupin, who looked like he wanted to say something, but Harry couldn’t bear to hear it and he dropped the stone into his pocket so that Lupin vanished, and run out the door.

“Harry, wait!”

He summoned his broom, and climbed on, not looking back. His tears were wiped away by the wind, and he flew as if the Snitch was inches away, farther and farther, into the night.

George stood alone in the shed, looking after the broom.

He could still feel the outline of the little stone in his palm, cool and small. When he glanced at where Fred had been standing, so different from him now, with a smile and a joke, he wasn’t there. He breathed. He wasn’t there.

They’d talked about it, before. No one else seemed to. They’d promised not to follow. If one died, the other would not tread behind. That was the agreement, but George had never thought he’d have to live up to it.

“I’m so proud of you,” Fred had said under the shed’s flickering lamp, when the stone was small and cold in George’s hand. “I’m proud of you. I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

George had stood, the words struck in his throat, the tears cascading down his face, breathless.

Fred was crying too, and he stepped forward, and George stepped back. But Fred grabbed his hands and they were on the floor, gasping, and he had no words, no way to explain, but Fred knew. Fred always knew...

“If you have a daughter first,” Fred choked, “Just promise you don’t call her Fredda.”

George let out a strangled laugh, and Fred’s filled his ears. He tried to say words, and they tumbled out of him in a jumble. “I,” He breathed, and Fred’s face was wet. “I can’t— I don’t know— I—“

Fred nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. I know.” And then, lying: “You’ll be ok.”

He shook his head, but Fred’s arms were on his, unrelenting. “Perce needs you,” He said, and George was shaking his head, and he couldn’t breathe. “He’s going crazy. You need to talk to him.”

“I—“

“Georgie,” Fred’s eyes were closed. “Listen. Listen. You gotta open the shop. Everything we worked for— Listen. No. Listen. It’s still there. Remember what Harry said? People need something to laugh about.”

His breathes were shudders, and Fred’s hands shook. “And Harry. Harry needs you too. He’s not doing so well.”

“I—“

Fred smiled, and tried to keep his face straight. “You’ll be ok,” He whispered again, and hugged him, like they did when they were children. “You’ll be ok.”

Now he stood alone in the shed, and he was not ok.

His body ached all over, but he took slow steps and made his way out of the shed, locking the door behind him. He walked on the path back to the house, and the stars were out and bright, and mindlessly, he thought that they were beautiful.

The kitchen was empty, and the glass he’d poured was still on the counter, and suddenly he was so thirsty, and he downed it and poured another, and another, and one more. Everyone was asleep, but he was starving, and he threw the drawers open, found bread, stuffed it into his mouth, and then found butter and ate the second one more civilly. You’ll be ok. You’ll be ok.

When he was full, he climbed back to their room— his room. He dropped onto the bed. Tears streamed down his face. For what felt like the first time in a long time, he slept.

Chapter Text

To Know

He had felt it when his brother died.

He’d thought it would be powerful, jarring, like a knife through his heart, like a chord being severed. He’d thought it would be like dying himself, like sinking into blood and dust, like being hit by a wall collapsing on top of you by a giant. It wasn’t.

He had been dueling a masked man, Angelina Johnson at his side, her dreadlocks flying as she moved, her spells immaculate, her form precise. The battle raged around them and spells shot in all directions, and George was trying to beat his opponent while avoiding the feet of the giants attempting to squash him beneath them. A dementor passed next to them and as he raised his wand he thought of winning the Quidditch Cup, Fred’s hand over his shoulder as they boosted it up, screaming into the roaring crowd—

And then.

He knew.

The Patronus never came. He stood rigid with his wand frozen mid motion, his eyes fixated forward, his world a whirl. The dementor vanished into the fight, devouring the stamina of the fighters, and George stared after it, void.

How do you know?

I know.

It can’t be.

It is.

A feeling he’d never had, a feeling he could not describe, somewhere in his stomach, empty but full, cold but burning, eternal but brief. 

And he knew.

He knew.

Angelina’s curse dropped the masked Death Eater, and she glanced over at him, panting, her brow frowned.

“George, pick up your wand for Merlin’s sake,” she said, standing close, the sweat glistening over her face, her large eyes wide with adrenaline, already looking around for people who might need help.

He looked at her, marveling at how wonderful it must be, not to know.

He swallowed, and raised his wand.

“I won’t let you down,” He whispered, and he knew that Fred heard him. Wherever he was.

***

Chapter Two: Missing:

Harry threw the stone into the river.

He wasn’t even sure which river it was. He didn’t know where he landed, but he took off immediately, so that the tears won’t have time to fall down his cheeks. The farther he flew, the emptier he was, and it was good, it was good, it was good.

He landed on a cliff over looking the ocean. All was silent. He had stopped shaking. But he couldn’t smile.

He couldn’t. Couldn’t talk and laugh and nod and smile and be a light. He couldn’t do it anymore. Because Fred was dead, and Lupin, and Tonks, and Dobby, and Lavender Brown and Collin Creevy, and Mad Eye Moody and Dumbledore, and Sirius, and the dead had been lain in rows in the Room of Requirements, their faces covered, and Lord Voldemort’s laugh was high in his ears and his scar hurt, his scar hurt, his scar hurt—

I can’t go back.

I can’t go back. 

I’m not going to.

They didn’t know where Harry was.

The first day they hadn’t been concerned, because Harry had stayed nights at Hagrid’s, had gone out to Diagon Alley, had left the Burrow and returned. 

But as the third day came around, Ron started being afraid.

They looked. They went as far as the Dursleys, but he was nowhere to be found. Godric’s Hollow was as empty and ruined as ever, he wasn’t at Hogwarts, or in the forests around, nor Hogsmeade, Grimmauld Place or Shell Cottage. Shacklebolt had gotten the Aurors on it. They feared Death Eaters had got him. But they kept it quiet, not wanting to arise a panic, hoping that if Harry had been captured his captors would make certain they knew, and that silence was an indication of safety. 

But the fear lingered. He felt like he had months before, alone at the Burrow with Harry and Hermione somewhere, soldiering in the war without him. He had to do something. He had to know.

“He might be using a Fidelius Charm,” Hermione said, biting her lips, as she was pouring over books of magical theory. “Then we could be standing right in front of him, and we wouldn’t even know he was there.”

“So we may have already ran into him?” 

She shrugged. Ron watched her reading,  making up his mind. 

He thought he knew where he would go, and he set out, that evening, deciding not to take anyone with him. He disapparated, reappearing at the side of a memorial statute of the Potters, and glanced at it briefly before moving on towards the destroyed house where Harry’s parents had died. He stopped by the gate, looking forward, feeling odd. The ruin was absurdly beautiful under the last rays of sun. 

Ron could tell it had been a nice house, once. A large front lawn stretched before him, with old trees shading over it, in full summer bloom. He thought he saw a collapsed swing shadowed beneath them, held up by one frayed rope, the other curled like a snake in the overgrown weeds. A disassembled pebbled path led to stone steps and then a porch, a large wooden door still standing firm on top of it. Walls had fallen on the northern part of the property, the inside of the second floor bare to the elements, and most of the windows had been broken, shreds of glasses glistening beneath them, reflecting the red sky. Ron stood outside of the gate, an intruder. Still, he pulled the latch open, and stepped towards the porch. 

The door was not locked. He opened it carefully, worried the motion might destabilize the structure of the house. He was too large and cumbersome in this serene ruin, a behemoth in a land of unmarred tranquility. His robes were too long, his hands too powerful, his breath too loud. He closed the door behind him, the creak of the hinges obtrusive, and looked up into a living room, blinking in the dark. 

“Harry? Are you here?”

All was silent. Ron walked forward slowly, glancing around, and came to a stop at the center of a large empty space, his boots bringing up small clouds of dust.

On his left was a crumbled staircase, overtaken by climbing ivy. He thought there must have been a kitchen beyond it, once. Ron stood under a large hole where the roof had caved in, washed by starlight.

There was no hint that anyone had been in this house in decades, let alone the last few days. The remaining furniture was moss ridden and disintegrated in parts. Book spines were somewhat recognizable on what must have once been a carpet, their pages long eroded by rain and sun. Still, some of the walls remained, shielding skeletons of wooden shelves in various stages of decay.

“Harry?”

The house seemed to mock him with its silence. Ron sat down on the wooden planks beneath the opening, moonshine bringing his scarred hands into light. 

“My mom’s worried sick, you should know. Hermione hasn’t slept in three days.”

He thought he heard shuffling to his left, but when he glanced there, there was no movement. He played with the clasp of his right boot. The house was chilly.

“I get it,” He said, into the boot. “I get it. And if you want to stay here, that’s fine too. But I wish—“ he stopped. Swallowed. The stars were particularly bright that night, and Ron looked up at them, blinking. “I wish you’d come back,” He said finally, into the sky. “It’s never a good idea. Leaving. Trust me. It only makes everything worse.”

A wind blew in through one of the windows, bringing clouds of dust into the air. 

He felt foolish. Harry might not even be there. Might never have been. Ron wasn’t even sure Fidelius Charms would work on ruins, they might need a more structured habitat that could not be intruded upon so easily. 

What a stupid idea. The entire Auror Department was running searches throughout the country, Hermione had enlisted Bill to help with an thirteen-stage charm for finding lost things that the’d been casting since Wednesday, his father had spent eight hours in his shed, reworking a tenth arm for the family clock so that they’d at least know whether Harry was in danger or not— and here was Ron, sitting in an empty living room under a collapsed roof, talking to himself as if there was anyone there to listen. 

He got to his feet, quickly, disrupting the quiet once more. His robes were grey with dust.

When he stood again by the doors, he paused, glancing backwards. 

“At least let us know if you’re alive or not,” He said, looking at the empty room again behind him. 

Nothing. 

Idiot. 

He pulled the door open, and left.

A week after Harry had vanished, a small brown owl flew into the kitchen over breakfast, deposited a small note over Mrs. Weasley’s head, and flew out again without pausing for water. The note was written in Harry’s handwriting. It said: All is well.  

Hermione could see Mrs. Weasley sag with relief, nearly bursting into tears once more, and her husband held her hand, smiling. 

She breathed again, for a moment, watching Ron frowning at the letter, turning it over in his hands. Then fear crawled right back up. Something had happened. Something was wrong. 

For a while, she moved with singleminded resolve. She searched for locating charms and runes in her trusted book collection, still piled within the collapsing bag she had carried them in the previous year. She wrote letters, trying to be persuasive, putting to parchment every argument she could think of to get him to return, hoping owls would find him when they could not. She questioned everyone at the Burrow to try and understand why he had gone, and waited, her breath held, every day for some news to reach them, of a body found, or a demand for ransom.

But it wasn’t enough. She needed the Hogwarts Library. 

She needed to return home.

She went in the morning, rising before anyone else, walking briskly under the warming sun beyond the Weasley’s property and to the usual apparition point, turning and reappearing before the large gates. The Hogwarts gates glistened, the newly wrought iron unfitting with the ancient walls surrounding it. Both of the columns at the side of the gate had been rebuilt, but the flying boars were missing, their absence making the gate seem naked, abandoned, their guardians gone. 

She went through, walking quickly towards the castle. Construction teams shuffled around, trolls in thick work attire herded by wand flinging wizards as goblins strode around with large sheets of parchment, barking instructions and warning about the cost of granite. The Astronomy Tower had been restored, but Gryffindor Tower was still being worked on, dwarves held up by ropes toiling on its outer shell. The Owlery was teeming with life once more. The forest was growing back, new saplings near Hagrid’s hut. 

She made it to the Entrance Hall, where she paused, beneath the large doors. The first time she’d seen them as a shivering first year, Professor McGonagall had stood strictly framed beneath, her sharp eyes finding Hermione immediately and taking her in at a glance. Her life had changed. This castle had changed it. 

Professor McGonagall stood at the doors again. She was talking to a goblin, reading over his notes, her back to Hermione, looking critically at the teams working on the ceiling of the Great Hall. 

“Professor?”

She turned, and smiled. Hermione walked up the last few stairs, coming to stand at the doors to the Great Hall. 

“None of the humans know how to lay the final enchantment on the ceiling,” the goblin was saying, bored, cleaning his nails as he spoke. “They claim its ancient origin complicates matters.”

“I will cast the enchantment myself,” Professor McGonagall said. “How soon will the Hall be complete?”

“As we discussed.”

“Good.” The goblin took the parchment back, rolled it up, and placed it in his small cardigan. Then he nodded to McGonagall, pointedly ignored Hermione, and vanished back into the busy Hall. 

“It looks better,” Hermione said, as her old teacher singled her to follow. “You’ll be able to start the new school year on time?”

“Certainly we will,” McGonagall dismissed. “Hogwarts had never started after the first of September, and it certainly won’t during my term as Headmistress.”

She smiled, and Hermione did too. “It’s official, then?”

“The Board of Governors convened last Wednesday. It was an unanimous  decision.”

This had been obvious. Still, Hermione felt relieved. “Hogwarts couldn’t ask for anyone better.”

“Thank you.” They’d arrived at the Infirmary, and Professor McGonagall glanced inside, asked Madam Pomfrey about an injured dwarf, and moved on, leading Hermione towards the grounds. “I’ve yet to fill my staff, however.”

“Defense?”

“Naturally,” she patted dust out of her robes in annoyance. “Lingering doubts about the curse on the position. Of course, anyone still troubled by such nonsense is not competent enough to teach to begin with — CAREFUL DONNELLY, IT’S A CHANDELIER, NOT A TRAPEZE! You’ve come to the library, I assume?” 

“Yes. Ron might come by soon. We still can’t find Harry.”

McGonagall’s lips thinned disapprovingly, but Hermione recognized the frowned concern. “How long has it been?”

“Two weeks.”

“And you’ve attempted the Honnelly Charm?”

“It was the first one we tried.” 

“I could ask Professor Slughorn to brew a Pursuit Concoction.”

“I’m brewing one now. But it requires consent.”

“Yes,” McGonagall agreed. “Well. The library has yet to be restored, but you’ll find the relevant collection intact.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“Miss Granger.”

“Yes?”

“It could be difficult, to find a wizard who does not wish to be found.”

She ran her hand over her sleeve. “Yes.”

“Good luck.”

She placed her hand on Hermione’s shoulder. Hermione looked up, smiling. “Thank you, Professor.”

They separated near the Quidditch Field, and Hermione walked back towards the castle, watching a troll confusedly placing a fourth hoop near the southern post.

If Harry had cast a Fidelius Charm on himself, nothing she learned in the library would help her find him. She hadn’t even known he knew how to cast Fidelius Charms. Or where to get the information. If she didn’t tell them the exact shelf to look at, the name of the book, and a page number, neither Harry nor Ron would be able find a spell to clean their own trunks. 

As she made her way, she pulled her robes closer around her. The castle was cold. Newly restored paintings lined the halls, some of them waving at her. Nearly Headless Nick flew into her path, taking his hat off self-importantly, but she did not stop to chat. 

Harry would have talked with him. Harry would have probably stopped to talk with most of the paintings, too. He loved this castle with its secret passages and quirky inhabitants. It must have been awful for him, watching it being demolished. 

Still. It was useless to avoid them. He should not have gone off on his own. If she could only find him, she would be able to talk some sense into him…

She walked into the library absentmindedly, already heading to the row she expected to find tracking spells at, and rummaged in her rucksack for a list of books she’d prepared to look for. She pulled it out, looking up. Then she stopped. 

For a fraction of a moment, she stood dumbfounded, blinking at the too-sharp light of the open windows, wondering if she’d walked into the wrong room. But no, it was the same: Arching hall, tall ceilings, wooden floors. She could see Madam Pince’s station, on the right, her chair empty and the register opened at a random page, a dry quill left stranded on top of it. She recognized the restricted section, behind Pince’s post, gloomy as ever and still barred from entry. 

Everything else was different.

The library had never been so well lit. The rows of high bookshelves that had obstructed the windows had fallen and lay still as they were, one on top of each other, a row of collapsed dominoes. Books had tumbled off of them into dishelved piles, upended, some of them had opened as they fell and now lay flat-faced, their ancient pages wrinkled or torn. In the inner wall something had left a gaping hole, and fire had slung through, so that the entire section was burned, ashes masking the smell of parchment. 

It was destroyed. There was nothing left of it. 

She had dropped her rucksack. Under the windows, desks had broken into themselves, parchment and quills collecting around them, now debris. She had once sat at one of the desks for an entire weekend, studying for the Arithmacy O.W.L.. Madam Pince had had to banish her when the library closed. Ron had sat with her one evening, carving his name into the old wood with his faulty quill rather than revising for Divinations, so that as she chased them out, the librarian shouted at Woobil Reasle for destroying the desk. 

It was ruined. It was unsalvageable. The library was gone. 

Her hands were pressed onto her lips, holding in the emotion that threatened to pour out. The Potion section had burned. So had the History section. Charms were buried under rubble. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Dozens of people had died. She was grieving over paper and leather. She knew this, and yet, the world span around her, the floor gone beneath her feet, as though she was once again walking into the Great Hall to see the bodies of Tonks, Remus, Fred, and Lavender. 

“Hermione?”

Ron’s voice cut through, and she jumped. She dropped to her knees, pulling the rucksack and her books that had fallen out of it, wiping her eyes. 

Hogwarts had the only copy of Roger Zoogani’s original Runes for Rumination.

Ron dropped next to her, helping, his voice amused. “You dropped books, Hermione? Don’t you have to repent now? Give penance?” 

She pretended to laugh, and he handed her the last one, his smile vanishing as he saw her face. 

No one would ever be able to read Zoogani’s original notes on his creations. His entire knowledge was now gone.

“Did… Erm. Did you find what you wanted?”

“No,” She said. Her voice was frustratingly choked. “I’m… starting. Good timing.”

She wiped her eyes again, trying to get her hair to cover the redness of her face, and looked into the list she had made, unable to read it. 

“So… should we…”

“Yes. Just.” She straightened the list. “The first book is…erm.” She had read Runes for Rumination three times. She had used it for seven assignments. She had once spilled ink onto it, and spent two hours researching spells to clean it away.

“Hermione?”

It was gone. It was gone. 

Ron’s hands found hers, covering the list so she couldn’t see her small handwriting.  

“They can rebuild,” He said, trying to get her to look at him. She shut her eyes.  

“The books,” she choked, foolish tears in her eyes, meaningless, stupid, nothing compared to the deaths of the people they’d lost. 

“They’ll heal them,” Ron said confidently, and Hermione looked up at him, watching the certain calm on his face. “These books are magical, Hermione. They have life in them. They’re banged up, but they can be brought back.” 

“No,” She said. “They’re burned. They’re ashes.”

He hesitated, and then pulled her hair out of her face. His fingers brushed over her tears. “A little magical fire isn’t going to best the Hogwarts library, Hermione.” 

“There’s nothing on that in Hogwarts, A History,” She protested. Ron blinked at her, and then pulled a book from the rubble, placing it in her lap. 

“Feel them,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “People like you have been holding them for generations. These aren’t just books, Hermione. They’re alive.”

The book was covered in dust, half its pages ripped out. 

“They’re alive,” Ron insisted. “They pulse with the magic of all the people who’d poured over them. You’ve put your soul into these books, Hermione. Can’t you feel it?”

He held the book opposite her, and for a moment, she did, a soft shimmering of spell work, a buzz of magic in the destroyed pages. 

She pulled the book open, running her hand over the first page, the list of students who had signed their names. 

She looked up. Her tears had stopped. Ron was smiling at her, sheepish. 

“So are we gonna look for Finding Runaway Prats, or what?”

She chocked a laugh, and he grinned, letting go of her hand to turn to the bookshelves. She took his back, and kissed him. 

Her tears dried on his freckles. 

As the weeks grew numerous, Hermione became more and more convinced that Harry had cast a Fidelius Charm. 

“Where would he go, if he had?” She asked Ron, who glanced off his chess set long enough to frown to himself, silent. 

They kept getting weekly letters with random post owls. The message was always the same: All is well. But their own owls always returned with the letters unopened. 

“We’ll see him soon. He’ll come back to finish the N.E.W.T.s,” Hermione said confidently, turning back to her notes. “It would be foolish not to.”

Ron was feeding Pig. He seemed mutinous. “Would it?”

“Of course.”

“Wouldn’t it be a waste of time to—“

“We’re getting out N.E.W.T.s, Ron.”

He rolled his eyes. “Ok. But I doubt Harry sees it that way.”

“He’d be foolish not to.”

And yet, life moved on. 

George came down to breakfast one morning, showered and wearing clean robes.

“I’m going to the shop,” he declared, not looking at anyone. He kept staring at the breakfast plate Mrs. Weasley placed in front of him, so laden with food it must have been an enchantment keeping it all from toppling over. Then, his voice hollow: “Percy— come.”

He didn’t want anyone else to join, so the two of them vanished through the hearth once Percy finished eating and George finished staring at his cold food. 

Two weeks later, some of the former Order members came for dinner. Professor McGonagall looked, more than usual, at the end of her patience.

“The castle will be finished in time,” She announced, but did not smile at their congratulations. “My staff, however, remains lacking.”

She had yet to find a Defense teacher, and her search had made headlines throughout the summer as the candidates became more and more unusual. “What about the American?” Arthur said. He had started going to the Ministry again. Most of his work now consisted of cleaning up after battles between Aurors and escaping Death Eaters.

“Lacking,” McGonagall said dryly, and a chuckle passed through the table, a ghost in the morbid light.

Andromeda had come, and she passed Teddy to Ginny, who sat with Hermione in the living room holding him in her lap. He had started to crawl, and was making his way everywhere slowly but determinedly. Today, his hair was red, perhaps as a show of unity with the rest of the household.

“You are the sweetest sweetie pie on the planet,” Ginny told him. He grinned a toothless grin at her, pulling her hair and squealing.

“You’d think Harry’d at least come back to visit Ted,” Ron muttered, darkly. He was sitting on the sofa, Hermione on the floor with her back to it.

“I think it’s Teddy Harry’s trying to avoid,” She said, and Ron’s frown deepened.

Weeks passed, and then months. Ron had taken to visit each one of the likely locations of Harry’s whereabouts on a weekly schedule, as Hermione dug further into the Restricted Section. Each week they waited for the owl to come, dreading that it won’t, and each week it did, with the same short, handwritten note: “All is well.” 

The shop had been reopened, advertisements appearing one day in the Prophet, huge ones that made Ginny blink very quickly as she read them, explosively orange and hilariously worded. Hogwarts letters made it out on schedule, familiarly green ink glistening over standardized parchment, explaining the procedures for Returning Students and urging muggleborns to purchase new wands. Charlie left, ten weeks after the Battle, to return to his work in Romania, and Mrs. Weasley held him for three straight minutes before he disentangled himself gently and promised to come back at least once a month.

She had been failed by the library. Ron returned from each search looking more gloomy than the last. Ginny told them both they were wasting their time.

“You won’t find him until he wants to come back.”

“You sound mighty calm about it.”

“I’m not,” She said, not lifting her eyes from The Quibbler. “But there’s nothing I can do about it. When he wants to, he’ll come.”  

She said this, but she had trouble living up to it. 

With Ron and Hermione, around her mother, and while Teddy was around, she made certain to keep a calm hold on herself. They were hardly managing as it were, worried beyond reason, speculating worst case scenarios. Ron had gotten suspiciously quiet ever since Harry had gone, and not even Hermione’s smile could completely revert the scantly obscured panic in his eyes. But when Ginny was alone, she could hardly hold herself together. 

She was furious.

She hated those words. All is well. Not even an attempt at a believable lie, but an outright insult to their intelligence. Clearly, not all was well. If all was well, Harry would be there, at the Burrow, suffering force feeding at the hands of her mother and making plans about the future with the rest of them. 

She was angry that he had abandoned them, to live day by day wondering if he was still alive, or rotting in a street corner after an ambush by Death Eaters on the run. She was angry at him making her mother afraid, making George feel guilt, making Ron and Hermione forever on edge, giving each other odd meaningful looks and huddling in secret. And she was angry for herself. For him making her stay up all night with nightmarish scenarios playing out in her head. She had spent nearly a year of that. She had thought that it was over, when the war ended. But here she was, night after night, staring at the ceiling and dreading.

And then, she was scared.

Scared because of the look Harry had given her that night, when they met George in the kitchen. Images haunted her: Harry, devastated and guilt-ridden, walking into a dark forest to give himself up to the Dark Lord.

Dying.

Going there in order to die.

And most, she was scared because of the thing she realized that night. That for the weeks he’d spent at the Burrow, as Harry smiled and cooked and helped…

He had been lying.

Before Teddy had quite outgrown his third set of onesies, they were packing for Hogwarts.

“Apparently, half our year is repeating,” Hermione said, stacking books into piles by topic and year of release. “They cancelled the NEWTs last summer, obviously, the school closed two months before the end of term— Some people are just going to study on their own and take the test come June, but most are coming back full time. McGonagall’s found a place at Hogsmeade to have enough rooms. The seventh year dorms go to Ginny’s year, of course.”

“But if they were at the school for all those months, suffering with the Carrows— shouldn’t they at least be allowed to avoid going back again?” Ron asked. He wasn’t entirely happy about the prospect of returning to another year of studies. 

“Well, a lot of us didn’t get to study much at all,” Ginny was reading a Quidditch magazine on Ron’s bed, flipping the pages lazily with her wand behind her ear. “I mean— Neville hardly ever made it out of the Room of Requirements, never mind handing in essays.”

Ron put the last of his robes into the trunk, mumbled under his breath, and sat back on the bed, frowning.

“You should finish,” Hermione reprimanded, pointing at the rest of his unpacked things.

“We can apparate now. Anything I forget I can just come back and take later.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at Ginny, who made ghoul faces.

“I wonder if Harry signed up,” Ginny said carefully, and both Hermione and Ron exchanged dark looks.

Earlier that week, they’d gotten another owl. As always, it was a service owl, the kind to be found at post offices, self important and long feathered with a note a line long to serve as proof of life. Whenever they wrote something back, it would be returned by the post service without reply.

“Somehow, I doubt it,” Ron said frustratedly.

A few days earlier, they’d all gone to Diagon Alley to buy new textbooks and replenish their potion supplies. Ron had also bought new robes, as he miraculously managed to grow out of his old ones, again, and was now taller than any of his brothers and could no longer be given handmedowns. His new clothes were good quality second hand which Mrs. Weasley had fixed up to near mint condition. 

Hermione had basked in Flourish and Blotts. Most of the shops were almost completely back to their condition before the war. Everything had reopened, and the Alley was once more packed full of excited witches and wizards, the streets hectic, the stores bright with colors and noise. The bookstore had made her feel whole, with its shelves upon shelves of tomes, the owner grinning in all directions, helping students to their texts.

The new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor was likely the American McGonagall had found near the end of her desperate search. He had directed them to obtain an old textbook, one that she found out had been used by the last long term Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor before the curse had settled on the position. Defensive Magic, Level Seven. As she skimmed through it, she realized most of the spells were familiar, likely to be found on the NEWTs. It did not bode to be a very interesting class, but at least they’d be better prepared for these tests than they had been for the OWLs. 

Now, she placed the last book in her trunk and glanced around, trying to remember if she was forgetting something. They would board the Hogwarts Express tomorrow. For the first time, they’d sit in a compartment without Harry sitting across from them, his relief at returning to the only place he’s ever called home making their own excitement greater.

Maybe he’ll come.

She closed the trunk.

Hermione stopped by her parents’s house before bed that night, this time without Ron, and spoke to them for a long time, about small things and big things, the future and the past. She had spent a year thinking she may never see them again. They had been angry, furious, at the year she’d taken from them; but four months had passed, and now things were almost back to normal between them. They reopened their practice, and her father spoke excitedly about business while her mother told her of new findings she’s read about in oral health research publications. Hermione let their familiar voices wash over her, filling her with strength.

The goodbyes at Platform 9 3/4  were more tearful than usual. Mrs. Weasley had spent the last four months in a variety of states. The loss of her son was hard on her, an embodiment of her deepest fear. At first, she had seemed numb, wordless, with a constant stream of tears down her cheeks, and spent long days staring and sitting. The Burrow, usually loud and busy, had been grey and silent, full of hushed voices and lowered eyes, and Hermione thought that this was largely due to the matriarch’s absence. After a few weeks passed, she rose up out of her stupor and began working tirelessly, hardly sleeping or stopping, filling the house with smells of food and cleaning. But as George began going to the shop, as Arthur returned to his work at the Ministry, as regular voices filled the empty hours once again, speaking of everyday life, of rebuilding, of the future— she seemed better, as well. Finally, when Fluer had asked her one evening for advice, regarding her and Bill’s attempts to become pregnant, a true smile colored her face, and though she was thinner, her eyes still shadowed, her movements still slow, she was back to herself.

Now, Mrs. Weasley held her children longer than necessary. Fear was evident in her eyes as she watched them board the train, though beyond it, triumph. She held her husband’s hand as they waved goodbye, knowing that she was sending them somewhere protected, somewhere safe. The war was over. Hogwarts was their proof.

The repeating NEWTs students were invited to the Opening Feast. Hermione had never been to one without Professor Dumbledore, and sat soberly through the Sorting, feeling odd. She was gripped by a sense of déjà vu. As though the war had never happened. If only so many sits around weren’t empty.

Parvati Patil had not returned to Hogwarts. She was the only Gryffindor not to have. Hermione assumed it was due to Lavender’s death. She herself could not imagine sleeping in a dorm without Lavender, annoying as she had been, sleeping on the bed next to hers. She was thankful they were not returning to Gryffindor Tower.

Deep in thought, she didn’t notice the Sorting end. The new Gryffindors sat at the other side of the table, and the clapping for them had been more enthusiastic than ever before. Many of them, muggleborns, should have been second years, but did not receive Hogwarts letters the previous year at all. They had been approached by Professor McGonagall herself over the summer. Along with the darkness that hung in the newly rebuilt Great Hall, there was a sense of victory. They were here. Despite the forces who had tried to keep them away.

She saw other muggle borns smiling at her from around the hall. Dean Thomas, Justin Finch-Fletcly, and others met her eyes and grinned. The Professors were smiling, as well. After a year of horrors and a battle the likes of which the castle had never seen, they were here. Victorious.

She smiled back, allowing herself this one reprieve of worry. This was a night of celebration.

Professor McGonagall rose, and the hall fell into an excited hush.

“Welcome,” She said, her voice carrying easily around the hall, “To another year at Hogwarts.”

The applause was deafening. For a while the Headmistress stood patiently, her face serious, but as it continued, she broke into a rare smile. The Gryffindor table was on its feet, soon joined by many in the Hufflepuff table, and then the rest as well. The Professors rose, and McGonagall beamed at them all, tall and proud, and allowed the joy to course through the room, unhindered, growing and growing until it encompassed them all.

“That was some feast,” Ron said, as they were making their way by foot to Hogsmeade, holding the keys to the flat they would spend the next year living in.

“It was amazing,” Neville said, still unable to keep the smile off his face. “I can’t describe the feeling to you guys. Watching all the old Professors back, with the Cowells gone, and the castle like it had been before. I feel like I could fly.”

“I would suggest you don’t,” Hannah said, quickly, and he laughed. 

“No,” He agreed. “No, probably not.”

Hermione glanced at them, smiling. The two had gotten closer over the summer, and Hannah’s hand was natural in Neville’s, and the smiles they gave each other were endearing.

She smiled at Ron, who reddened, and pulled her hand into his, which made her blush. But it felt nice, warm and steady. She looked forward, at the building that had sprung up in the middle of the village.

“I haven’t seen Hagrid that drunk since the Tri-Wizard Tournament,” Ron muttered to her, and she laughed. Everyone had seemed ecstatic. Even the Sorting hat had prepared a jubilant song.

“I wonder what it was that kept the new Professor from coming,” She said, thoughtfully, as they climbed the steps to the third floor. “It must have been important, for him to miss his own introduction. McGonagall just skipped him entirely.”

“Maybe he’s still jet-legged,” Ron suggested. “There’s a big time difference between here and America.”

“Yes, maybe,” She agreed, frowning. Then she grinned. “What did you think of the new Transfiguration teacher?” 

Ron nearly spluttered. “I— I wasn’t thinking of her!”

Hermione laughed, and he calmed down. The new Professor, Olsworth, had caught the eyes of most of the boys their year, with her Villa-like blonde hair and sharp, blue eyes. “She’s a bit young,” Hermione said, as Ron’s face lost is redness. “Seems around thirty. If McGonagall let her take over her classes, she must be a brilliant witch.”

“As long as she doesn’t give as much homework, we’ll get along,” Ron proclaimed. 

“What have you got to complain about? Your schedule looks amazing,” She told him, glancing at it. “You only have five classes!”

“Yup,” He grinned. “It’s fantastic. But yours looks amazing, too,” He added, and she raised her eyebrows. “With an indescribably ridiculous amount of classes. Just like you like.”

She smiled at him. They’d arrived at their door, and her heart flattered. The others waved good bye, climbing up another floor for their own flat. Ron slid the key into the lock and put his hand over the knob, muttering the password they’d been given.

It was certainly not as close a living arrangement as sharing a tent for months across the countryside. In this flat, her and Ron still had different rooms. But the living room, kitchen, and bathroom were joined, and it made her nervous, but also wonderfully excited.

“Home sweet home,” He said, and they walked in, holding hands.

The next morning, however, was a test of her patience.

“It’s right here, Ronald,” She said, exasperated, as he yelped and snatched up the Defense book from under the living room table, where it had somehow managed to fall despite the fact that they’d only arrived a few hours earlier and had yet to unpack. She rolled her eyes, watching the clock. They had twenty minutes before their first class, which was Potions, and the others were already waiting for them in the hallway, ready to leave.

“Where’s my— Bloody— Merlin!”

She glanced back at the potion she was brewing. They’d found something of Harry’s in his trunk— crusted blood in the remains of the shattered mirror at the bottom of it. She’d set the cauldron up in the hearth they won’t be using until winter, and watched the ingredients swirl. She needed a rare type of larvae eggs she was hoping Slughorn would give her with enough flattering. After that, the potion needed to stew for a few days before they could attempt to use it.

She wasn’t very hopeful.

“Ready!” Ron said, breathlessly.

“Your wand.”

“Err, right—“

He returned, red, and they left, joining Neville, Hannah, Dean, and Seamus. 

It was odd, walking with them. But Neville and Seamus had become very close during the last school year, and they all lived in such close proximity now, that it seemed odder not to. She was encompassed in conversation about Death Eater captures and Dementor attacks. Hannah was full of interesting information about the going ons inside the Ministry, where her mother worked, but spent most of the walk chatting with Hermione about the muggle world, where her father was a lawyer. They sat together in class, still talking.

There were many people in the class. None of the NEWT levels were ever divided by houses, because not many people took all the classes, but now, the regular Seventh Years were joined by a large number of returning students. Professor Slughorn made a jolly comment about running out of unicorn hair, but other than that the lesson was as it usually was. She couldn’t believe how easily she fell into a familiar rhythm. It was as though the year away from studies had never happened. Except for one thing.

On Ron’s other side, a certain wizard was missing, not rolling his eyes, not passing notes under the table, not flipping aimlessly forward in the book or staring out the window, thinking of other things.

When she raised her hand for the tenth time, beating the Ravenclaws to the answers to their great annoyance, no one gave her an amused smirk, shaking his untidy black haired head and muttering a joke in Ron’s ear.

A familiar sensation of grim fear filled her.

She missed him. 

She approached Slughorn after class, to obtain the final ingredient for the potion. She was explaining its properties to a slightly glazed-eyed Ron as they were walking towards the Defense classroom. 

“I’ll add it to it tonight. Three ounces should do. Then we could finally—“

“We’re going out tonight,” Ron said, and she looked up again, surprised and flustered. “I mean—“ He reddened. ”Not… With Neville and Hannah and the others. To the Three Broomsticks.”

“Oh,” She smiled. “Great. But after, we’ll have to get started on those essays Slughorn wanted.”

Ron groaned, and looked away from her, mock revolted.

She glanced up. They were standing with the rest of their abnormally large class, outside the doors of the Defense classroom. A lesson had just finished, and large eyed first years walked out, talking excitedly.

“Hey, dwarves,” Ron said, and she elbowed him, annoyed. “What? They’re tiny!” He muttered, before turning back to the group. “How’s the new Professor?”

They seemed too terrified of being spoken to by an upperclassman to answer.

“Is his accent really terrible?” Ginny asked, grimacing. “I’ve never heard of an American teaching at Hogwarts.”

“He doesn’t have an American accent,” A confused Gryffindor said, giving them a strange look. 

“What do you mean?” Ron demanded. “Hey, don’t— hey!”

But the frightened boy vanished, looking fearfully over his shoulder.

“What’s up with him?” Ron asked her, annoyed, and Ginny giggled.

“You’re intimidating, Ron,” she said, and Luna nodded in agreement. “Hermione, you’re dating now, you’re supposed to watch him.” She prodded Hermione affectionately, but the other girl stood staring after the running first year, her mouth hanging open, her eyes wild. 

“Hermione…?”

“I’m such an idiot,” She breathed, feeling like she could smack herself. She turned to them, her heart beating. “I can’t believe I’m so stupid.”

“As usual, I would like to request that you tell us what you’re talking about,” Ron said, rolling his eyes, amused.

“Ron, I know who’s teaching us!”

“You do?” 

“YES!” She walked into the empty classroom, the others following behind her, amused. It was empty, the desks pushed to the side, the office door closed on the other wall. “I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of it— Honestly—“

“Again. If you would be so kind as to—“

She whirled at him, her face lost in a huge grin. “It’s Harry, Ron! Harry will be teaching us Defense!”

A soft voice spoke from behind her. 

“Well done. Ten points to Gryffindor.”

Chapter Text

Difference 

“I know what you’re thinking about, Harry, that mirror. Don’t go back tonight.”*

Ron had been trying to get Harry’s attention for the better part of fifteen minutes. At this, for the first time, Harry raised his head to him, aghast.

“Why not?”* He demanded, and Ron shuffled in his seat. 

“I dunno,” He muttered. “I’ve just got a bad feeling about it.”* Harry hadn’t eaten anything all day, and spent the last three hours staring intently into space, probably constructing plans for sneaking out under his new Invisibility Cloak to search for the Mirror of Erised once more that night. Ron, too, longed to see himself, successful and victorious, standing with his hands haughty in his pockets and his face fit into a confident grin. But there was something strange about the mirror. Something his father wouldn’t approve of.  “I’m serious, Harry, don’t go.”*

“You don’t get it,” Harry said, annoyed. He had already accused Ron of sounding like Hermione, a sting that Ron forgave only because of the odd look in Harry’s face, the pale determination of it. “I’ve never seen them before. Now I know what they look like. You get to see your family all the time.“

In the four months Ron had known him, Harry hadn't spoken much about his parents, beside mentioning them once on the train on the way to the castle. But somehow, Ron could never forget that Harry did not have a family waiting for him at home, and was reminded of it constantly, at strange and unexpected occasions. He’d remember it when owls swopped down over breakfast, when Filtch threatened to tie them by their ankles in the dungeons, and when Malfoy tried to lure them into doing something risky after hours. He remembered it when Harry, stunned, had told him that he had received Christmas presents, as though this unprecedented occurrence should surprise Ron, too. 

Ron had never been friends with someone like Harry before. There was a strange edge to him that Ron both admired and feared. He was more independent than Ron ever was, would make decisions faster and with less deliberation than Ron had been taught to, never considered the option of consulting an adult unless Ron explicitly suggested it. And he would listen to Ron — and recently to Hermione — as though what they said mattered more than just friends discussing teachers, homework and Quidditch. He listened to them as though what they said was important, as if every suggestion had consequence. He listened to them the same way Ron sometimes listened to his oldest brothers, as if they were the people who would be able to change his mind. 

“Right,” Ron said. “But that mirror’s… it’s weird. There’s something wrong with it.”

“You liked it fine enough last night!” 

“Yeah, I know, but—“

“I hardly even got a change to look yesterday, you were hogging it—“

“I wasn’t hogging it—“

“I’m going.”

Harry stared stubbornly away from him, and Ron fell silent, blinking into the chess pieces that he’d tried to lay out for them, picking up the king and playing with it in is hand. 

“I’m just saying—“

“You don’t understand. You’ve got parents. You can talk to them whenever you want,” Harry cut him off, furious.

Ron looked down, and Harry was glaring at him. This was true. Ron did not understand anything about being an orphan. He got owls over breakfast, of things he’d left at home or home-cooked snacks or his father, reminding him to listen to the professors. He knew, even while Filch was yelling at them, that the caretaker would never be able to hang him up in the dungeon, because his mother wouldn’t allow it, would storm into Dumbledore’s office and put her hands on her waist, eyes slimmed, until Filch succumbed. He knew his parents would lock him in his room for a year if he tried something too dangerous with Malfoy. He had gotten presents for Christmas every single year since he could remember, and none of them had been 50-pence pieces. 

“Still,” Ron said. “Still. It’s not like they’re really there. It’s just a reflection. And you haven’t said a word about anything else for two days.”

“Well—“

“What if Filch gets you?”

“What if he does?”

“You’ll be in trouble.”

“So?”

Ron blinked. He thought of his mom, glaring at him, and his dad shaking his head in disappointment. “So,” he said. “So… You’ll have to go to detention.”

“It’s just a couple of hours. It’s worth it.”

“And you’ll lose points for Gryffindor,” Harry’s brow set stubbornly, but he had no response to this. “And Hermione would say something like I told you so. You know how she gets.”

Harry blinked at the king in Ron’s hand. The stubbornness slunk to guilt. He was playing with his fingers. 

“But I have to go,” He said, finally, and looked back at Ron. "I’ve been wondering about them since I can remember. And now I know what they look like. I have to see if they’re still there.” His eyes were large, and when he looked at Ron, it felt as though  he was asking him for approval. 

Ron looked back, strangely nervous. He’d never felt that his words mattered much to anyone, in a house full of brothers who all competed for attention. But they mattered to Harry. To Harry, Ron made a difference that no one else had.

He thought for a moment, and then nodded. “I get it,” He said. “I get it. But at least stop stressing about it now, alright?”

He put the king on the board. Harry grinned at him, relieved, and turned to sit properly before him. Ron turned the chess board, so that his trusted white pieces looked at him with betrayal, shouting about treason. “Shut it,” He told them sternly, and turned back to Harry. “There. You can be white.”

***

Chapter Three: Found

“Well done. Ten points to Gryffindor.”

And he was there, smiling sheepishly, his green eyes bright and his hair messy, wearing black robes, missing the Gryffindor sigil.

“Just kidding,” Harry said, into the stunned silence. “I can’t really give you points.”

And they were on him, talking a million miles a minute. Hermione caught him in a bone crushing hug, Ron clasped him on the shoulder with a roar, Ginny gaped at him with shinning eyes, and Neville beamed from a distance, waiting his turn. Harry laughed and grinned at them, embarrassed, his eyes taking them in hungrily. Once the initial shock wore off, Hermione disentangled herself and took a good look at him as he attempted to answer the assault of questions blasted his way.

As she looked, devouring the sight, her heart beat more steadily and her chest filled with warmth. She had spent months trying to force worries out of her head, of Harry hurt at the hands of Death Eaters or else being consumed by grief, alone and self loathing— but she had been wrong. Harry looked like he always did, with untidy black hair falling into excited green eyes covered by simple black rimmed glasses. His robes were new and well suited, and he seemed to have grown a few inches over the months she hadn’t seen him, though not nearly as much as Ron. He greeted them with enthusiasm, his voice hurried and enthralled, laughing and joking, strong and confident and sure.

She breathed easier. She would not need the potion. 

“Where were you?” Ron asked finally, and the class quieted down.

“Here and there,” Harry said evasively, looking guilty. “You got my letters, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, bloody informative they were, too,” Ron tried to sound stern, but he was too happy to be angry, and could not force the relief off his face. “Were you running out of ink?” 

Harry laughed, and his eyes caught hers, twinkling. 

An irritated voice rose from behind. “I’m sorry, but are you really teaching us this year?” They turned, to see the rest of the class, who were neither Gryffindor not of the DA. A Ravenclaw boy from Ginny’s year stood with his hands crossed, a look of skepticism in his eyes. “You’re eighteen. And you didn’t even take the NEWT!”

“I’m more like a sub,” Harry said, apologetically, and turned to them all. It felt a little like fifth year, and Ron grinned at her, sharing the memory. “Look, I’m obviously not qualified to be a Professor. McGonagall— I mean, the Headmistress,” he reddened, and Hermione had missed his sheepishness, the way he could be read like a book — “is still trying to fill the position, and with most to the Auror Department otherwise occupied, she asked me to help. We can look at this as an extension of the DA, if you want. It’s only an additional two letters.”

People chuckled, and Harry smiled at them, walking up to the front of the class. They fell into order around him, standing in a large half circle to listen.

“In this class, I’m not a Professor,” He explained. “I can’t take away points, or give detention. You don’t even have to hand in assignments— but you really should, because the NEWT has a written exam. I’m working with the syllabus that was used by the last Defense Professor that lasted longer than a year, which follows the NEWT approved list almost to the dot. If you like, you can stay. If you don’t, you can just take the NEWT on your own, or next year, under a different teacher. Just clear it with the Headmistress first.”

Even the Ravenclaws seemed mollified at this. Ginny’s smile was enormous, and Hermione couldn’t pull hers away, either. Harry looked around at the class, as if waiting for someone to contradict him. When no one did, he clapped his hands together, like he had in their fifth year, and smiled.

“Good,” He said. “So. As I haven’t taken them, I can’t give you a lecture about how important NEWTs are.” Ron let out a bark of laughter. “Which means we can get right down to business. I would suggest,” He said, smirking, “Wands.”

In no time they were paired up, practicing the first charm of the year, as Harry walked around correcting them. He came over to the pair of them almost immediately, and Ginny grabbed Luna and joined in, as well.

“Hey,” He said, glancing at her and back at them quickly. “Sorry I hadn’t told you sooner, it was a bit last minute.”

“You becoming a Professor at Hogwarts, you mean?” Hermione asked. “Harry, that’s incredible!”

“It really isn’t,” He said, blushing. “It’s only for a few weeks. McGonagall’s still looking.”

“You’re not the youngest,” Hermione told him. “I mean— you’re certainly on the list, but Rowanna Ravenclaw was only sixteen when she became one of the founders, and since then—“

“Really?” Harry looked impressed. “I didn’t know that. How old were the rest of them?”

“Well—“

“You can talk about that later,” Ron stopped her, and a look flashed over Harry’s face, before he turned back to the tall ginger, smiling once more. “Harry— we’ve been looking everywhere for you. Really, where have you been?”

“Spent a few weeks in the South,” He said easily, glancing back at the rest of the class, some of whom where straining to hear. “Then I crossed the channel, made my way through France to Switzerland. Met a vampire there, they have a large community, apparently.” Someone was looking for assistance, and Harry’s eyes landed on them. “I’ll tell you about it another time. Is everyone alright?”

Hermione paused at the question. Harry was half turned to attend the student, and he asked it in a backhanded way, but it seemed like he waited for the answer tensely. 

“Sure, yeah,” Ron nodded. “They’ll be thrilled you’re here— I can’t believe McGonagall never told my parents!”

Harry nodded, smiled. “Great. Talk to you in a bit.”

“Wait— Harry—“ Ginny said quickly, stepping forward, but Harry had already gone, hurrying to help a Seventh Year on the other side of the class.

Ron turned to Hermione, his grin complete. He had not noticed the tense moment, and his eyes were joyous. 

“How does he always mange to do that?” He asked her, wondrously, shaking his head. “You think he’s in trouble, half way to death, and then he goes around and wins 60 points to Gryffindor, or one thousand Gallaons, or… What?”

He’d noticed her hesitance.

“Nothing,” She said quickly. “I don’t know how he does it. But it’s brilliant. And Harry’s the best Defense teacher the school’s seen other than Lupin. He’ll be amazing.”

“I am not complaining,” Ron grinned, and raised his wand.

After the lesson, they tried to speak with him again, but he hardly managed three sentences before he had to leave.

“Sorry,” He said, and waved his wand at the desks that had been pushed to the sides of the room, so that they took their original positions, facing the blackboard. “Younger years need some theories before casting spells. I need to put the class together, and I want to look at my notes.” He explained, to her questioning look.

“Are you allowed to take points off them?” Ron asked.

“I’m allowed to take points off you, too,” Harry confided. “I just don’t think it’ll be a good idea.”

“No, definitely not,” Hermione agreed, but Ron looked like Christmas had come early. 

“Too bad Malfoy’s off in Germany, isn’t it?” He asked, grinning foolishly, and she rolled her eyes at Harry, but he did not notice.

“Sorry, I need to get ready here,” He said, apologetically. “I’ll talk to you later, though, promise.”

They left, talking excitedly. The Great Hall was packed for lunch, and after a few minutes of animated conversation, Hermione looked up, wondering what was taking Harry so long. She felt an odd mixture of strangeness and pride, searching the Professor’s table for his mop of black hair. She assumed he’d be sitting next to Hagrid, but though a chair was left there, it remained empty.

“Maybe he’s taking longer to go over the plan for the next lesson,” Ron dismissed, and sat to devour his lunch. “Blimey, I’ve missed Hogwarts food.”

“Don’t let Mum hear you,” Ginny laughed, sitting across from them. “By the way, I’ve sent her a letter about Harry with Pig. She’s worried sick.”

“Good.” He swallowed, and then frowned. “Hey, you can’t just use my owl without permission—!”

Hermione ignored them, looking instead at the Professor’s table once more, where Harry’s seat was still unoccupied. Hagrid was speaking with Professor Sprout, but he caught her looking, and waved. She waved back, hesitant.

Harry did not show up for lunch, and they hurried off to Charms, and then Herbology right after. By the time they were able to return to the Defense classroom and knock at the office door, the school day had finished.

“This is so strange,” Ginny said, musingly, as they stood waiting in the hallway. “I feel like the world is backwards.”

Hermione grinned at her, and Ron knocked again, louder.

“Maybe he’s not finished with classes yet?”

Hermione walked a few feet away, looking through the door of the classroom. “It’s empty,” She said, and came back. 

“Harry?” Ron tried again, knocking once more. There was no response, and they exchanged looks, uncertain.

“Hagrid’s?” He suggested, shrugging.

“I guess…” 

Hermione wasn’t sure why she felt worried, but as she looked at the closed door, a small part of her was becoming frightened again.

“It’s not as though he can vanish off,” Ron said reasonably. “I mean— he’s teaching here now, so that means he’ll be around. We can talk to him tomorrow over breakfast.”

“Right,” She said, nodding. Of course. There was nothing to worry about. Harry could be in any number of legitimate places. Maybe he was giving McGonagall a first day follow up, or getting to know the staff in the Professors’ Lounge, or even sleeping in his rooms, exhausted from the long day. They had all year to ask him about his travels in Europe— for now, they should let him get through his first week in peace.

They left, light hearted.

But the following morning, as they made their way to their first class, they met Ginny, who frowned at them.

“Harry hasn’t been to dinner yesterday,” She said. “Or breakfast this morning.”

“He’s taking it a bit too seriously, isn’t he?” Neville, who was sitting next to them, frowned as well. “I mean, I know preparing for a new job’s important, and it must be pretty nerve-racking to get lesson plans ready— but the new Transfiguration Professor’s been to all the meals, hadn’t she?”

“He’s probably just eating after, getting stuff from the kitchen,” Ron defended. “Harry’s brand new at this, all right? And he hasn’t got a mentor like McGonagall to tell him how to run her class. He’s gotta make it up using old notes and textbooks. Plus, he’s only known about this for a few weeks, right? He hasn’t had any time to prepare. Give him a week to settle in, will you?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Neville said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—“

“Don’t say what you don’t mean, then,” Ron muttered, angrily, and turned his head to the new Professor, who was eyeing their group with sharp eyes.

But Ron was not angry at Neville, Hermione knew. And as lunch rolled around, and Harry was once again missing from the Great Hall, they turned back on their heels and walked quickly up to the third floor, where the Defense classroom was empty of students.

They found him sitting on the teacher’s desk, cross legged, reading over a piece of parchment.

“Hey,” He said, smiling when they came in. “Hadn’t seen you in a while.”

Hermione felt calm settle over her. The war had had them on edge. They were being paranoid.

Ron also smiled. “You’re not coming to lunch?”

“I’m not that hungry,” Harry said. “And my next class are sixth years, and they’re almost as hard as you guys,” He joked, and slid his feet off the desk, so that he stood next to them, leaning back on it. “How’s Professor Olsworth?”

They sat on the desks around him, talking easily, and all worries were gone from Hermione’s mind. It was so familiar, just the three of them, talking about new teachers and other students, that it almost slipped her mind that Harry was one of these new teachers, too.

“But tell us about you,” Ron said finally, after Hermione finished telling them about her Arithmacy class with Ginny’s class mates. “I mean— France? Switzerland? That must have been amazing!”

“It was,” Harry said, and glanced at his watch. “Real mind opening, you know?”

“I bet,” Ron said. “Could have asked us to join, you know.”

“I almost did,” Harry said. “I just— I needed some time on my own. You know?”

Ron nodded. They were no longer angry, just happy that he’d been seeing the world rather than being held prisoner by dark forces.

“So? Vampires?”

“Yes, two,” Harry said. “Look, I’m sorry, but my next class is in ten minutes, and I really need to get this done—“

“Right, we’re so sorry,” Hermione said, getting to her feet and pulling Ron after her. “You told us before. Good luck!”

They made it back to the Great Hall just in time for a bite of bread before the food vanished. Ron groaned, following less than enthusiastically to the next class.

They wanted to invite Harry to join them at the Three Broomsticks that evening, but his office was once again locked. 

“Maybe his sleeping quarters are somewhere else?” Ron suggested, and Hermione shrugged. They went to visit Hagrid, and asked him.

“Nah, it’s there,” He told them, placing large mugs of tea in front of them. “Might be with Professor McGonagall, Harry. It’s harder than it looks, teaching,” He added, self importantly, and Hermione smiled at him, asking him about his classes.

But as the days went by, it was harder and harder to find reasonable excuses.

“I don’t understand it,” Ginny said, seeming frustrated. “He’s never at any meal. Whenever I try to find him after classes, the office is locked and no one’s answering. He’s harder to find than Trewlany!”

“We caught him once during lunch,” Hermione said, and Ginny’s frown deepened. 

“Well, whenever I go there, he’s nowhere to be found.”

Their next Defense class was on Thursday, after lunch, and Harry smiled at them as they huddled in.

He set the rest on practicing the spell they were working on, and made his way quickly towards them, his steps easy.

“Hey,” He said, coming to a stop next to Ron. “How’s the first week going?”

“Fine,” Ron’s voice was less enthusiastic, more suspicious. “Harry, where are you? We hardly see you at all.”

“I’m sorry,” He said, words which were beginning to irritate her. “I’m just really busy.”

Ron eyed him for a little while longer, before Ginny broke into the conversation.

“We’re going out to the Three Broomsticks tonight,” She said quickly, and Harry glanced away from her, at the rest of the class, though no one had asked for help. “The Repeating Students do almost every night, but tonight Luna and I are going, as well. Want to come?”

“I would,” Harry said, absentmindedly, still looking away, “But I can’t.”

“Why not?” Ginny seemed upset, and Harry still didn’t look at her.

“I’ll be right back,” He said, and vanished, hurrying to a group of others who were a few wand movements away from explosion.

But he was not back. 

When the class ended, they waited as long as they could, but had minutes to get to Transfiguration without being late by the time Harry finished talking with Ernie MacMillan about his spell work. He waved at them apologetically as they left, already rearranging the desks for his next lesson.

“Something’s going on,” Ginny said, as they rushed down the corridor. 

“I don’t know,” Ron muttered. “I mean— it’s the first week. Maybe he’s just—“

“I think I should talk to Professor McGonagall,” Hermione told them, just as they saw the door ahead. “Maybe he’s really just with her in the evenings. He’s juggling all these classes. If it was really last minute, it must be really hard.”

Ginny glared at her, unconvinced. “I’m telling you. Something’s wrong.”

Hermione looked away, dread building in her stomach.

She went to Dumbledore’s old office after classes ended, as Ron and the rest tried Harry’s office again, planning to meet up later at the flats at Hogsmeade.

She knocked, and was admitted. Professor McGonagall had kept the office similar to what it had been when Dumbledore sat across the desk. She was looking over a large tome, and she smiled at Hermione when she entered.

“Ms. Granger,” She said, and Hermione sat down. “How can I help you?”

Hermione had always been able to receive smiles from the otherwise strict Professor. McGonagall sat tall and taut at the large chair, looking at her sharply, interest in her feline eyes.

“Well,” Hermione started, wondering how to voice it. “It’s about Harry, Professor.”

The expression did not change, but a shadow flashed over McGonagall’s eyes. She waited.

“He’s just… He seems…” She didn’t want to make trouble for him, she realized. She didn’t want to have his boss thinking he’s doing a poor job. “He’s… his lessons are great,” She said, lamely, feeling daft. “I mean… everyone thinks so. But he— when we try to talk to him, he’s always busy. Maybe because he’s preparing them. The lessons. It’s just—“

“Ms. Granger,” McGonagall stopped her, and Hermione spluttered into silence, kicking herself, wishing she’d thought this through.

McGonagall pulled her glasses off, and placed them neatly on the desk in front of her. Her piercing eyes met Hermione’s, serious and somber. 

“If you’ve come here to tell me that you’re concerned about Mr. Potter,” She said, her voice even, “Then you’re right. And I am too.”

Hermione felt her heart filling with dread once more. This was not what she had come to hear.

“I’m glad you came to me,” McGonagall said. “I need your help.”

Hermione swallowed. 

“Of course,” She said, and McGonagall pulled off her glasses.

Chapter Text

The World Had Ended

They found him dead, laid out in the Great Hall, with George sitting next to his head and Ron’s mother over him, his father stroking her hair as tears slid steadily down his sorrowed face.

Ron lost sight of anything at all, and the grief he had been pushing down since the Room of Requirements settled over him so completely, so fully, he was not sure he was even there. He was vaguely aware of Hermione engulfing Ginny in a hug, which his sister returned with tears cascading down her cheeks, her brown eyes full of horror, though she stood tall and powerful with her hair loose in a tie and her wand still out. He walked towards Bill, Fluer, and Percy, and the latter fell on his shoulders, his sobbing filling the air as the rest of the family stood silent, and the memory the two now shared connected them, of the joke Fred had never finished, of the light as it left his laughing eyes…

“You’re alive,” Percy whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”

Ron hugged him back, and the months of animosity were gone forever, not even a fleeting memory in his mind. He looked behind him and Fluer was also crying, her tears making her seem more human, and he did not flinch when he met her eyes. Bill was tall and ashen, his eyes on George, whose face Ron had never seen quite like that, not crying, not tear streaked, just staring forward, lost. And beneath him, laid out as though sleeping, his eyes closed, their mother sobbing over him, was Fred. And a smile still hang at his lips, but his joke would never be completed.

He had felt anger, had wanted revenge, but now none of it was left in him. Nothing but exhaustion. Nothing but a strong urge for this to end. For all of it to just be over. 

Percy let him go, and Ron glanced back, meeting Hermione’s tearful eyes. She stepped towards him and clasped his hand in hers. Her hair was full of dust and bushier than ever, her face covered in soot and her robes smelling of basilisk venom, but she had never been more beautiful.

“Harry, we need to think of a plan,” Ron heard himself say, his eyes still on his family, silent and grieving on the floor of the hall. He saw Remus and Tonks laid down next to Fred, and he had not realized he could be any colder, but now he was, and when he glanced around other bodies rocked him with their empty stares. He breathed deeply, forcing the tears back. “We have an hour, we’ll need to think of a strategy. I think… I think you should stay here. I’ll go find the snake. No one will expect me.”

Hermione’s hand tightened in his, and when he looked down, her eyes were brown and large and tearful.

“It can’t be you,” He told her. “I can’t have it being you.”

She squeezed his hand. He wanted to kiss her, but the dead lined the Great Hall cold and forbidding, and the cold in him was so complete, and so different from the earlier rage, and he was so tired…

But no response had come from his other side, no argument, no snarky retort. Its absence was disconcerting.

“Harry?”

He looked around, where Harry had been standing on his left, but he wasn’t there.

They turned. Hermione was frowning. Ron’s eyes skimmed the Great Hall, pausing at the moaning injured, pausing at the shattered remains of the entrance, pausing at the dead still being carried in by somber eyed fighters.

Harry had gone.

***

Chapter Four: Change

“I’m glad you came, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, and Potter smiled at her, sitting calmly across the desk. 

“It seemed urgent,” He replied, fiddling with his fingers. McGonagall tried to meet his gaze, but it kept shifting away. Was this a good idea? Perhaps not. But she had little other choice.

She’d tried every other option. The last remaining venues were taking up the Defense Against the Dark Arts post herself, bringing someone back from the dead, or setting someone utterly incompetent at it— not that many of these were eager for the post. She had scourged the country. There was no one they hadn’t already tried.

No one, but Harry Potter.

When she first thought of it, she’d felt foolish. An eighteen year old who had not finished his seventh year was not an adequate option for a teaching position in one of the best Magical Schools in Europe. Not to mention that Potter had been missing for months, no where to be found, hiding away from his loved ones. He would also be teaching his own former classmates, which was unheard of.

And yet.

The students whose names had been on the parchment titled Dumbledore’s Army had scored far better on all defense exams than their peers. Harry had trained them for long months, in what many of them described as a rejuvenating technique, which had brought the likes of Neville Longbottom to the front of the class, not to mention the war effort. Potter had been the best of his year at the subject by a far margin from the very start, and certainly had enough practical experience to be the envy of Defense Professors around the globe. He was likable, modest, talented. Well renowned. A proven success as a teacher. 

And most importantly, available. 

So she sent him an owl. She knew he was sending his own, so she assumed they would find him, wherever he was. She worried that he would ignore her letter, as he had ignored all other letters sent to him. But he had not. He showed up, as she’d asked him, on the twenty-second of August, and knocked at her office door. 

And now he sat in front of her, fiddling with his fingers.

Professor McGonagall prided herself in being able to read students with ease. She could tell when they were lying, when they were hiding something, when they felt guilty, or expected reprimand. She also knew when they were proud, or happy, or scared, or worried. It was what had made her a good teacher, a good Head of House, and perhaps, a good Headmistress. But Harry Potter gave her nothing.

She looked, hard, trying to understand her confusion. He sat calmly, seeming just as she’d remembered him, the reincarnated spirit of Lily with a mischievous glint of James passing through when the need arose. Untidy black hair, green eyes, a wiry build, a confident expression. 

But he did not meet her eyes. And he fiddled uncomfortably with his fingers. And he did not look at the portrait behind her, of Albus, who was eyeing him with concern.

It did not add up.

“Mr. Potter,” She started. “I’m sorry to have called you up in such a hurry. But I’m afraid that it is urgent. Very urgent, in fact.”

He glanced up, and then down again, waiting for her to continue.

Odd.

“As you know, the position of Defense Professor is a tricky one to fill,” She said, and he blinked, nodding. “Despite the fact that I believe— as you do, I’m sure— that the curse on the post has been lifted with the death of He Who Must Not Be Named, it is still largely believed in the Wizarding community to be an uninhabitable position.”

He did not look up at the mention of the man he’d killed nearly four months prior, but she thought she saw him becoming rigid at the mention.

“Mr. Potter?”

“Yes?”

She waited, and he lifted his eyes, meeting hers nervously, though his stance remained calm. 

“You have more teaching experience than most of the candidates that could be available,” She said. “And more practical experience, it can be argued, than any man alive today.”

She waited. His eyes were on his fingers again.

But the actions contrasted with the overall impression. How could that be?

“Mr. Potter.” He shifted. “I’m asking you to take over the post of Defense Professor at Hogwarts.”

There was a long silence.

“Professor—“

“Trust me,” She cut him off, watching the oddity of his eyes scattering wildly as his face remained with a hint of a steady smile. “I understand the absurdity of the situation. I would certainly have rather you to have been older. Or for there to have been someone else. But you are my last option.”

She pulled out the forms, and laid them on the table.

“In a few years, not even so many, you would have been approached with this position, anyway,” She told him. “Whether it would have been me or my future replacement, I don’t know, but your talent in the subject has been apparent from the start, Mr. Potter, and your teaching skills have been tried and tested. I am not asking with a light heart. But I need you. I have no one else. My other option is to start the year without the subject of Defense, in a time when Death Eaters and dementors roam Britain at large. So I ask you, please. To consider.”

She did not enjoy saying please. But she could not leave her students unable to defend themselves. And Harry Potter was the best option, better, in fact, than others she’d already interviewed who’d turned away after hearing of the curse. He was young. But he was good. 

Harry met her eyes for the first time.

And she saw it.

She didn't let her surprise register on her face. But the contrast was too obvious, the difference too clear. As his eyes bombarded her with the truth, his body propelled a lie.

He was under an enchantment. Some sort of concealment charm. Once she realized what it was, it was easier to find traces of it all over him: a fuzziness at the edges, a soft shimmer over the robes. He was buzzing with it, concealed completely, the spell putting forth an image of confident calm and health, whilst his scattering eyes, his fiddling hands, and his wordlessness proved the opposite.

“I’m sorry,” He said, and she heard it in his voice, the hoarse emptiness she’d come to associate with Alastor Moody after he lost his family. “I’m sorry, Professor, but I can’t.”

She looked at him, caught between the urge to find out what was beneath the charm and the need to find a teacher for the school year that was under a fortnight away.

If he lived at Hogwarts, she could keep a closer eye on him. Certainly being alone, wherever it was that he was hiding at, would not improve matters.

“Harry,” She said, and he looked away quickly at the use of his name, growing more rigid still. “I understand the difficulty. You have every right to refuse. But I need you,” She spoke clearly, and his eyes returned to her. “These are dark times still. I need someone to teach my students how to defend themselves.”

He stood. She rose as well. He was shaking his head.

“I’m sorry. I—“

“I understand,” She said. “But you can’t go back to hiding. The Wizarding world needs you, too. You have been their light during the war. Their hope. They need you now, more than ever.”

He stood frozen.

She’d said something, but she did not know what.

Then he swallowed, nodding numbly. His face was still half smiling, but his eyes were empty, void.

“Where do I sign?” He asked, and relief flooded her, as she pushed over the parchment.

Hermione listened to the story, her dread growing more and more palpable. 

“I have brought Mr. Potter here to teach,” Professor McGonagall finished, and Hermione looked back at her, alarmed. “But also, because he should not be left alone.”

The words seemed to reverberate in her. A concealment charm. 

“It is my wish, Ms. Granger, that you and Mr. Weasley take this into account. You are the ones he would most likely agree to speak with.” She felt numb. The Professor’s eyes grew softer. “Ms. Granger,” She said, and Hermione’s heart leapt fearfully. “I do not want to make you concerned over nothing. I am not certain in my suspicions. But I would like you to keep an eye on him, if you could,” She said, gently, and her eyes were worried. “Just to make sure.”

“Of course,” Hermione said, and McGonagall leaned back, calmer.

During the next class, Hermione noticed things.

They were working on a nonverbal shield charm. As it sprung into existence it let out a soft, sharp sound of whiplash. Ron was sending curses at her, and she blocked them mindlessly, her gaze following Harry as he made his way around the room, correcting postures and commenting on spells.

It was the way he walked.

She had not been looking closely, before. At first glance, he seemed tall, confident, with shoulders pulled back and his head held high. But around his body was a soft shimmering of spell work, making him blurry around the edge. If she looked, truly looked, and not just glanced— she saw hints of what was beneath.

He walked differently. Slowly, heavily, as though each step was a struggle. He leaned forward as he made his way though the room, his shoulders hunched. It seemed like a battle. Each time his boot left the floor, he seemed like he would fall, only to be stopped last minute by the boot’s reconnection. It would land thunderingly, pushing the floor away, steadying the rest of him with difficulty, only to be drugged up again torturously.

His movements were different, too. The way he turned his head, too slowly, as though in a daze. He blinked slower. When he pulled up his sleeves, raising his wand, it seemed like it was painful, as though each movement was an effort, draining him of energy.

And his eyes. They were bright, vibrant, green. But they were empty. They had nothing in them.

“Hermione?”

She looked back at Ron. He followed her gaze.

They’d spoken the night before. Ron had not said much, and frowned as she left, and the following morning remained more thoughtful than usual. Now, his eyes jumped from Harry to her, and he shuffled in place.

Then, decisively, he raised his hand.

When Harry came over, he smiled. She looked scrutinizingly at it, trying to see through it. It was an odd smile, she now realized. Not Harry’s. She hadn’t seen him smiling nearly at all for months, not only since the battle, but also before then, as they searched hopelessly for horcruxes they could not identify. Seeing it again, she was so glad she did not pause to observe that it was wrong. Different. Hollow.

The spell shimmered over him, and though his face seemed serene, his eyes were off, the smile never reaching them.  

“Can we talk to you?” Ron asked.

“Sure,” Harry said. “Hermione, if you lift your elbow you’ll block it better.”

She lowered her wand, and he raised his eyebrow.

“Not about that,” She said. “Can we talk to you really? For longer than five minutes?”

He glanced sideways. Ron shifted next to her.

“Look,” Harry said, his voice uncomfortable, though his expression was easy. How did I not notice this before? “It’s not that I don’t want to, alright? It’s just—“

“You’re busy, we get it,” Ron said. “But don’t tell me you can’t spare an hour to have a bottle of butterbeer.”

Harry glanced up at him, down at her, and back to the rest of the class. His eyes skipped over Ginny, who was eyeing them with irritation from across the room.

“Alright. On Wednesday I finish early. We’ll meet then.”

Ron blinked, and then his frowned deepened. “Wednesday? Why not to—“

But Harry was already gone, smiling apologetically and vanishing behind shimmering shield charms. 

“Wednesday?” Ron turned to her, annoyed. “What is it, a teacher's appointment?”

“Better than nothing,” Hermione told him, feeling slightly better. “Come on, your turn to block.”

They did not leave room for chance. On Wednesday evening, they came to the Defense classroom and stood patiently as students filed out.

Harry cleared the black board with a flick of the wand, and then paused at his desk, looking over a large pile of parchment.

“Essays to grade,” He said, grimacing. “Don’t worry, McGonagall gave me some pointers.”

“You could just not give assignments,” Ron suggested, half smiling, but Harry laughed, and his laugh was odd, and Ron’s smile vanished.

“You tell McGonagall that,” He said, somewhat awkwardly, and shoved the essays into a drawer, placing his wand in his back pocket and turning to them. “Alright. So—“

There was an explosion from outside.

They all jumped, twisting to the door. Peeves was there, looking in, jeering, a fallen armor clattered beneath him. 

“Whoopsy,” He said happily. 

“Sod off, you,” Ron called after him, and Peeves replied with a juicy word before vanishing down the hall, his cackling heard all the way through the corridor.

“Honestly,” Ron muttered, and they turned back.

Harry stood frozen, his wand out, his eyes wide and no longer empty.

Hermione stopped her intake of breathe. No, certainly not empty. Full. This was the same look he’d had after returning from the graveyard when Voldemort returned, after the battle at the Department of Mysteries, after Dumbledore had died. Fear, despair, and… grim determination.

But something else she couldn’t place.

Before she could read into it, Harry breathed, smiled, chuckled.

“So,” He said, returning his wand to his pocket. “Hagrid’s made us food. I hope you already ate.”

There was a moment of confusion as they tried to understand what he said while watching his eyes emptying again.

“Er… what?” Ron asked, weakly. “I thought—“

“We wanted to speak to you here, privately,” Hermione said, and Harry gave them a surprised look. 

“Oh, sorry,” He said, shrugging. “You didn’t say, and I hadn’t had a chance to catch up with Hagrid yet, either, and I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Well—“

“We can’t cancel now, I already sent him an owl.”

She exchanged looks with Ron.

“All right,” She said, and Harry grinned at them emptily again and led the way outside.

“Hagrid could just help the cause,” Ron muttered, placatingly, as they were walking.

“Or, he’s more likely to get us off the topic,” she whispered back.

“Where are you going? The Great Hall’s that way,” Ron said, as Harry turned a wrong corner.

He did not glance back at them. “I know where the Great Hall is, Ron. I need to get something from Firenze.”

They made the detour, found the centaur missing from his lodgings, and exited the castle using a smaller entrance, leading to the green houses from the back.

“So how are the flats?”

“Hmm?”

He still didn’t look back, but walked quickly ahead, speaking back to them.

“How are the flats? Hogsmeade? Where you’re staying now?”

“Er… good. Great.” Ron grabbed her hand and pulled her faster, so that they were in step with Harry, slightly breathless. “Are we in a hurry?”

“Yes,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “Ron, I have twenty-five essays to grade, and tomorrow the third years are handing in twenty more. And, you may not have noticed, but I have no clue how to even began grading them.”

They’d arrived at Hagrid’s door and Harry knocked loudly. 

Hagrid grinned when he saw him and pulled him into a hug, which made Hermione more nervous. Harry’s been in the castle for at least a week and a half, and was now a colleague of the Care of Magical Creatures Professor. How had they not met before today?

They sat as usual around the circular, stained table and Hagrid placed large mugs before them, grinning, his beetle eyes twinkling.

“Can’t tell ye how glad I am to see ye lot in me hut again,” He said, somewhat choked, and Hermione smiled at him hesitantly, eyeing Harry, who was not touching his mug. “Been too long, it has.”

“Where’s Fang?” Harry said, referring to the obvious absence of barking, jumping and drooling as they entered.

“About,” Hagrid said, and placed a tray of rock cakes in front of them. “He’ll be back soon, I expec’. But Harry— how’s it been? First week o’ classes! Hogwarts Professor!”

Harry reddened. “Not Professor,” He said. “Sub.”

“Kids call ye Professor, or don’ they?” Hagrid roared, pride emanating from him. “Always knew you was something special, Harry, I did. An’ McGonagall was worried, she couldn’t find no one, and with the castle all torn apart af’er the battle… But we did alrigh', didn’t we?” He smiled at them. “School up and functionin’. Wouldda made Dumbledore proud, Harry. You especially.”

She watched him, but his expression did not change. He was looking at the mug, his face calm, but he said nothing, and he did not meet Hagrid’s eyes.

“And all them who died,” Hagrid continued, not noticing this, and Ron gave her a look and she shrugged helplessly. “They’d been proud too, I’d say. He was nothing in the end, You Know Who. Just a snake. Made no difference. Here we are after, stronger than ever, am I righ’?”

He grinned at them. Ron nodded weakly, and Hermione bit into one of the rock cakes. They couldn’t let Hagrid’s presence distract them. They needed to get this show on the road.

“Harry,” She said, abandoning the chewing effort, “I wanted to ask you, about—“

“Ron and Hermione are living in the flats at Hogsmeade,” Harry cut her off, speaking to Hagrid, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat, and continued more quickly. “In the new building McGonagall found for the repeating students.”

“I know,” Hagrid beamed at them. “They told me las’ week.”

“They— they did?”

“Yeh. Came to visit me one evenin’. You were busy, remember?”

“Right.” Harry seemed to falter, and glanced at them and away again. 

“So Harry,” She plowed on. He had planned to distract them with Hagrid and distract Hagrid with them. But now, he was the only distraction. “You never really got to tell us, you know, about how you left. That is— it was sudden. Did something happen, or—“

“Nothing,” Harry said shortly. “Hagrid, I wanted to talk to you about teaching.”

Hagrid blinked at him, glanced at Hermione, as though catching on to the situation, and then back at Harry. “Er…Yeh?”

“Just, the way that I draw up lesson plans— I’m using old notes, and I’m not sure it’s the best, so I was wondering if you could show me how you plan out yours.”

“Wait,” Hermione said, cutting in. They did not come here to listen to Harry pretending to get advice from the one Professor in the school least likely to give it. “Harry— we wanted to talk to you about—“

“Just a minute,” He said, and turned back to Hagrid, who frowned, but began reluctantly explaining his techniques.

Hermione looked at Ron helplessly, but he had no answers, and they listened silently to a long, unhelpful analysis of Care of Magical Creatures lessons, with suspiciously specific questions which did not seem to hold any practical purpose. 

Whenever they tried to steer the conversation away, Harry’d answer curtly and ask another odd question of Hagrid, or of them, regarding Hogsmeade and the flat. It was infuriating, and Ron was getting more and more agitated at her side.

“Everyone’s flats are very close, so we see them all very often,” He said finally, exasperated, as a response to one such question. “Unlike you, whom we never see, and who seems to be avoiding any and all questions regarding your previous whereabout. Why is that, Harry?”

The question hung in the small hut, thundering.

“I am not avoiding, I just don’t see how it’s your business,” Harry said coldly, his eyes flashing dangerously, which was at least not empty, she supposed. He looked over at Hagrid and away from them. “Hagrid, thanks for the tea. I’ve got essays to grade.” He got to his feet quickly and marched for the door, despite Hagrid’s protests, and flung it open only to be obstructed by a huge dog.

“Fang— Down!” Hagrid said, rushing to Harry’s aid, but the dog had already dropped off, his tail slowing in its wagging, his usual excitement vanishing quickly, to be replaced by a canine sort of hesitance.

“See you later,” Harry told Hagrid, smiled, and vanished.

Fang barked after him. Hagrid turned to them, his black eyes alert. 

“What was tha’?” He asked, not exactly angry but also not his usual jovial self. “Ron? ‘Mione? What’s going on?”

They stood, exchanging looks again.

“We’re not sure,” Hermione said finally, and explained what Professor McGonagall had told her.

“Ah,” Hagrid said, looking back at the castle, where Harry had already vanished into the night. “That happens sometimes,” He said, almost to himself. A strange morbidity settled over him, his huge frame growing heavier. He glanced at them, and sighed. “Remus was having a hard time, too, after James and Lily died, when Sirius wa’ still in Azkaban. Harry’ll come around,” He told them, his expression certain. “Especially with the two of ye on his case.”

He smiled at them, and Hermione felt warmer at his confidence. 

But as she looked at Harry’s receding figure, she noticed he did not enter the castle from the Great Hall, but took the long way around, back through the Greenhouses.

Chapter Text

Not You

Ron looked around, where Harry had been standing on his left, but he wasn’t there.

They turned. Hermione was frowning. Ron’s eyes skimmed the Great Hall, pausing at the moaning injured, pausing at the shattered remains of the entrance, pausing at the dead still being carried in by somber eyed fighters.

Harry was not there.

A terror the likes of which he had never felt filled him, and he looked down to see Hermione’s equally petrified face.

“He wouldn’t,” She said.

He still had her hand in his but he let go to march forward, powerfully, over the bodies and through the throng, his heart bombing in his chest. His mind was full of Harry’s face as Voldemort’s message washed over them. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest… 

And Harry, who was Harry, who was such a goddamn fool about saving people, who was such a goddamn fool about sacrifice and death—

Ron broke through the shattered doors and stood blinking at the coming dawn, facing the grounds, large and stretching, with the lake on the left and Hagrid’s hut on the right, the forest stretched out before him.

He saw others searching through the bodies littering the grounds. He recognized Neville, leaning over the dead, pulling them up with Oliver Wood, and Dean with Seamus at his side, both injured but carrying a girl between them…

The night was dark and the shadows deep. He looked hopelessly for a lone figure walking out towards the forest. But even if Harry had gone, he would have taken the cloak with him, he would be invisible, unstoppable…

I can’t lose you too.

Please. Please. I can’t lose you too. Not you. Not you.

His head was whirling and he could not breathe. He nearly toppled over but his hands grabbed onto the smoking doors, keeping him from collapsing. Harry’s eyes had been wide with realization in the Shrieking Shack. He looked up at them with the same look he’d had when he decided to go after the horcruxes when Dumbledore died, after Malfoy when he thought he would kill the headmaster, after Sirius when he saw him tortured at the Ministry during an OWL. It was the same look he’d had when he went after the escaped convict that betrayed his parents, when he went to save Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets, when he went after the Philosopher’s Stone. Of course he would go to the forest. Of course he would go. 

And it was his job. Ron’s job. To watch him. To stop him. To save him. 

The tears were already sliding, hot and burning, making their way through the ash and blood and sweat on his face, and he had never felt so alone. 

Not you. Not you.

And he had five brothers and seventeen cousins and a hundred family members all round the world, but it was Harry, it was Harry, who had been his family by choice, who had smiled sheepishly and offered him candy on the Hogwarts Express, who had picked him out of everyone to make him his brother, who had trusted him with his life—

Not you—

“Ron—“

He looked back and Hermione was behind him, shaking her head, her hair disarrayed around her.

She came closer and placed her hands over his, and he was panting, and there was a hole in his chest, gaping and expanding—

He’d gone. He’d gone. And he would stand calm and confident under the Dark Lord’s wand, and he would allow the killing curse to wash over him, and he would be full of certainty at the sacrifice, smile lightly, and then the light would leave his eyes—

Not you—

He was supposed to have made it through this. Because he had suffered the most, and he had given the most, and he had wanted it to end the most, and the sacrifices just came and came and came and Harry just gave them without a second thought and it was Ron, it was Ron whose job it was to stop him, whose job it was to make sure he did not make this final sacrifice from which he could not back down, because if he didn’t, Harry would give it, it was as good as foretold—

And he had failed him, he had, he had—

“Ron—“

Her eyes were large and brown and calming.

“Don’t,” She whispered. “Don’t. Look. Just look.”

He was shaking and swaying and he could hardly see her through his tears but he looked, and in her arms was the Marauder’s Map. Her fingers, covered in filth from the Chamber and blood from the dead, were curled around it, pointing at the Headmaster’s office. 

He tried to make out the thin webs of ink through the trembles. His hand was holding him up, his legs weak and shivery, and he leaned against the door, the charred wood feeling sharp and tough and real against his skin. And behind him the dead littered the grounds, and Harry would be one of them, his green eyes ever staring into the rising sun.

He blinked the webs into focus, and managed to read the name scribbled inside the Headmaster’s office through a fog reminiscent of dementors.

Harry Potter.

He felt his heart start beating again.

Hermione held his hand tighter, and he closed his eyes, trying to breathe again.

Not you. Not you.

***

Chapter Five: Vials

It seemed that the thin semblance of normalcy was gone.

Harry was angry with Ron at his outburst, and did not pretend to make up excuses to avoid meeting them. He was never there when they came to find him over lunch, and during class he kept his distance, other than the minimal teaching he was required to do.

“Again with the elbow, Hermione.”

“I don’t care about the elbow, Harry, I wanted—“

But he was gone.

“I don’t understand why he’s mad at me, though,“ Ginny said one evening, as they were finishing up a delicious meal at the Three Broomsticks. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I think he’s not mad, so much as that he found an excuse now to avoid us and is exploiting it,” Hermione said, picking at her food. “But he can’t keep it up for long.”

Neville was sitting with them, as were Dean, Seamus, Luna and Hannah. They had not meant to tell them about McGonagall’s request, but they seemed to have picked it up from the constant glances and snatches of whispered conversations.

“It might be that Professor McGonagall’s over reacting a tad,” Neville said, reasonably. “Harry seems fine to me in class, and he’s got a right not to talk about things if he doesn’t want to.”

“No, he doesn’t!” Ginny said, heatedly. “Not if he refuses to talk to anyone about anything. It’s almost the same as it was over the summer, isn’t it? We get little signs of proof twice a week to know he’s alive when we’re in class, but other than that he’s somewhere unidentifiable doing who knows what.”

Hermione had to agree. In her bag she had a book about grief, but wizards were less interested in those branches of the soul, and she wished she could get her hands on a muggle psychology book. 

“We’ll keep at it,” She said, mostly to Ron, who looked dejectedly at his food. “It’s Harry. He’ll talk to us eventually.”

But as the second week turned to the third, and then the fourth, things became clearer, and Harry, though less frosty, became no less stubborn in his mission to avoid them.

He’d jump at loud noises, whipping out his wand. He never stepped foot in the Great Hall, neither for meals nor to get to the grounds. When they were in class, he’d walk around looking for people to assist, but if no one required help he’d stop, lean on his desk at the front, looking over the practice though not seeing it. His eyes would become emptier still, staring sightlessly into the stone tiles, far away. It would take a few repetitions of his name before he’d blink and return to the present, wearing the fake smile, walking too quickly and speaking too loud.

They tried a new tactic. They cornered him after class, and filled the room with simple conversations, about nothing at all, staying away from his mysterious disappearance, or the Battle, or the events of the last year. At first it seemed to go well, and they spoke for a while, but as Ron was talking about the new players in the Gryffindor Quidditch team Harry seemed to drift off, looking away and humming when questioned, until Hermione put her hand on his to get his attention back.

He jumped away from her, snatching his hand out of hers. His eyes were wild, and for a minute she was stunned at the fullness of them, until he emptied them again.

“Sorry. What?” He asked, strained, and looked at Ron to continue.

“Ginny was hoping you could come to one of the practices,” Ron repeated, after a glance from her. “She wants your opinion on the new Seeker.”

Harry hummed noncommittally.

“Also, my mother invited us to a weekend at the Burrow. She—“

“Ron, I don’t have time to—“

“I know, I told her, but we thought maybe just dinner—“

But he was shaking his head, not looking at them. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“Then they’ll come here. Harry, George really wants to talk to you, he’s—“

But it had been the wrong thing to say. Even through the spells, she could see him stiffening, hear his breath catch.

“Sorry,” He said, numbly, and picked up a pile of parchment off his desk. “I’ll just… I need to…” But he didn’t finish, and shook his head again, and vanished into his office, leaving them alone in the class.

Others did not notice. Many of the students their year, who lived at Hogsmeade, went every evening to the Three Broomsticks for dinner. One night some of Hannah’s Hufflepuff friends joined them, and they spoke excitedly about the class.

“I’ve heard about the DA,” a girl named Lisa said, speaking to Hermione. “I even thought about joining a few times, with Umbridge having been such a joke. But I didn’t realize it was like that.”

“I did try to tell you,” Ernie Macmillan said self importantly. “The DA was one of the best things we did fifth year. And Harry’s much better than most of the other teachers we’d had. Imagine Gildorey Lockhart, on our NEWTs!”

“I heard Harry took a whole bunch of points off some Slytherin in third year,” Hannah said, looking at Hermione for confirmation. “Some of the younger girls were talking about it over lunch. He’d said something about Death Eaters, and Harry kicked him out of class.”

“Really?” Ernie seemed surprised. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

Hermione leaned forward, frowning, eyeing Ron. Hannah nodded, shrugging. “Well, you know the Slytherins. They know how to get under your skin.”

“Are you talking about that thing with Harry?” Anthony Goldstein asked, leaning over to their table from where he was sitting with Michael and Terry next to theirs. “That’s not what I heard. Apparently, the third year has detention with McGonagall for a week over it. He said something daft about the Battle at the beginning of class, and, the way they tell it, everything started shaking and Harry glared at him until he just ran out.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Anthony,” Ron said, annoyed, but gave her a worried look. 

Before the next Defense class, they found some of the third years and talked to them.

“It wasn’t Professor Potter’s fault!” A Hufflepuff girl squeaked, and Hermione was stunned at the casual use of the term, realizing that to all students but their class, Harry was the proper Defense teacher now. “Locus said something really rude.”

“What did he say?” Ron asked, his curiosity evident, but the little girl quieted, glancing at her friends.

“It was about muggle borns, I think,” One of them said. “And the room became very still all of a sudden, and quiet, and scary.” She glanced at the others again, rubbing her fingers together, as though they were cold. “And he just told him really quietly to leave, so Locus did, and after that no one said anything all lesson.”

Hermione thanked them, and they walked quickly into the class, speaking quietly.

“I think people are just making a big deal out of nothing,” Ron said. “I’d been pissed at a Slytherin going on about the Battle, too.”

They let the door shut behind them and hurried to their usual spot, trying to avoid being hit by any spells. When she pulled her wand out of her bag, she saw Harry rushing towards them.

“Where were you?” He demanded, angry.

“What?”

“Where were you?”

“What, have we switched roles?” Ron joked, but Harry was not smiling.

“Class started ten minutes ago,” He said, and his eyes were furious. “Where were you?”

“Just outside, talking to someone,” Hermione said placatingly, and Harry’s wrath turned to her. “Sorry, we didn’t notice—“

“That’s ten points,” He said, and she gaped at him, wordless. He seemed satisfied at her shock, and whirled back around, his robes bellowing behind him.

“What was that all about?” Ron demanded, also annoyed. “What happened to not taking points off our class?”

Hermione looked after Harry, trying to think.

It wasn’t anger, she realized, after watching him jumping at a particularly powerful shielding charm bursting next to him, pulling out his wand instinctively and looking tensely at its source, the wand tip shaking. 

It was fear.

Every time when they entered the class, his eyes would find them, and Ron saw the panic dissipating, replaced with relief.

The instructions always went well. If they were practicing a new spell, he’d explain its functions, and give ideas of situations where it could be put to use. Someone would be volunteered to show the wand movement. Someone else would block. They’d divide into pairs, and began practicing.

Then things went less well.

It was discreet, and had Ron not been following his every movement, he would not have noticed. It was the way he walked between them, careful not to touch or bump into anyone. The way he’d stop by his desk, staring off for minutes at a time, somewhere else. The way he’d stumble over words trying to explain himself, as though the thoughts slipped through his fingers, as though he was always thinking of something else. 

They managed to hold decently long conversations if they stayed away from certain topics. No mention of the war, no mention of the dead, no mention of going back to the Burrow or leaving the castle at all. He did not go to Ginny’s first Quidditch game as captain, and would not discuss why not. 

Once they were returning from a lesson in another class, and saw him coming at a near run down a staircase, his eyes wild, his robes disarrayed, not seeing them in his haste. They stopped him, breathless and confused, at the bottom of the staircase and he looked at them blankly, wordless, when they asked what was wrong.

“Needed to talk to Filtwick,” He muttered, not looking at them, not looking at the staircase, fingering his wand. “Forgot it was… but then…” He trailed off, looked to the side, and began walking away, wand still out.

Ron glanced up. The staircase led to the Room of Requirements. 

“Harry!” He called after him, desperately.

“Sorry, I gotta—“

“Come have dinner with us.”

“I’m working. Another time.”

Harry vanished around the corner. Ron turned to Hermione, his face boiling, anger raising in him for no particular reason.

“Shall I make a list?” He asked her, his head buzzing. “Will not leave the castle. Will not step into the Great Hall. Will not step next to the Room of Requirements. Will not go out flying, will not play chess, will not go into the Quidditch Pitch. Jumps at loud noises, panics if we’re ten minutes late to class but otherwise uninterested in our whereabouts out of it—“

“Ron, there’s no use getting angry.”

“No use?” He glared at her. “Is anything any use?”

She sighed, looking tired. “Something’s gotta be.” She frowned then, and picked something off the floor.

“What is it?”

“I think Harry dropped it when he was running down the stairs,” She said, studying it. It was a small vial, black, with a thick substance inside. Hermione uncorked it easily and brought it to her nose, sniffling.

Her eyes were wide. She tipped the little bottle, and a few purple drops dripped out. 

“Dreamless Sleeping Potion,” She said, to his confusion, and he frowned. “Why would he need that?”

“Nightmares?” Ron suggested. “He’s always had them, but I don’t think he’s ever used a potion before. Where would he get that?”

“Madam Pomfrey?” Hermione shrugged, her eyes on the potion, and she placed the cork on it again. “There’s an apothecary in the village, but he wouldn’t go to Hogsmeade without stopping by, would he?”

“Why not?” Ron said bitterly. “More for avoiding.”

She bit her lower lip, worried. 

“Come on,” He said. “If we get it back to him, we have an excuse to get into the office.”

They rushed at the idea, and were soon at his locked door, their knocks futile.

“Come on!” Ron growled, banging on the door too powerfully, and it clicked, and then slid open on its own, creaking.

They stood frozen for a minute, Ron’s hand still in the air.

“Well,” Ron said, and then smiled. “That’s convenient.” She looked back, uncertain. “Let’s go, Hermione. We’re under McGonagall’s orders, right?”

She hesitated, but finally, her expression set to determination. She nodded curtly, and they stepped in.

The office was as standard as it could get. Harry clearly did not know what to do with it. The desk was covered in parchments: essays and lesson plans, half scribbled notes and textbooks. Hermione paused by it, looking it over with interest, while Ron observed the empty shelves, bare walls, and untouched book cases.

“Doesn’t spend much time here, does he?”

“It’s probably more of a place to meet students if they want. He’d have his own living quarters.”

Ron walked over to the only door in the room, other than the one leading to the classroom. He knocked on it, waiting for a reply.

“Harry? We’ve got your potion.”

There was no response. Ron glanced back at Hermione, who looked suspicious.

“Ron, don’t—“

“We’re here on official business,” He said, pulling out his wand. “A Mission From the Headmistress. Using All Tools Necessary.”

“Ron—“

But he tapped the door with the tip, and it swung open as well, and Ron slipped through it before Hermione could tell him to stop.

He froze. 

He was standing at an entrance to a kitchen, small and need-specific, with a tiny counter space and a few simple wooden cupboards. Beyond the kitchen was a small living room with a dark brown sofa and a low table for drinks. Two more doors must have led to a bedroom, and a bathroom. There was a window facing the Great Lake, but curtains were pulled over it, obscuring the sights.

“Harry?”

His voice echoed in the tiny space, and Hermione stepped forward behind him, gaping.

Ron had spent seven years sleeping next to Harry, sharing a room with him. He was never a particularly organized person. More often than not, text books were laid open one on top of the other, the essays messy between them, crumpled paper left everywhere, cloths unfolded and stranded where they fell.

But this was different.

His eyes skimmed through the clattered living room, pausing at various objects and moving on.

The table was hidden beneath mounds of Prophets, chaotic, mixed with copies of the Quibbler and random scraps of parchment. More parchment was to be found over the counters in the kitchen, so much so that it was evident that they were put to no other use other than storage: the sink was dry, the cupboards dusty, and the counter itself stained with unwashed ink that had spilled out of a bottle, which remained tipped over, empty now, with a quill covered in black next to it. The floor was a mess of crumpled parchments and dirty clothing, tangled robes, tissue paper, discarded quills, fallen text books and junk.

And vials. 

Vials.

Ron couldn’t guess how many. They looked the same as the one Hermione still held in her hand, but they were all empty, covering every available surface: in the sofa, on the table, on the counter, in the sink. Small, black, some of them dripping purple potion. And the smell engulfed him, a sort of sickly flowery scent, making him dizzy.

“Oh my God,” Hermione breathed next to him, and stepped forward, as though afraid to touch anything, skipping between the things on the floor.

She walked in an odd pattern but eventually managed to get to the kitchen, opening one of the dusty cupboards.

“Empty,” She said.

“Harry?” Ron called again, louder, and moved towards the door at the other side of the quarters, trying not to step on any vials and slip.

He opened the closest door and stood looking into an empty bedroom, in a similar state of chaos, the curtains shut closed and the air stuffy.

He made to look through it when the entrance door opened.

“What are you doing here?” a voice said, surprised.

Hermione squeaked, and Ron whirled back. Harry closed the door to his office behind him, and eyed them, angry.

“Wanted to give you something you dropped,” Ron said, his voice accusatory. “Vial of Dreamless Sleeping Potion. But I guess you’re not running low, are you?”

Harry reddened, his eyes glancing at the plethora of little vials on the floor. “This door was locked,” He said instead of answering, and Ron reddened too, furious.

“Would you please talk to us already?” He demanded, pointing at the room at large. “Harry, this is getting ridiculous—“

“You break into my home and lecture me about—“

The argument would have escalated quickly had Hermione not placed a hand on Harry’s, making him quiet immediately and step away from her.

“Harry, how are you getting these?” She asked, holding the still full bottle in her hand. Her eyes were wide and scared. “It’s dangerous to use Dreamless Sleeping Potion too often, it can become addictive—“

“It’s not addictive,” Harry said, calmly, taking the bottle out of her hand and placing it on the counter, amidst the inky parchment. “I use it when I have bad dreams.”

“We kind of figured that, thanks,” Ron said, and Harry’s eyes landed on him, still vexed.

“Ron, it’s none of your—“

Hermione put her hand on his again and he stepped further back, bringing his eyes to hers and rubbing his hand where she touched him.

“How often do you have bad dreams?” She asked, her voice steady. 

“Not so often now, thank you,” Harry said unhelpfully, and pointed at the door, looking anywhere but at them. “If you don’t mind—“

“We just want to talk to you, don’t be a git about it—“

Hermione shot Ron a look that silenced him, and he fumed inwardly, watching Harry eyeing her suspiciously again. But she did not make to touch him. 

“I know you don’t want to talk,” She said, and he looked away from her again, at the overspilling sink. “We don’t want to fight.” She gave Ron a pointed look, but her voice was gentle, and Harry’s anger seemed to dissipate slightly. “We’re here once you want to. But until then, we won’t push you into it, all right?”

He didn’t answer. He was still pointing at the door.

“But Harry,” She braved on, picking the bottle up again off the counter, and holding it in front of him, “This— is dangerous. It’s not a joke. Don’t use these if you don’t need them, you hear?”

He stood rigid, not answering.

Then he sighed, and pulled the bottle out of her hand again. 

“I’m fine, Hermione,” He said.

Hermione nodded, leading the way out the door.

Hagrid managed to get Harry to visit him again during the first week of October.

“Down, Fang!”

The familiar sheepish smile greeted him, but Harry glanced at his watch almost immediately after sitting down.

“I don’t have a long time,” He said. “I’ve got to grade—“

“I know all about the gradin’, Harry,” Hagrid said, setting a mug of tea in front of him. “I’m sure you go’ a few minutes.”

Harry nodded, and smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Hagrid studied him for a minute, hesitant, not sure what to say. He wasn’t a subtle man. But he considered himself one of the people Harry could come to for help if he needed it. And he’s seen his fair share of grief.

As he was deliberating, Fang came over to Harry as usual, and placed his large head on his lap. Harry petted him absentmindedly, and the dog’s eyes were steady on Harry’s face, waiting.

“Ron an Hermione’re worried about ye,” Hagrid said finally, breaking the silence.

Harry glanced out the window uncomfortably. 

“I know.”

“They think ye’re avoidin them.”

“I’m not. I’m busy.”

Fang dug his nose into Harry’s lap, whining. Harry glanced down at him, and rubbed his nose more firmly, his eyes far away. 

Hagrid seeped his tea.

“Ye still think ‘bout it?” 

“About what?”

Hagrid watched him carefully, his burrow ceased. “About the Battle.”

He could see what they meant, about the spells. If he looked carefully he saw them shimmering. Harry’s eyes remained fixated on Fang’s head and his movements were rhythmic, almost automatic. He said nothing, but his shoulders were stiff.

“I do,” Hagrid said. “‘Bout the forest, most of all. All them Death Eaters so giddy. And you,” He said, and Harry stiffened, not looking up. “When I thought you w’ dead.”

Fang whined again, and Harry’s hand was shaking.

“Harry?”

His breathes were not enchanted, and they shuddered before he spoke. “Yeah?”

“Ye ok?”

The petting did not pause.

“I’m fine.”

“Ye sure?”

“I’m fine, Hagrid.”

He was not, and he looked at the door, and at his watch, and Fang whined louder.

“I’ll get you some more tea,” Hagrid offered, but when he looked at the mug, it was full and cold. He went anyway, coming back with a steaming replacement. Harry made to stand, looking at the floor, but Fang’s head got in his way, forcing him back down.

“I should go,” He said, belatedly, and Hagrid passed him the tea.

“Ye don’t have ter say nothing,” Hagrid said. “Ye can just sit.”

“Hagrid—“

But he stopped, the words caught, and shook his head, staring at the steam coming out of the tea.

“Sometimes, just sitting’s good, too,” Hagrid said, and Harry nodded, wordless, and ran his hand over Fang’s large head, not bothered by the streams of saliva sliding down the sides of his robes, watching the steam evaporating until the tea was cold.

Chapter Text

Of the World and of Pebbles 

Arthur Weasley was watching his wife cook.

He was watching her cook with her small, soft hands shaking and trembling and constantly picking up things she had dropped.

He was watching her cook with her large brown eyes always glancing nervously upwards, a bit to the left, where a clock stood shattered and broken, one of its hands fallen off.

He was watching her cook while she shut her eyes and turned quickly away, her face paling, her breathe caught, her fingers shaking.

He was watching her cook as her eyes welled with tears.

Arthur was a hopeless cook: when they had lived together in an apartment in London, before Charlie was born, he’d sometimes try to help while she was nursing, but his attempts always came off tasteless. Moly would shove long strands of curly hair back and laugh her ringing laugh, calling him her fool. She’d fix everything he made into something delicious. As he stood by the kitchen door he was encompassed in memory, of an old, dingy apartment on the fifth floor, the smells of her cooking turning it into their first home.

He watched her cook now, and her hair was full of grey and her face was pale and shadowed, her eyes puffy and red and always breaming. Smells still engulfed him. And their warmth was making him feel that this was home.

But was it?

After everything. Was it still the same? 

Molly glanced at the clock again, and then away towards the horizon, through the small window over the counter while eggs scrambled themselves into a large bowl before her rolled-sleeved hands.

He closed his eyes, and he could see his son, laid peacefully on a blood spluttered floor, his eyes closed as though he was sleeping.

Fatherhood had made him feel home.

Holding little red headed babies and cooing over them. Sitting with her and trying to guess what they’d grow up to be. Ah, He’ll definitely be a great singer,  Molly would say knowingly, and Arthur would laugh. Just look at him go. Some pair of lungs on him! He’d shake his head and mutter a soft response. Nah. Look how he plays with the toys— all concentrated— he’s going to be someone who creates. Someone who makes worlds out of pebbles. Someone Great. 

And the twins, daredevils, hopelessly independent, vanishing often and reappearing full of tales of adventures and carrying jars of frogs, torn kite strings, and new scars. He and Molly, to this day, were not entirely certain who was really Fred and who was George, because when they were young Bill used to switch the baskets, and they just lost count completely of who was who. 

Arthur watched Molly dump the eggs into a pan and wipe her nose with a clean, white handkerchief.

You hold a little red headed child and you dream his dreams for him. And then you watch, awestruck and stunned, as he grows up— and starts dreaming dreams of his own. And you watch these dreams grow bigger and bigger, and your heart swells with pride, and soon he’s taller than you, cracking his own jokes, leading his own friends, making his own adventures. And his dreams turn from sunlit days playing in the yard to sun lit weeks practicing Quidditch, and soon he’s talking bigger, looking you right in the eye, and he has his own ideas and his own beliefs, and he argues and he listens and he knows how to stand his ground and how to forgive and how to love. And his dreams turn from weeks of Quidditch to plans of great futures, and he dreams about leaving his own mark on the world. And soon he’s holding hands with a girl, talking about leaving, about making a family. Ands his dreams are bigger and bigger and bigger.

And then all his dreams are gone.

He opened his eyes, his blood pumping in his veins, as though he just got off a broomstick. And he was shocked by this thought, and felt like he was falling. He stood, leaning against the entrance to the kitchen, and felt like the wind has been knocked out of him.

His dreams. Are gone.

Gone.

Molly turned to him suddenly, and he met her gaze. She wasn’t crying, but she knew what had just gone through his mind.

And Arthur thought again of holding a little red haired daredevil in his hands, with her holding the other one in hers, dreaming about him making worlds out of pebbles.

The clock chimed. On the counter beneath it, the hand that has fallen remained as it had been. Arthur swallowed and made his slow way though the kitchen. He picked it up, and now tears are streaming down his face, fast and furious. 

“You’ll make worlds out of pebbles ,” He dreamed, and Molly leaned her head silently on his shoulder.

***

Chapter Six: Council

Ginny won her first game as Quidditch Captain. It had felt amazing, watching the new Seeker— a girl in fourth year— being carried away by the cheering crowd. The stands roared in approval, McGonagall smiled at her from her seat among the other staff, and for two hours and seventeen minutes, the world had been as it used to be, and she could almost imagine it was Harry, red robed and holding the Snitch over his head.

But it wasn’t.

She watched him in class. He looked like a photograph. Vibrant green eyes, untidy black hair, immaculate smiles, jaunty movements. But they were all fake. He was like a little black and white Harry inside a frame, repeating the same movements over and over and over again, never changing. And sometimes, he would step out of the frame all together, and vanish— staring into space, deep in thought, the photo empty in his wake. 

At first she’d felt hurt by the way he never met her eyes, the way he walked away whenever she drew near, and even refused to come and help her during class. But as the weeks went by, and she watched the spells shimmering over him, his eyes moving slowly, his reactions sluggish, his robes disarrayed some days, immaculate on other, the way his gaze would easily drift away from anything and his words would be forced, his smiles fake, his laughter hollow— she was void of anger. Only fear remained. 

Every week he gave an option of an essay to hand in, and every week they were returned, graded with care, full of suggestions. Hermione was certain he sat over them with some other teacher, who helped find the mistakes and word them properly, and was as perplexed as Ginny to explain when he managed to do all that, times twelve classes, plus writing lesson plans and preparing them.

When Ron and Hermione returned with information about the state of his quarters, their worries deepened.

“There was anything you can think of on the floor,” Ron was saying, “Other than food.”

“He must just eat in the kitchens. Or maybe the house elves take it away.”

“House elves clearly have not set foot in his rooms all year,” Ron said, and Hermione’s head jerked up, as if realizing something.

“It’s Dobby,” She said, staring at the other wall. “He must have asked them to stay away.”

Ron looked even grimmer, but Neville would not let them sink into morbidity.

“Wait a minute,” He said. “Just— wait. Come on. Of course he’s eating somewhere, something. Maybe at Hagrid’s?”

There was a round of bitter laughter, and Neville plowed on.

“Fine. So he comes to the village. If he buys DSP vials, then he’s just a walk away from grocery stores and pubs and inns. You can’t survive on Dreamless Sleeping Potion.”

“And that potion,” Hermione said, bristling. “There was so much of it. Must have been thirty vials.”

“Each vial is one dose,” Neville said. “So it’s really not that terrible. And— well, if you say everything was on the floor, it might just looked like a lot, because he never throws them out. And some of them might still be full. You said you didn’t have a chance to check.”

Hermione looked skeptical. “Even if it isn’t as much as it looked, it’s a lot. Dreamless Sleeping Potion’s only meant to be used in specific situations. Not all the time. Rarely, and only if the dreams are really terrible—“

“Well,” Neville said, looking around at his former dorm mates, all of whom sat with them seeping and morbid. “Harry’s always had bad dreams, hasn’t he? I mean— at the beginning of last year, I could hardly fall asleep in the dorm, it was so odd not to hear him muttering. He’s never used potions before, so if he is now it must mean the dreams are bad, doesn’t it? He could have handled them otherwise.”

“If he has bad dreams, he should talk to us, not drug himself into oblivion,” Hermione retorted, annoyed. “Come on, Neville, this potion has leaves of Korpus in it, it’s not a joke!”

Neville’s eyes widened and he paled. This did not improve Hermione’s mood, and she breathed deeply and sunk deeper into her seat, tired. 

“Harry’s never said anything after Sirius Black died,” Luna said suddenly, her high voice filling the silence.

Ginny glanced at her, marveling again at the acuteness of her friend.

“He’s a private person, isn’t he?” Luna continued dreamily, looking straight at her.

Hermione was not impressed. Ron made an irritated noise. “There’s private and then there’s mental.”

Hermione glared at him, and he had the decency to look ashamed. Neville paled further, frowning.

“I think what Luna’s trying to say is that Harry doesn’t like to talk about these sorts of things,” Ginny translated, her thoughts a million miles a minute. “He thinks he’s supposed to handle them on his own.”

“We only spent eight months searching for pieces of Voldemort’s soul together,” Ron said acidly. “Nothing worth trusting us over.”

“But we don’t need to look at it as in…” She looked for words. “As though he owes us explanations. Or that he has to talk to us. I mean— he thinks he’s working it out. We need to try to get him to talk to us, of course, but not by pushing him, because that’ll never work with Harry, he’s too—“

“Ginny, I understand what you’re trying to say,” Hermione said, her eyes serious, “But frankly— I don’t think that’s going to work anymore. I think we need to confront him, just tell him what we think—“

“Private person,” Luna said again, and Hermione opened her mouth to say something that promised to be mean, when Ginny stopped her.

“I don’t think that’s the way to go,” She said, and Hermione turned to her instead, annoyed.

“Well if you have a better idea, I’d love to hear it.”

“Let me try to talk to him,” Ginny said. “Before you do anything.”

“What are you going to say?” Ron asked, frowning. 

“I don’t know yet,” Ginny answered, her heart beating fast.

She waited until the class was empty and stood watching him as he rearranged the tables in their proper places.

They were alone. Hermione had given her a calculating look before closing the door firmly behind her. Harry kept his wand in his hand and tapped it on the table rhythmically as he studied his notes, ignoring her. 

“Harry?”

“Hmm?”

He did not look up. Ginny stepped closer, and he moved, to pick a book off the shelf further away from her and pretend to flip through it carefully.

She didn’t know what to say. She had hoped he’d look at her and that she’d know, that the words would spew out, exact and perfect, just the things to get him to peel off the enchantments and go visit Teddy. But he did not meet her eyes. And she had nothing.

“Sorry,” He said, which she hated, and put the book back where it was. “I need to go—“

“Do you remember what you told me?”

He stopped, hand still over the book’s spine.

“At the Burrow,” She clarified, and he was frozen. “Before George walked in on us?”

He shoved the book in line with its brethren and turned to her, his eyes on the floor.

“You said that in the forest— you’d gone to face him thinking that you’re going to die,” She said. He made no reply. The spells shimmered, but they did not hide the emptiness in his eyes. “You don’t… you haven’t… You don’t still—“ She fell silent, the words stuck in her throat. If he would have looked up, he would have seen the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

“I’m fine. I have to go,” He said, not moving, his eyes on the floor.

“I know what it’s like to be possessed by a horcrux,” She said finally, the words spilling out where the tears would not.

Harry’s eyes rose and met hers momentarily, full of despair.

“No,” He said. “You don’t.”

That weekend, Ginny came over to the flat in the village to sleep over with the rest.

They’d booked a table at the Three Broomsticks. George, Percy, and her parents were due to arrive any minute, both to see the new lodgings and have dinner with them. Ginny organized her hair in the way that usually pleased her mother, and tried to twist her expression into one of carefree joy.

Ron had invited Harry to join them, but he was grading papers. No one pretended to buy it, but Harry was stubborn and they couldn’t postpone it again.

There was a knock on the door. Hermione rushed over to open it, and broke into a smile.

“Hermione, dear,” Ginny’s mother said, hugging the other girl before turning to her own daughter, whom she held for a solid minute. The others huddled in after her, looking around curiously. Her father immediately caught sight of Hermione’s digital clock and went to examine it with fascination.

“Where’s Harry?” George asked, and Ginny had an excuse to look at him. 

He was fuller than she remembered, but still grey, with long shadows under his eyes and a ghost-like look about him. His eyes were hollow but he met her gaze, his own overpowering. He was lonely, and sad, but she also saw interest in his eyes, which she hadn’t seen before. 

“He’s too swamped,” Ron said, dryly, and Ginny tore her eyes away from the way George wrung his hands together and looked over at Percy, who did not seem to be doing much better.

Her third oldest brother was by nature smaller than the rest, and paler, more bookish. But his usually confident sneer was gone, replaced instead by a look of guilt he fixed on Ron at his words, and he bit his lip worriedly.

“Oh no,” Her mother said, frowning. “I hope McGonagall’s not…”

“No, no,” Ron said, his voice dripping bitterness. “That’s not the problem.”

They all looked at him strangely, but he shook his head. “Tell you over dinner. Who wants to see the bedrooms?”

They gave them a small tour, and her mother made all the appropriate sounds of appallation at the state of Ron’s room and the emptiness of the kitchen pantry, but they explained that they usually had lunch at school and dinner out. Soon they were sitting around a comfortable table at the Three Broomsticks, and Madam Rosmerta was taking orders.

They spoke about the Burrow, the rebuilding of the Ministry, Shacklebolt’s success and likely candidacy for Minister, the new cells in the now dementor-less Azkaban and the Auror Department’s attempts at capturing escaping Death Eaters and still roaming dementors. 

The shop in Diagon Alley has been reopened. Percy told them about numbers and figures, in earnings and expanses, and they nodded, hoping he’d stop. Finally George rolled his eyes.

“You make it sound like an assignment in Arithmacy,” He said, mutteringly, and his voice filled Ginny’s ears in its foreign familiarity. “If you’re going to tell it, at least mention the girl who fell down all the stairs to land in the pigmy puff barrel.”

He glanced off his food, a hint of a smile on his lips, and spoke right at Ginny. “They all rose up like a puff of pink cloud,” He said reminiscently. “Or a a very large marshmallow.”

Ginny laughed, and George gave her a half smile and glanced back down, picking at his plate once more.

“I’ve missed this place,” Her mother said, looking around the inn nostalgically. “Haven’t been here since the Tri Wizard Tournament.”

“Right, you stayed at the village when you came for Harry’s last task,” Hermione said, and smiled at the memory. “Before he realized it was you, he thought the Dursleys were coming, and he had the most revolted look on his face.”

Mrs. Weasley laughed. “Yes, I remember. He used to be so surprised to see us, when he was younger. Took him years to get used to it.”

There was a moment of silence, as smiles turned to frowns. Ginny sighed. Hermione looked dejectedly at her plate, while Ron frowned deeper and deeper into his bottle of fire whisky, and their parents, following this, seemed to be having a silent conversation with their eyes.

Ron stood up abruptly. He fixed her father with a look, urgent and pleading.

“Can I talk to you?”

Her father stood up as well, his hand on her mother’s shoulder.

Molly Weasley smiled at them when the two left.

“Tell me,” She said simply, and Ginny felt calm settling over her.

They were sitting in an empty booth in a hidden corner, a large window on one side, the emptying Main Street rainy beyond it.

Arthur held a cup of tea in his lap, and Ron had a bottle of fire whisky in his, but had yet to say anything. He stared morbidly out of the window, eyes fixated on a woman walking briskly with her hood pulled tight over her, avoiding the gentle drops. He did not seem to see her.

Arthur waited.

“I just want him to be happy,” his youngest son’s voice broke the silence, angry and harsh. “I just want him to laugh and go flying and get his hair all untidy.” 

Arthur seeped, watching her cast a shielding charm over herself. “You miss him.”

A pause. Then, quietly, his anger gone: “Yes.” 

And then, louder: “It’s just… not his fault, you know?” Ron looked miserably out of the window. “It’s just— we were having a regular life, being regular kids, and things just kept happening. All the time. More and more of them, and every time Harry’d just— he’d just say, ok. Want me to be a Triwizard Champion? Ok. Want me to stand up to the whole world professing that Voldemort’s alive even though everyone says I’m crazy? Ok. Want me to learn Occulamacy? Ok.” His voice became quieter and angrier the longer he spoke. "Want me to come hunt for a locket — in a cave — with dead corpses in the water — and feed poison to Albus Dumbledore as he begs me to stop?” Outside, rain pelted. “Ok. Want me to drop out of school, which was the only place I’d ever called home, the only place where I was ever happy, go out for months with no end in sight mid-war while everyone’s trying to kill me to look for horcurxes? Ok.”

Ron paused, his eyes closed, his breathes erratic. Arthur waited, watching the water drops sliding down the window.

“Want me to go to the darkest wizard in all of time and let him kill me?” Ron said finally, his voice hoarse, fury in his eyes. “Ok.

“And every year it got worse. And it just tore him up inside. And we could tell. Hermione and I. That it was. And we thought— well, when it ends then— then it’ll be over, right? So he could just live this normal life like he’s always wanted. Play Quidditch all day and practice defensive spells on his spare time and just… just be Harry. But then… it didn’t. It didn’t. He didn’t. It’s as if he’s still there. He’s still serving some purpose someone’s given him and has completely forgotten what it’s like to just be… Harry. Just be him.”

The rain was pelting now, powerful and vicious with dark clouds and the threats of lightning.

They sat in silence for a while, and behind them, the inn was cheerful with content costumers.

“I don’t know what to do,” Ron said, quietly, and Arthur glanced up at him, his eyes concerned. “Harry’s… he’s always had this thing where he’d get quiet and dark sometimes. But I usually— I was good at getting him out of it. Playing chess or talking about Quidditch or going out to the lake. And he always used to talk to us about everything. Whenever anything happened— it’d take him a few days and then he’d sit us down and tell us all about it. The graveyard, and after Sirius died, and where he went that night with Dumbledore… But now he won’t even look me in the eye. We try to talk and he just vanishes. We invite him over and he makes up excuses not to come. And… I’ve never seen him this way before. It’s as if he’s dark all the time. As if while he’s talking to me he’s also somewhere else, as if it’s always the way it was after all those things happened, as if he never thinks of anything but.”

He fell silent, staring steadily at the fire whisky in his hand, his eyes afraid. Arthur leaned back in his chair, looking out at the village. 

He cleared his throat.

“You know the feeling you get, when dementors are around?”

Ron glanced up, uncertain, and nodded. Arthur sipped his tea.

“It’s not just the dark thoughts and the despair that gets people,” He said. “It’s how it’s… all consuming. All those thoughts, whirling about inescapably. Suffocating. When I visited Azkaban once, I realized what it was people talked about. One dementor most people can handle. But when they’re everywhere, so that you can’t step away from them and feel good again, so that wherever you turn they’re there and you can’t escape your own mind… that’s something else entirely.”

“But what can I—?” Ron started, his eyes full of distress, and Arthur smiled.

“Then there are Patronusus,” He said. “And all you need for a patronus is one happy thought.”

“I don’t think he has those anymore,” Ron said, staring miserably at his drink.

“That’s the thing with war,” Arthur’s eyes were steady on the pane of glass, no longer seeing the village beyond it. “Good thoughts turn into bad thoughts. You feel guilty that you’re here, thinking happy things, when others aren’t. So you can’t bring yourself to think happy things at all.”

He lowered his eyes to look at his son, tense and worried, and smiled again. 

“What Harry needs is someone to help him find them again,” He said kindly. “He can’t find them on his own. He needs someone to show him there still are happy thoughts out there. Someone to be his patronus.”

Ron looked up, his blue eyes uncertain.

“He won’t talk to us.”

“Because he’s suffocating,” Arthur replied. “Talking about the dead, the war, the things that happened— it just feels like more dementors, sucking away the air. You can’t climb out when you’re drowning. He needs someone to show him the way to other things. Once he can breathe again, he’ll be able to come back to those things and think about them in the way they deserve to be thought about.”

He looked over at George, who was sitting patiently with Percy, listening to him and trying to minimize the bored expression on his face.

“You want to remember people, and think of them, as they were when they were happy,” He said, slowly, and Ron looked over, too. “Not as they were when they died. Not in pain, not injured. But laughing. And to be able to do that, you need to be able to breathe.”

“So… talk about other things. Not the war. Just go along with the avoiding?”

“No. Yes. It’s complicated. If Harry spends all his time surrounded by his own personal dementors— he can’t think of things in a way that’s healthy. If you can give him room to breathe, if you can give him an afternoon without dementors, he’ll be more able to return to those thoughts later, and think them through as he should. I’m not saying you should avoid it. But you need to help him climb out of Azkaban.”

Chapter Text

He Wouldn’t

There were too many wounded, and Ginny’s hands were covered with other people’s blood.

Yet her movements were fast and steady, her spells whispered but precise. She wiped sweat off her brow, and tears, leaving a trail of blood on her cheek, and the woman under her wand whimpered so she spoke to her soft words of comfort.

“How long until the hour’s over?” Someone said behind her, and she turned, finding Neville, covered in sweat and dust and horror.

“Not long,” She replied, and finished the last of the pain reliever to make the woman fall asleep. “Any more out there?” 

“Not that I could see. Anyone missing?”

“I don’t think so,” She said. “But Flitwick has a list.”

A list of the dead, a list of the wounded, a list of the fighters, perhaps soon to be dead.

No.

“Let me fix your hand,” She said, noticing his injured wrist, and he put it forward gratefully, wincing under her touch.

“Who’d have thought we’d become such qualified healers?” He smiled, and she smiled back, muttering an incantation. “The Carrows were good for something, after all.”

She snorted, and he laughed, and it was odd in the somber room, but Neville didn’t seem to care. She let it fill her, chasing the dark and the fear away. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Ron said, coming up from behind them. Hermione’s hand was in his palm, and Ginny’s heart leapt at it, and her face broke into a smile.

“I can do anything, as long as there’s still something to laugh about,” Neville said, and Ron gave him a hesitant smile, surprised at the confidence. He looked around the hall, taller than almost everyone present.

“Hagrid’s missing,” He said.

Neville’s smile slipped off.

Hermione turned to Ginny, her face covered in ash and her hair disarrayed around her. “Have you seen Harry anywhere? We know he’s been at the Headmaster’s office earlier, but we can’t find him on the map now.”

“I saw him,” Neville nodded. “In the grounds.”

There was a moment of tense silence.

“In the grounds?” Ron repeated, as though trying to wrap his mind around it. “In… the grounds?”

“Yes,” Neville said, worried at the reaction. “He told me to kill the snake.”

The effect these words had on the both of them was profound. Ginny felt her fear returning.

“What?” She demanded, raising to her feet.

 “He wouldn’t,” Hermione said quickly, her eyes, large and terrified, meeting Ron’s equally scared blue orbs. “He wouldn’t—“

And a voice echoed throughout the Great Hall, cold and horrible, Tom’s voice, cutting into her bones.

“Harry Potter,” It said, “is dead.”

***

Chapter Seven: Stone

After their parents left, they went back to the apartment, getting ready for bed.

Ginny was to spend the night. Hermione duplicated one of the mattresses, to be used also for future stays, and laid it out in her bedroom, as Ron dug up sheets and pillows. Before bed, they made tea, and sat talking in the living room, about George, and about Harry.

“So what’s your next move, then?” Ginny asked, and the other two exchanged looks.

“Confrontation,” Hermione said simply. “It’s been long enough. We can’t tiptoe around it anymore, can we? We need to tell him what we think.”

“What do you think?” She asked, probingly.

She wasn’t sure they were wrong. She had no idea what was the right course of action. Seeing George attempting a joke, speaking out loud about the shop he and Fred opened together, was a stark comparison to Harry’s refusal to even stay in the same room while the war was discussed, or step into the Great Hall where it had been fought. She knew something needed to be done. Hermione has read all the books. But somehow, she didn’t think Harry, who could be as stubborn as anyone she’d ever met, could be turned around by people yelling at him to snap out of it. 

“We think that he can’t stay in hiding forever,” Ron answered her. “We’re not asking him to come out and start reminiscing about Remus and Tonks, but he needs to step out of his office and do things that he used to do before.”

“He doesn’t take care of himself,” Hermione added, and Ginny played with her hair, twirling it around her finger, uncertain. “He hardly eats, he doesn’t step outside… he doesn’t talk to anyone about anything. If he spent some time in someone else’s company— not even talking, just sitting, just being with other people—“

“I understand,” Ginny said. “I guess, if he won’t be persuaded otherwise…”

There was a knock on the door, and they all turned, surprised.

“It’s past midnight,” Ron muttered, getting up to answer. When he pulled the door open, George stood on the other side, pale and determined.

“Hey,” He said, his voice strange. “Sorry, I… I didn’t get to ask you something.”

Ron let him in and closed the door behind him, staring in confusion, and George waved at Ginny and Hermione awkwardly.

“Sit,” Hermione invited, jumping to her feet. “Tea?”

“Thanks,” He said, sitting in the nearest armchair, on the very edge of the seat, tense and jumpy.

He said nothing until Hermione was sitting once more, with Ron on her side, and a large mug steaming before him. 

“What’s going on, George?” Ron sounded worried.

George breathed deeply, and looked up at them, trying for another unconvincing smile.

“Don’t look so down, Ronkin,” He said, and Ron’s lips stretched into something vaguely reminiscent of a smile, but also terrifyingly not so, as George seeped his tea. “I just needed to ask you two something.” He was looking at Hermione as well. “I wanted to ask Harry. But he’s not here. So.”

He put the mug back down, swallowing.

“You were… with Fred. When he died,” He said, and Ginny felt herself growing colder. “I… I need to know. What happened.”

His eyes were on Ron’s, unflinching, though he was pale and thin and shivery. Ron looked back at him, wordless, his eyes full.

There was silence as George looked, his gaze direct, and Ron breathed, frozen, the smile a grimace now, his face contorted.

“Yeah,” He managed finally, his voice weak, halting. “Yeah. All right.”

George didn’t move. He kept his gaze steady, motionless, determined.

Ron didn’t break his gaze. He spoke with difficulty, but he did not stop. “We were standing outside the Room of Requirements,” He said, and George was motionless, listening. “Harry Hermione and I— we just destroyed the horcrux. We found Percy and Fred outside, dueling Thickness and some other Death Eater, and once they were on the ground Percy said…” he faltered, his voice breaking, but George was still looking and Ron spoke on, more weakly, his eyes wide, “He joked, that he was retiring form the Ministry, and Fred turned to him and—“ But the words didn’t come, and Ginny felt hot tears on her cheeks and Hermione took Ron’s hand and held it.

“He said: ‘You’re joking, Perce,’ “ She said, her voice clear, and George closed his eyes. “ ‘You actually are joking’. And then… he didn’t get to finish. A boulder exploded into the wall, we were all thrown off our feet. When the dust settled, we saw him. But it was already too late.”

George still had his eyes closed, but he nodded curtly, and then opened them, his breathes heavy, his voice constrained. “What… didn’t he get to finish?”

Ron’s voice was blank. “He started to say: ‘I don’t think I’ve heard you joke since you…’ “ He trailed off, helplessly, but George smiled.

There were tears in his eyes, streaming freely, and he didn’t wipe them away. 

They sat in silence until he opened his eyes and looked at Ron, smiling through the tears.

He started to speak, but only a croak was released, so he cleared his throat and tried again.

“Harry,” He said, “Has a stone.”

Ginny looked at him, marveling at his still sitting there, speaking with them. He was looking at the table, far away, and the words were wrenched out of him, but he did not give up. 

“He gave it to me before he left,” He said. “You said you didn’t know why he vanished— I think I do. We made a deal that he take the stone back. But when he came to get it I… I didn’t give it to him.”

Ron and Hermione looked at each other apprehensively, and turned back to George with deep frowns.

“He took it anyway. I tried to call him back, but he was already gone. I went back in the house, assuming he’d return, but that was the last I saw him. Wrenching the stone out of my hand. He was upset. More than upset— devastated. He couldn’t look me in the eye and I’m not sure he heard me when I tried to apologize. He summoned a broom and was gone.”

Ginny looked from George to the others, noting their distress.

“What kind of stone?” Hermione asked finally. “Did it… have any special powers?”

George blinked at her, surprised at the question.

Ron’s voice was afraid. He searched for words, and then gave up, rushing them out. “Did it bring Fred back to life?”

Her heart stopped.

George’s face was white. But he nodded, slowly at first, but then faster, as if the memory was consuming him, overpowering. “Yeah,” He choked. “Yes. For a while. But when Harry took it away, he vanished again.”

He looked at the table miserably, wiping tears off his cheeks.

“I meant to give it back,” He said weakly. “I just… When he came to take it, I… couldn’t…” George shook his head helplessly, and stood up. Ron stood up as well, pale and worried. “I’m sorry. Thank you. I  should go.”

“George,” Ron said, but their brother smiled again, a painful smile, and his breathes were shudders now, and he placed his hand on Ron’s shoulder. 

“It’s ok,” He said. “I’ll be alright. Thank you for telling me. I needed to know. I just… I need to think for a bit,” He finished, and smiled at Ginny too, but she couldn’t smile back. “Come by the shop soon, will you? We won’t charge you this time.” He flinched, and opened his mouth stubbornly. “I. I won’t charge you this time.”

Ron’s eyes were red but he said nothing, and George smiled again, and it was a wonderful smile, full of agony and sorrow, but also real and true. “Let me know when Harry’s interested in talking again,” He said, wiping his eyes. “I really need to talk to him.”

Ron nodded mutely. George hugged Ginny, and then Hermione, and clapped Ron on the shoulder powerfully, meeting his eyes. He moved towards the door, walking tall, with his shoulders wide and his head held high, the tears still streaming, and waved at them with half a smile before the door shut behind him.

They stood for a minute, not moving.

Then Ron took a shuddering breath, rubbing his eyes. “Shit,” He said, to the room at large, and his voice was miserable. “Shit.”

“It’s the Resurrection Stone,” Hermione said, and Ginny looked from him to her, clueless, still rocked by George’s visit. “If Harry still has it—“

“I know,” Ron said grimly, picking up his wand. “Come on.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now!”

Ron rushed to the door, flinging it open, and Hermione walked after him, hesitant.

“Ron, I’m not sure—“

“Hermione, if he’s using it, if he’s bringing people back—“

Hermione paled, but nodded. Ginny shivered where she sat, cold and confused. 

“Where are you going?” She asked weakly, thoughts of Fred’s body in the Great Hall bombarding her, of George’s face when he saw him, of the sound her mother made when she realized—

“We’ll be back soon,” Ron said. “Ginny—“ He looked at her for a moment, worried, but then shook himself and his eyes became hard again. “Try to get some sleep,” He advised, and she remained sitting as the door shut closed behind them, alone in the flat.

George apparated onto the sidewalk by the entrance to the graveyard, the constraining feel of apparation fitting well with his mind’s numbness.

He walked slowly through the gate, passing the familiar graves, turning the familiar turns. His legs carried him almost of their own accord, already knowing where to go.

He stopped next to it, and looked down, wiping the tears away.

“Heya, Freddie,” He said, his voice soft, and the grave was stone and lifeless and cold.

He pulled an object out of the pocket of his robe, one of the new products he’s made for the shop, and rested it on top of the grave. It tilted on its side with a small click. He didn’t need to explain to Fred what it was. He would know. 

“I don’t think I’ve heard you joke… in a long time,” He said, and the stars blinked over him silently. 

“Ron— This can wait until tomorrow—“

“No, it can’t, Hermione! It can’t wait anymore!”

She could hardly keep up with his long strides, but she did her best, and in fifteen minutes they stood before the office door, panting.

Ron’s face was grim but determined. He knocked halfheartedly, and did not pause to be let in, but tapped his wand decisively over the door and flung it open.

She felt cold, but also glad. They’d spent weeks tiptoeing— finally, they’ll confront Harry head on.

They were through the office and the last door. Ron paused at the kitchen, taking it in.

It was clean. It seemed after the last time Harry caught them here, he’d taken measures to ensure no one would again gape at the chaos. She could not see bottles anywhere, nor parchment, nor books. Actually, it seemed like no one was living in this kitchen at all. With the clatter gone, the absence of food and dishes was more evident, and the fact that no one had sat on the sofa, its pillows angle perfect, made her feel small.

“Harry?”

Ron’s voice boomed in the small flat, but no one answered.

She glanced at her watch. It was nearly one in the morning. Harry would be asleep.

“Accio Resurrection Stone,” Ron said loudly, but nothing moved.

Ron did not spare her a look, and walked briskly to the door he opened the last time they were there. It clicked loudly and he stepped through it, breathing in, as though prepping himself.

She swallowed, and followed more hesitantly, pushing away the guilt. This is for you. Don’t be mad. We’re doing it for you.

She could hear Ron mutter something softly, and rushed so that she stood in the doorframe, looking in.

She blinked slowly when she entered, trying to make out the identity of the shapes in the darkness. 

Harry’s bedroom was bare of possessions. There was a small closet, which was empty, a window with the curtains shut closed, an empty book shelf, an unfamiliar trunk on the foot of the bed, and a night stand with some bottles over it and his glasses and wand. The trunk was chaotic, full of robes and books and one half empty bottle of DSP, but with a rush of cold, she realized that all of Harry’s things were still at the Burrow, in his old trunk, the invisibility cloak and the Map and the photo album of his parents. He never went to get them back. He left them when he ran from the Burrow, and did not return to retrieve them.

She rubbed her hands together, watching Ron over the bed.

He was leaning over it, uncertain, his eyes on Harry sleeping under the covers. She’d seen Harry sleeping in the tent during their search, and knew how he usually fell asleep, on his side with his face pushed against the pillow, his legs a tangle beneath him. And no matter how tired he was, he’d spend the night twisting and turning, muttering incomprehensibly with some random words slipping out. 

But now he slept on his back, his arms awkward at his sides, his legs straight. He looked like he was in a hospital bed, and he did not move at all. No sound escaped him, and even his breathing was odd, too slow, too quiet. Ron glanced at her, unsure, and she stepped forward, clearing her throat.

“Harry?”

There was no answer. She glanced at the night stand, where his glasses and wand lay familiarly, with three small vials next to them.

Hermione picked one up. It was empty, but recently made so, and when she sniffed at it the smell was powerful, not yet evaporated into the night. 

She looked at Harry again.

The room was pitch black, with the only light coming in through the door they had left open, which in turn led to a dark living room and kitchen. She could hardly tell Ron’s expression, even standing only a bed across from him, and even for that she had to squint. But when she looked at Harry, she could tell with certainty: the spells were off him during the night, and her friend slept in his true form, no longer hidden.

She studied him.

She couldn’t tell details. His face was submerged in shadows, and it was the only part of him she could see. But he seemed thinner, more gaunt, his cheeks more hollow and his fingers over the bed more bony. There were deep hollows under his eyes, visible even through the dark, and his hair was lifeless over his forehead, hardly hiding the scar, stark and visible over the pale skin.

“Harry.”

She put her hand gently on his shoulder, pushing away the thought that he would not want that, would have pulled away had he been awake. Ron mimicked her on the other side, speaking louder, shaking him. But Harry did not move.

He’d taken the potion. It was a Sleeping Draught, so it would have made falling asleep easier— but it must have been a few hours. He should be able to wake up.

Depends how much he took.

The thought ran through her, cold and foreboding. 

She looked at the nightstand again. The three vials were the only ones in the room. When she glanced around for a minute, she saw more, in a trash can under the bed. But some of them must be left over from another day, certainly? Each vial was a dose, and Harry wouldn’t take three on one go.

She picked the next one. The smell was identical. DSP evaporated quickly, but this one must have been left from the night before… Hasn’t it?

She turned back to Ron, whose face was morose, his hand no longer shaking Harry’s still form.

“What?” He asked, seeing her stricken expression.

“We need to get him to wake up,” She said breathlessly. He seemed surprised.

“If he took a sleeping potion—“

“I think he took too much,” She said, put the vial back on the nightstand. “We have to wake him up, Ron, we have to ask him how much he took, if he drank three we’ll need to get him to Madam Pomfrey—“

She shook Harry again, but his body lolled at her efforts, his eyes closed. Ron took it up, more loudly, more urgently, and she rushed to the bathroom to get water to help.

She found a towel and wet it quickly, her heart thumping. How much was too much DSP? She wasn’t sure. But the vials looked almost regular on the nightstand. It did not seem like anything out of the ordinary— just laid there in an orderly fashion before bed, next to the wand and the glasses. As if every night, three little vials of sleeping potion were emptied and left there, to be thrust in the trash the next morning to make room for three more.

She came back to the room, stumbling in the darkness, and Ron was speaking loudly over the sleeping body on the bed, sternly, with a hint of fear.

She brought the wet towel to his face. She was reminded of last year, after they’d gone to Godric’s Hollow, when Harry was struck by Nagini and remained motionless and catatonic for hours before she managed to wake him up, terrified, trying to heal poisoned wounds. Ron’s voice was getting louder and louder, and her next thought was of Harry dead and lifeless in Hagrid’s arms, being carried out of the Forbidden Forest—

“HARRY!”

His eyes flattered open, and she breathed again.

But they did not see them, and shut closed again almost immediately. Ron cursed and shook him again, and Harry blinked up at them in confusion.

They had no time for pleasantries. Hermione spoke as clearly as she could, and Harry’s eyes landed unfocused on her, threatening to shut closed again.

“How much Dreamless Sleeping Potion did you take?” She asked, and he blinked slowly, his eyes colorless in the dark.

She thought she heard a mumble, but his lashes shut once more, and Ron shook him to no avail.

She went to get more water, encouraged. When she came back, Ron had pulled him into a sitting position, leaning back on the bed frame, and his eyes were open and foggy.

Ron asked him again, and Harry looked at him, uncomprehending.

“How much did you take?”

“Th-Three,” Came the murky reply, and Harry’s head lolled and Ron righted it, glancing at her. “‘I’m… fine.”

She put the towel on the night stand, coming closer slowly.

“Harry, these are really dangerous—“

He was muttering something, the words streaming into each other so they were one indecipherable jumble, and Hermione quieted to try to hear. 

“…dreams…fine… sorry not… essays…”

“Harry, do you have the Resurrection Stone?”

Ron looked at him intently, and she realized what he had planned. Under the effects of the potion, Harry’d answer them anything.

She swallowed.

“Harry, do you have the Resurrection Stone?” He asked again, trying to get the dropping eyes to focus on him, and Harry looked away, confused, muttering.

“Harry, the Resurrection Stone?”

“Hmm.”

“Have you brought them back?”

“Hmm.”

“Hey, hey— look at me for a minute,” Ron said, forcing his head to look, and Harry made a sound at the back of his throat, coughing. “Where were you during the summer? Where did you go?”

“‘m… fine.”

“I know you’re fine, you’re jolly pitchy,” Ron said darkly, and did not relinquish his hold. “Where were you last summer?”

“Was… map.”

“Map? What map?”

Harry blinked at him with difficulty, slumped and powerless, and Hermione put her hands around herself, feeling cold and sick.

“Harry, why did you leave?” Ron tried again. “Why did you leave the Burrow?”

“Hmm.”

“Why did you—“

“Light.” Harry said, and his voice sounded clearer, sad, almost present. “Light… Not…”

His eyes focused slightly, and he looked at Ron with a semblance of recognition.

He pulled away from him weakly, trying to peel Ron’s hands off his face, so that he could look at Hermione, too.

“…G’away,” He managed, but his voice was heavy again, fogged and murky. “Not supposed…be here. I’m fine.”

Ron made an angry sound and clasped his hands around Harry’s face again, forcing him to look at him once more.

“Where were you during the summer?” He asked powerfully, and Harry squirmed. “What were you doing for three months on your own? What map?”

“…fine.”

“What map?”

“…map. G’away.”

“Is it the Battle? Is that what you dream about? Is that why you take this bloody potion?” Harry’s eyes dropped, threatening to close. “Why don’t you talk to us?” Ron demanded, his voice strained, nearly a yell, and Harry pulled away again and Ron let him, so that he was confused in the bed, his eyes unfocused once more.

“Dead,” Harry said, so quietly she could hardly hear him. “You’re dead.”

Ron was stunned silent for a minute, but shook himself out of it, shaking Harry’s shoulders with urgency.

“What do you mean? Harry, what are you talking about?”

But it was too late. Harry’s eyes were closed again, and he was motionless under the shakes.

“HARRY, WAKE UP MERLIN’S—“

She put her hand over Ron’s, restraining him.

“Stop,” She said softly. “It’s no use. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“But—“

“Ron, whatever you get out of him will be bits and pieces. It’ll be no help. We’ll have to talk to him in the morning.”

He looked at her helplessly, his hand still on Harry’s shoulder. 

“He said he took three doses,” He said, and she shivered.

“I know,” She said. “But I think he’s been doing that for a while.”

They did not have Defense the next morning, but they made their way slowly to Harry’s class over lunch.

“Hey,” He said when he saw them. “What’s up?” 

Ron was not good at hiding the guilt on his face, and Harry frowned at him suspiciously. “What?”

“Nothing,” He said quickly. “Just— Er. How’d you sleep last night?”

Harry raised his eye brows. “Fine.”

“Great.”

He gave them a searching look.

Ron glanced at her, and she stepped forward, pushing her doubts away.

They needed to get Harry to talk to them. Even if it wasn’t about the war or the dead or his disappearance— just to be around them again, not locked up alone with his now eerily organized quarters, buried in essays and lesson plans and vials of DSP. That was what Mr. Weasley had said, and she was adamant to make it happen, despite Harry’s insistence against it.

“You haven’t been to our flats yet,” She said, quickly, and his expression twisted from suspicion to exasperation. “Not once. I know you finish class early tonight— come have dinner at our place.”

“Hermione—“

“Is it too much to ask?” She stressed, and he faltered. “We haven’t talked in weeks. We miss you,” She added, wildly, trying for things yet untried. “We don’t know why you’re upset with us, but—“

“I’m not upset with you,“ He said, looking guilty now, not meeting her eyes.

“Then come,” She said, almost triumphantly, and Harry shuffled in place, glancing at the text books he still held in his hands. 

“What do you want to talk about?” He asked, giving in, and Ron cut in, excitedly.

“Just stuff,” He said. “Quidditch, schoolwork, the new Transfiguration teacher… Just stuff.”

Harry glanced at them, and his eyes were less empty, more hesitant and unsure.

“All right,” He said, and Hermione felt like she was weightless. “On Wednesday.”

“Not Hagrid’s, our place,” Ron emphasized. “In the village.”

“Fine,” Harry muttered. “Yeah, all right.”

“Great,” Ron grinned, and she smiled too, and Harry gave them a plastered smile and made an excuse to vanish into his office, leaving them alone in the empty class. 

He was not happy to see them when they came once the lessons were finished on Wednesday night.

“Ready?” Ron asked happily.

“Just a minute,” Harry said, and left them waiting as he disappeared in his quarters, reappearing long minutes later as though he’d hoped they’d give up and leave in his absence. Walking heavily, he followed them down the corridors to the ground floor.

“Through here,” He said, once they made it, and Hermione shook her head.

“It’s faster though the Great Hall.”

“But I need to get something from—“

“Well, get it on you way back. Ginny’s meeting us at the entrance.”

Harry stopped in his tracks, and she could see the darkness even through the spells. 

“What?”

“Ginny’s meeting us at the entrance,” Ron repeated, now looking concerned. “With Luna. We’re meeting the others at the Three Broomsticks—“

Harry blinked at them, the spells making his expression hard to read, but she could tell from his small breathes that he had not realized that this was the plan.

“Sorry, didn’t think you’d mind,” Ron said.

“I don’t,” Harry said quickly.

Ron gave her a look, and she didn’t know what to say.

“So… are you coming?”

Harry looked away from them and at the door of the Great Hall, still empty before dinner other than some students making their way back from the grounds.

“Yes,” He said, tensely, and walked between them, very quickly, into the hall.

The large doors were open and once they crossed them the four house tables were visible and the enchanted ceiling was brought to view in all its glory, showing a red sunset, cloudless and magnificent.

Harry’s steps faltered as soon as he crossed the threshold. His back was to them, but she saw it stiffen, and walked faster so that she could see his face.

Still hidden by magic, it was unreadable, but his eyes were emptier than she’d seen them in a while, and he stood staring at the hall, rigid.

“There’s Ginny!” Ron said hysterically, and waved her over, Luna at her hills. Harry’s eyes were fixated at something straight ahead, but Hermione couldn’t tell what, and wasn’t sure it was anything visible.

“Harry?” She said, quietly, moving forward. “Hey…”

She reached a hesitant hand and touched him, and he flinched away, his eyes dropping immediately to the floor. His breathes were short and fast and his fingers shook until he started playing with them, wringing them together to make them stop.

“Are we going?” Ginny asked, coming into speaking distance, and Harry shut his eyes at her voice, gulping.

Ron looked at Hermione, and she cleared her throat. “Yes,” She said, watching Harry. “Just… need to pass by the Greenhouses first.“

Ron breathed out in relief and rushed back the way they’d come, outside of the hall, and Harry stood frozen for a moment, not having heard. But when Ron started moving he noticed, and made it back across the threshold in long strides, not stopping until he was standing with his back to the wall, the Great Hall out of sight behind it. 

Ginny looked after him, pale, and gave her a helpless look, and Hermione moved after them, stopping next to Harry, not too close, watching his breathing steadying. 

“Ha—“

“I have to go,” He said, cutting her off.

Ron stepped forward, as though to stop him, but Harry moved fast and was away from them and walking quickly towards the staircase.

“But— we don’t have to—“

“Sorry, I forgot something, I’ll just…” His eyes were wide. “Another time, all right?”

He did not look back and his voice was odd, constrained, and Hermione looked after him, her heart beating rapidly.  They shouldn’t have made a point of the Hall. She’d thought— just walking through it could be a step, or a nudge, in the right direction. They should have stuck to the original plan, which was just talking, going along with whatever avoidance Harry was pulling off.

“Wait—“ Ginny said, but it only made him walk faster. As they stood and watched he turned a corner into another staircase and disappeared from sight.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight: Ghosts

No

He ran.

He ran.

He was through the doors first, coming to a skidding halt before an army.

No.

No.

He saw Hagrid, and even through the disheveled beard he saw his tears. Lord Voldemort stood gloatingly beside him, bold and snakelike, his red eyes fierce, and Ron had never seen him before outside of a textbook but he was like a thing out of a nightmare, inhuman and terrifying. 

No.

No.

He saw Death Eaters, joyous and giddy, and creatures of darkness behind them, giants and werewolves and dementors. He saw pointed wands and grinning expressions. He saw Hagrid’s hands shake.

No.

No.

“NO!” McGonagall screamed, coming to a stop behind him, and Ron let his eyes fall to him, laying in Hagrid’s arms, limp and dangling, a pair of crocked glasses threatening to fall off—

No.

No.

No.

***

Chapter Eight: Ghosts

Harry’s eyes opened only once the alarm he’d set had given up beeping and began screeching at the top of its volume, closer to a banshee than anything else. 

He woke up with a jolt, blurry eyed and confused. At first he wasn’t sure what was making the loud noise and thought stupidly of the golden egg from his second task in the Triwizard Tournament. Then he remembered, tapped the alarm with his wand, and collapsed back on the bed, shutting his eyes in the silence.

The room was pitch black. His blankets were orderly around him. His head hurt and he felt dehydrated but he forced his itching eyes open and got up to a sitting position. His head swam, and he sat for a while, waiting for it to settle. When it did enough he groped after the glasses on the nightstand and shoved them onto his nose.

Three bottles stood empty on the stand, and Harry threw them into the trash. His mind was still foggy from the potion he drank the night before, but he didn’t mind the numbness. He had a system for mornings that he didn’t need to think for, and a potion keeping his thoughts at bay made it easier to breathe. 

It was when the thoughts came, after the potion wore off and before he was submerged in the hectic day of classes and students and noises, that he could not stand.

He got to his feet and shuffled out of the room. Light was the first obstacle, and he squinted against it, his head searing, stumbling to the bathroom.

There was a system.

The system worked.

He splashed water on his face. Drank a glass to make the pain in his head ebb slightly. Looked up into the mirror, and then quickly away. But the image was already there, etched, and it was always the first thing that dug under the potion-induced daze: matted hair, hallow cheeks, dark shadows beneath red-shot eyes. He could no longer be accused of looking like his father.

Turned away from the mirror, taking off his cloths, and trudged into the shower. Water cascaded down, and he let the sound of them splashing fill him. Closed his eyes under the stream. He turned them as hot as they would go, and they burned over his skin, boiling, and he stayed under them until he couldn’t anymore, until his skin was red from the heat and his breaths were shudders.

Stepped out, got dressed, walked out into the cold flat. His bag was slung messily across a high chair in the kitchen. He tried to make the numbness last, but it was already fading, faster every day, and soon he would have to drink four vials in the evening to make it last longer. There were eyes on his back, cold, and he thought he heard rattling breathe behind him, but he fixated his gaze on the lesson plans, biting the inside of his cheek.

Not now. Not yet.

There was a system.

The system worked.

It was easier if he thought of other things, so he sat on the edge of the seat and looked over the parchment, letting plans of the day’s lessons consume him. But the fog was almost gone. He shut his eyes, pushing his thumb into the sockets, beneath the glasses, so that it hurt. Every day, faster. There were still ten minutes before classes began, and he did not want to sit here alone with the ghosts.

Rose, went to the bedroom, pulled on outer robes, tied his boots into place. Rummaged through his trunk, to do something, but there was nothing but junk: the Dreamless Sleeping bottle he’d bought months ago and had not used for a while, robes and parchment. He swallowed, and the noises were getting louder, and he hated these empty quarters with the stretching silence and the dead.

Stood, stumbled, steadied, walked out of the room.

The door shut, and the soft wisp it made as it closed sounded like giants, roaring in the grounds. The glints in the window seemed like a quick silvery spell hurtling towards a fighter. A book fell when he pulled up his notes, and it was a sound like the walls crumbling, under assault.

Not yet. Not yet.

He was wringing his hands together, trying to stop their shaking, standing emptily in the middle of the living room. Swallowed. Closed his eyes, opened them. He heard his own breaths hallow and halted.

There was a system.

The system worked.

Someone hummed, loudly, and Harry whirled, wand out, but it was just the hoot of an owl. Skittish, he opened the window, letting it in, and pulled the post off its leg, reading through the Prophet carefully, his eyes pausing at suspicious words.

When he was done, he shut the paper and threw it in the trash. Found his watch, strapped it on, glanced at it to make sure. This was his old watch. He had left the one Mrs. Weasley had given him at the Burrow. Outside the window, a bird screeched, and it was the screaming of people dying and injured.

No.

Of course not.

Empty.

His heart hammered. He looked at the watch, following the dial ticking slowly forward, standing stock still with his hand tapping nervously on his thigh. Two minutes. One minute. Thirty seconds. It was time. He took his bag with him. The ghosts followed, somber and angry, and he ignored them and stepped quickly towards the door.

Spells. Don’t forget.

He closed his eyes, and it was second nature now, to cast them. 

He looked back at the flat, small and empty.

No one there.

In class there will be noise and questions and distractions. Class was fine.

Class was fine.

Swallowed.

Fine.

Walked out.

The day passed by in a blur of noise and color.

If he kept thinking of the classes, and the spells, and the students, and the house points, and the essays, he didn’t have to think about the whispers following him everywhere, just out of reach, when the papers shifted or when the door creaked open, hidden where he could never anticipate them, eternal and damning.

He didn’t have to think about them.

But they were there.

Just keep it together.

You will be our light.

The last class of the day were third years. He had been looking forward to this class all week. A few days before, he’d found a boggart in his own apartment, hiding in the closet he never used. It was the lesson on boggarts that had made him love Defense when he was younger, had been the very thing that made the subject turn from just another class to his favorite. When L—

No, he thought stubbornly, blinking into the floor. 

When they came in, he showed them the boggart and picked the shyest student to beat it. The class filled with laughter and noise, the students were ecstatic, and Harry allowed them all a go, without leaving anyone behind. When the last girl had finished, he closed the box, gave out a ludicrous amount of points to their utter delight, and watched them fondly as they excitedly left.

He turned to the classroom, and the silence was ever present now, leaving too much space, too much room for thought. As he began rearranging the desks he filled his mind with a list of things to do: Grade the sixth year papers, reread the material for the second years’ lesson, go over the already graded essays for the NEWTs class, ask McGonagall about the lesson plan for the OWLs. When he finished, he made a list of things to check in the old lesson plans. When he finished, he made a list of things to do before bed. 

He was putting the last table back in place, the one with the broken leg that kept giving him trouble, when he realized someone was watching him.

Not just a ghost. Not just a whisper. Someone real, solid, present, his breathing calm and regular, his shadow reaching Harry’s feet.

He looked up, snatching his wand out of his pocket. The box where the boggart had been was open. He had forgotten to lock it. Right next to it he saw a pair of worn out boots, old shabby robes, scarred hands holding a familiar wand.

Dark eyes with a shade of green.

Harry’s wand clattered to the floor loudly.  

Chapter Text

He Was Dead

Harry’s body lay dead and limp on the soft grass.

She felt her heart crumble.

A battle broke out, more fierce and horrible than the last, but this time Hermione was at the forefront. Her wand slashed before her, her hair bushier than ever around her face, full of dust and sweat and tears. 

They spilled out of her eyes in torrents, but she did not sob. She could not cry. She was numb, frozen, and she knew nothing, she was just a stupid girl who knew nothing and could do nothing and they had failed, they had, they had, because he was dead, he was dead, he was dead—

And she remembered a shy boy sitting over a pile of candy on the Hogwarts Express, his eyes meeting hers, shaking his head at her question, having seen no toad. And she remembered a stubborn boy jumping on the back of a troll, shouting, his wand sliding into its nostril, his green eyes wide and terrified. And she remembered him embarrassed and scared and happy and exhilarated, boarded on a broom and catching a remember-ball, red robed and grinning holding a Snitch over his head, determined and grim in the Shrieking Shack, distraught but relieved in the Great Lake, broken and horrified with Cedric Diggory’s body clasped to his own, shattered and devastated after his godfather died—

And he was dead, dead, dead, and they had failed him—

And she hated this war, she did, but it had been him that she fought for, him who had dragged her out of the library, away from the safety of books, him she wanted to save, him she was most frightened for, because he had made them his family with his sheepish smiles and his sarcastic wit and his humble shyness and his clumsy, uncertain, all encompassing friendship—

And she would never have fought this, never have faced this, never have been here had he not been here as well, had he not pulled her out from her solitude one day in first year, had he not looked at her for seven years with complete trust and love and caring, had he not adopted her into his life as he had others to fill in his own isolation. And yes, she wanted Voldemort dead, she wanted the Death Eaters vanquished, but she had fought because she had wanted him to live through it, she wanted him to have the normal life he so desperately craved, so she could see him smiling with a broom and a joke and hear him laughing and see the light in his eyes—

And he was, dead, dead, he was dead—

And tears salty and warm washed over her and spells shot in every direction and people were screaming and Death Eaters were falling and the castle that had been her home was in ruins all around, and she saw Hagrid bellowing in an inhuman rage, and McGonagall’s spells faster than anyone’s, and Arthur Weasley’s face showed lines of tears through the dust and Molly Weasley’s face was red but determined and George was heaving, shouting out curses and Hermione dropped two more Death Eaters and toppled a troll and Ginny’s hair was coming out of her loose tie and there were no tears in her eyes but they were large and wide and destroyed—

And Ron was next to her, and he was sobbing while screaming out curses, and she saw the terror in his eyes and it made her tears worse— and she knew that he was as empty as she was, as broken as she was, because Harry was their family. He had wanted to save the world but he was theirs to save, and they would never see him laugh again, and he would not spend long evenings losing at chess to Ron, would not ask her for help with an essay, would not roll his eyes at their squabbling and give her a meaningful, knowing look…

Would not become an Auror, would not ask Ginny for her hand, would not stand by Ron at their wedding, offering her a ring with a smirk and a flair, would not mutter darkly about Malfoy, would not be surprised to be hugged by Ron’s mum, would not shove his hair over the scar uncomfortably or mutter in his sleep or wring his hands or shuffle his feet or laugh or smile or joke or speak or love—

Ginny on her right, Luna on her left, and they were facing Bellatrix Lestrange, and Hermione’s heart was so full of hate she hardly recognized it. Her spells were perfect and precise, Ginny’s fast and furious, Luna’s unexpected and unfamiliar, but Bellatrix blocked them all, laughing, her hair all around her, adding to the mania in her eyes—

And she saw Ron beyond her, his wand lowered, his opponent down, watching her, hopeless, frozen, broken, his face contorted into pain she’s never seen in him before.

Her tears streamed faster.

“NOT MY DAUGHTER YOU BITCH!”*

They were shoved back by the force of Mrs Weasley's spell. Hermione felt her wand arm flop weakly to her side.

It does not matter.

It would not matter.

He was already dead.

“You will never touch our children again,”* Mrs. Weasley said, her eyes red and breaming, and Hermione knew she wasn’t speaking just of Fred, that she too had seen him laying, dead and broken at the Dark Lord’s feet, that she was counting him with them, and she wondered if he knew that, if he knew how much they loved him—

How much they had loved him. 

She met Ron’s eyes over the battle. His were blue and large and lost.

He is dead.

***

Chapter Nine: Break

Remus Lupin was standing in his office.

The wand rolled uselessly across the tiles. 

Lupin wore the same robes he’d been wearing when they buried his body. His hands hung motionless at his sides, and he stood taller than he had in real life, as if the thought of his disease, for once, did not weigh him down. Harry stared at his boots, clean, old worn, the shabby state of the robes, his relaxed shoulders, the raise and fall of his chest.

“Harry.”

No no no.

“Harry.”

It cut through him, and he could not breath. He couldn’t. No. Not here, not now, not him, not this—

Flashes of memories he did not want to remember. Images of things he wished to forget. Keep it together. Keep it together. You will be our light.

There were tears in his eyes, unbidden and cruel, and through them he looked, finally, at his face. His old Professor looked back, and a smile was playing at his lips, and his eyes were warm and sad. He opened his mouth as if to say something more, but Harry couldn’t bear to hear his voice, and his mind was full of Teddy whimpering and it was the most horrible sound he had ever heard, and he snatched the wand back up from the ground blindly and gasped: “Ridiculous!”

Lupin vanished.

But in his stead stood Tonks, her hair pink, her hands fidgeting with her wedding ring, her eyes concerned. 

“Wocher, Harry,” She said.

No no no—

He raised his wand again.

“RIDICULOUS!”

She was gone, and Collin Creevey brought his camera to his face, snapped a shot. Harry’s hand was shaking. Lavender Brown stood, holding a crystal ball, crying. He felt the stone wall cold on his shoulder blades. Sirius took her place, not his Sirius, but the young man who’s been his father’s best man at his wedding, his eyes laughing, not knowing he’d spend the next 12 years in Azkaban and then rot in his parents’s house until he died. Tears streamed and the spells became weaker and weaker. Harry slid lower with his back to the wall, sinking. Sirius vanished and now it was Mad Eye Moody, angry, shouting about spell casting, and then Severus Snape stood imposing in the room, disappointed, looking down his long nose and opening his mouth derisively, and his mother, raising her hand as if to reach from him, and James Potter, frowning, saying things Harry couldn’t hear, and—

Fred stood before him, shrugging his shoulders and smiling, a joke at his lips.

Words failed him.

The wand dropped.

No no no no no—

NO—

Fred was coming closer. Harry dug himself into the corner, desperate, pushing frantically with his feet against the floor. He couldn’t find his wand. His mind was in chaos. Go away. Please. Shit. Please—

Fred’s smile grew sharp and deformed as he moved forward, his robes bloodied around him, his hands in his pockets. His eyes were too wide and they had caught Harry’s gaze and would not let go. Please. Please—

The smile had turned into an inhuman sneer. A part of him knew it was a boggart, hungry for prey, but mostly he was lost in a sea of screaming ghosts, and through his blurry eyes Molly Weasley was sobbing—

Please—

And then someone obstructed his view, jumping in front of him, and shouted a curse.

Fred vanished. 

Harry shook.

Beyond the bellowing robe, he saw a dementor. 

But the dementor’s black robes turned white, and started suffocating the creature within so it made odd choking sounds and started stumbling in place. “Ridiculous!” Seamus shouted, and the boggart fled to its box. 

The clock chimed. 

Harry was on the floor, his back pressed against the wall, his wand dropped beside him.

His heart beat too loudly.

He swallowed and shut his eyes.

“Harry?”

Go away. Go away.

Shit. No. Empty. Please. Empty.

“Harry?”

“I think we should—“

“You ok?”

“—get someone—“

Get it together.

Light.

Empty.

Light.

He opened his eyes. Stared forward sightlessly. Fred was gone, but the room was freezing and he was shaking all over. Please. Please go away.

Light.

A hand was offered, but he did not take it, opting instead to raise on his own trembling feet, Ron’s eyes boring into him. Harry didn’t meet them. He picked the wand up shakily, muttered a spell to lock the box, and shoved it under the table roughly.

“Har—“

“Shouldn’t you be at Hogsmeade?”

His voice was a croak. He didn’t look at them, but they were looking at him, as though he was some sort of animal exhibited at a zoo. Hermione’s voice was small.

“We thought we’d ask you to come with us,” She said. “We were going to go to the Three Broomsticks, you said you’d come if—“

“Not tonight,” He cut her off, glancing up long enough to see who else was there. Light. Light. Go away. Light. Seamus and Dean stood a little ways to the side, as if not sure they should be there. Neville shuffled his feet awkwardly behind Ron and Hermione, with Luna, Hannah, and Ginny standing next to him, pale. 

“Why not?” Hermione’s question was fast, and a bit alarmed. 

Harry pulled his bag off the floor, and turned to the door that led to his office and through it, the flat. His hands were shaking. Empty. EMPTY. He made them stop. “Someone’s gotta grade your essays,” He said, inventing, but Hermione always knew when he was lying.

“Come with us,” She said, adamantly. “You can’t keep this up, Harry, you can’t. You have to talk to us—“

“I’m sorry that I can’t come with you,” Harry said stubbornly. He needed to be alone. He needed them out of here. He needed oblivion, silence, a reprieve from the ghosts. The potion. He started walking as easily as he could towards his apartments, willing them to stay behind, but they were following. “You should go,” He tried again. His voice was odd in his ears. Empty. “Tell Madam Rosmerta I said hey—“

Hermione’s hand closed over his just as he opened the door leading to his kitchen. He froze, pulled away, his facade crumbling again. Go away. Please. Oblivion. Please. But she did not let go. He met her eyes inadvertently, and they burned into his, blinking fast. 

“Harry, you can’t stay here all by yourself forever,” She said, strictly, as if he wasn’t done with his homework. “You… I’ve read up about it, all right? I think you’re suffering from—“

“Hermione, I’m fine,” He pulled his hand out of hers. Stop shaking. Stop. “I’ve just got a lot of work to do, McGonagall—“

“You have to talk to us!” She said, pleadingly, her voice afraid. He managed to reap his eyes away from hers. Just oblivion. Just… “Harry— You can’t keep hiding behind—“

“Hermione…“

She had her wand on him. He felt disoriented. Empty. Please. Oblivion. He couldn’t do this. Not now. Not with Lupin behind him, his gaze digging a hole into his back…

Hermione breathed deeply, and raised her wand. Harry watched her do it, trying to stay present through the fog.

Just… Just…

“Finite Incantatem!” She squeaked. A cool breeze washed over him, while sickly dread filled his chest. He steadied himself from the spell against the apartment door, standing exposed and shieldless, for all to see.

There were gasps. The fog was thickening. Empty. Please. Please go away. All he wanted was oblivion. Just the potion. Just for now. Neville’s mouth was gaping. Dean and Seamus were staring. He didn’t need this now. He needed to be alone. He didn’t want to deal with them.

Harry turned away, swallowing, pushing the fog back. He put the bag with the essays on the counter, pulling them out. Keep it together. Light. Empty light.

“I have work to do,” He said, not looking at them, and Lupin’s voice was still ringing in his ears, making everything lopsided. He willed for them to leave. But Hermione had crossed the threshold and stood right before him, her expression thunderstruck, wide eyed and anguished.

“Talk to us,” She pleaded, and his stomach churned. “If you don’t say anything it’ll only get worse and worse— That boggart, what did it mean? Why do you hardly ever come to the Great Hall? Why aren’t you seeing Teddy—?“

He pulled away from her again, and his scar seared across his forehead, pulsing under their appalled stares. “Hermione…” Please go away. “This isn’t any of your business, all right? It’s not your problem to—“

“Of course it’s my problem! Harry, Harry, Merlin, just look at you!” Her tears streamed freely now. “Aren’t you eating at all? Are you still taking the Dreamless Sleeping Potion? It’s not meant to be used every night, I told you, it’s dangerous to—“

He hated them staring at him. “It’s the only way I can fall asleep,” He said, defensively. His fingers shook over his bag on the counter. “It’s not as though—“

“If you’re still having nightmares—“

“Hermione, I…  I don’t—“ 

“You should see Madam Pomfrey, she can give you something to detox, you can’t—“

“I haven’t… got time to—“ 

“And you have to talk to us, you’ve got to—“

“Hermione—“ 

“—You can’t keep it all bottled up Harry, you can’t it’ll kill you—“

“Hermione—“ 

“—And the boggart… You can’t possibly still think that it was your fault, you can’t—“

“I—“ 

“—Remus, and Tonks, and Fred, they died because—“

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” 

She froze, looking terrified, and suddenly Harry didn’t care that she was upset and that others were watching. “What? What do you want me to say? What do you think that boggart meant?”

And Lupin had stood calm and steady in his classroom, his wise eyes sad, and Tonks’s hair was pink and Sirius had been twenty one and Fred… Fred had been laughing—

No no no NO—

Hermione was shaking, but she spoke, her voice trembling, stubborn. “Harry,” She breathed, “There was nothing you could have—“

Harry laughed, and it was Voldemort’s laugh in his mouth, cold and high and humorless. “Nothing? Nothing?” Hermione’s eyes grew wider. He felt his heart like a bomb in his chest. “I could have gone to him the first time he called,” He said, his voice ice. “I should have gone, it would have been the same, we could have just found the diadem after—“

No no no—

Shit—

“You can’t know what would have happened—“

“Hermione, please— get out of here,” He said, shaking. “I don’t want to do this right now.”

“No,” She said, her voice trembling. “You hadn’t known— it wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t have known—“

“We came through Aberforth’s drawing,” He said, shaking now, and his scar hurt, and the whispers were like yelling in his ears, overpowering, overcoming her words, overcoming his thoughts— “and they just kept coming, and we just let them through— I knew he was coming, I knew he’d found out, I could have made them hide, could have blocked the entrance, but no, I had bigger worries, finding the godforsaken horcrux, as if that couldn’t have waited, as though—“

“But—“

“It was a battle over NOTHING!” His voice drowned hers out. He’s never actually seen Teddy with his parents, never seen him with a family, before it was taken away. “If I’d just kept out of sight to look for it I could have found it before he ever made it to the castle, I could have found him with the snake later, in the forest, alone, I could’ve—“

“You didn’t know about the last horcrux,” His scar hurt. You will be our light. “You didn’t know that—“

“WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE THAT I DIDN’T KNOW? IT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED THE SAME WAY, THE HORCRUX WOULD STILL BE GONE, NEVILLE COULD STILL KILL NAGINI, SOMEONE ELSE COULD’VE GOT HIM, IT NEVER HAD TO BE ME, AND THE BATTLE COULD HAVE JUST BEEN AVOIDED, IT—“

“Harry, you can’t possible know that!” He didn’t care that her eyes were wide and afraid. “Harry, you can’t think like that— What… What if Ron and I had just listened to you from the beginning, and gone to Hogwarts first? Maybe then the battle wouldn’t have happened, or… or maybe if I’d understood about the Hallows sooner, and we went to Luna’s father earlier… or maybe if Ron hadn’t left— a million things could’ve—“

“It doesn’t matter what you did, it wasn’t your responsibility—“

“The entire war wasn’t your responsibility—“

“It was me he called into the forest, me who thought looking for a diadem was more important than—“

“Stop, Harry, please, you can’t think this way, it’s not true—“ She was coming towards him again, as if to touch him, and he backed away from her, and Lupin was staring at him from beyond a veil—

“Stay away from me,” he choked, and he realized that the shaking was getting worse, and Fred had been smiling when he died, and Tonks had gone out of the Room of Requirements as he watched her, not stopping her, he had known Teddy was left alone with his grandmother, had known Lupin wanted her to stay behind—

Hermione was standing inches from him, and she grabbed his hand and held on though he tried to pull away from her, and he hated that she was here, and that the others were looking, and that tears were sliding down his face and that he couldn’t see straight for all the shaking and he tried to wrench himself away from her and George had been crying when Harry wrenched the Resurrection Stone out of his hand—

“STOP IT!” 

Hermione’s hand let go, and Harry saw a blurry mound of red hair in front of him.

“What—?“

“Hermione, back off,” Ginny said, her voice strained, her teeth gritted. “Just back off, all right?”

Hermione looked first stunned, and then offended. She rose higher. “I’m just—“

“You’re being selfish,” Ginny said, and Hermione gaped at her, her mouth slightly open. “It’s not fair what you’re doing. Just go back home.”

There was a moment of silence as they stared at each other, and then Hermione’s eyes landed on Harry.

She seemed to realize something. Her brown eyes grew softer. She closed them, and then looked at the floor, swallowing.

“All right,” She said. “All right. Come on, Ron.”

Ron stood rigid, his freckles evident over pale skin, and stared. Hermione pulled him away, and the others followed, until it was just Harry and Ginny in the kitchen, the door closed.

She turned, and Harry didn’t know what to say so he just stood there stonily.

“Sit,” She instructed, and pushed him into the chair by the counter. He sat. Lupin’s eyes were on him. The whispers were like a roar, louder in the now oppressive silence, broken by the blood pumping against his eardrums at a frightening pace. He felt like screaming but also never speaking again, punching something and also staying forever alone in an empty cupboard under the stairs. But he needed to stop this. He needed to get back to where he was before…

Empty.

Empty.

Keep it together. Come on.  

As he sat at the counter with his fists clenched and his breath held, straining to push the ghosts away, Ginny looked around in the cabinets. She found glasses, poured water into one and sat it next to him, but he didn’t touch it. You will be our light.

Empty.

Please go away.

You will be our light.

She sat across from him, looking. He found himself looking back. Her eyes were brown and big and beautiful. She was also pale, and her hair stuck to her forehead so she shoved it away. Her lips were thinner than usual, and her expression was sad. She put her wand on the counter, and her hands were folded before her, freckled and white.

He closed his eyes.

Realizing that he wasn’t breathing, he took a shuddering breathe that rocked his entire body. His scar hurt. His scar hurt. He wished she’d stop looking. His scar hurt.

His scar hurt.

He put his hand over it, pressing hard, pushing his glasses into his flesh as he went, so that the wire dug into him painfully, so that the dead wouldn’t stare at his face. Ginny moved, and pulled the glasses gently off, her hands cool. He was revolted at her touch, but also powerless to stop her. Just go. Please. Just go… He was shaking still, and the shuddering breaths filled the empty kitchen, and now tears streamed and streamed through his fingers, burning, and his scar hurt, hurt, hurt—

Shit shit shit—

She was sitting next to him, but he couldn’t look at her, and she’s been crying at Fred’s funeral, and he didn’t want to know if she was crying now, and Molly Weasley’s wails were filling his ears and Ginny’s hands were tender on him, unrelenting, and he shook and shook but she didn’t let go. Her head was on his shoulder, and her hair smelled like it always did, and it made him think of sixth year and all the people who had sat every night in the common room that would never sit there again, all the empty armchairs, the empty benches in the Great Hall, and he couldn’t make it stop, he couldn’t, please go please go please go—

And all was crumbling, all around. His shuddering breathes turned harder and harder to quiet, his tears faster, his shaking worse. And he was sobbing now, and how could he think of being empty when he was so fucking full—

In the darkness behind his eyes he saw the dead lined and staring. 

And his scar hurt.

His scar hurt

His scar hurt.

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed there, but eventually the shaking stopped. Her fingers were cold on his burning skin, and his mind was too fogged to think that he did not want her there any longer. Soon thoughts were chased away. Too many, too fast, and he was numbed by them, by her touch, by her presence, so that a heavy silence fell within him, extinguishing all else. 

After a while Ginny’s voice spoke in his ear, and he glanced at her fearfully. Her eyes were wet, her face puffy and red. But her eyes shone.

“You have a bed here?”

He rose to his feet, and led her numbly to the bedroom. His bed was unmade. It took him a while to figure out she was talking, and when he finally felt her hand on his arm, he flinched.

“Let’s go to sleep,” She said, and pushed him onto the bed. He sat. There were vials of potion under the bed, and he reached for them, but she grabbed his hand.

“Come on, Harry,” She said, her voice small, and he swallowed. She didn’t understand. She didn’t hear them at night, screaming. “I’m staying here,” She said, not asking, and he nodded, feeling empty. His scar hurt. His scar hurt. His scar hurt.

She leaned down to pull his shoes off, but he hurried to do that instead, so she rose up again and sat on the other side of the bed. She pulled him gently after her, so that they lay side by side, staring at the ceiling.

“George and Perce reopened the shop,” She said, and he felt himself growing rigid. Her hand found his. “We were going to see it this weekend, after classes ended. They’ve finished a new product, Perce is really good at vanishing charms, and—“

He didn’t want to hear this. He couldn’t. He pulled his hand away from hers, making to sit up again, but she grabbed it back and was leaning over him, so that her silky hair fell over his chest, and tears shone in her eyes.

“Harry, no one is mad at you,” She whispered, and there were tears in his own eyes again but he didn’t let them fall. “Stay with me, ok? Don’t go anywhere.” He didn’t know what she meant. He forced his hand to relax in hers, and shut his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at her tears.

He felt her lay back down next to him. Her voice was small.

“They used some dragon egg shells Charlie’s been able to get them,” She continued, strained, and her hand was unrelenting. “Apparently they’re rather indestructible. I’m not sure how, but George found some spell no one’s heard of in the back of one of Dad’s books, and when they tried it, they were able to make the shells vanish…”

Her voice filled the silence until Harry fell asleep.

Chapter Text

I Don’t Know

Harry had gone to sleep. 

It was hard to describe it as sleep. It seemed more like he’d lost consciousness, half way before his head hit the pillow. Still wearing the robes he’d been wearing when they’d changed after dismounting the dragon, covered with dust and singed by fire, torn and grey and full of blood. Ron sat down on his own bed as Hermione charmed the boots off. He sat looking at him, chin in his hands.

They descended to the deserted common room, and sat at their usual chairs by the unlit fire. The flames were burning brightly before either of them said anything.

“It’s over,” Ron said, and his voice was full of wonder and fear.

“Yes,” She agreed.

“I thought… I’d feel different.”

“Me too.”

They sat on different chairs, and she felt cold and alone, and her mind was numb from exhaustion and horror and pain.

He stood, and came to sit next to her. She placed her head on his shoulder and he held her hand.

“He went,” Ron said, and she shut her eyes. Harry had told them of Snape’s memories, of Dumbledore’s last request. He had spoken of his walk down the grounds, his meeting with Neville, the Resurrection Stone he’d dropped in the forest—

Of Lord Voldemort, raising his wand—

And in her mind’s eye she saw him, standing alone in a circle of masked Death Eaters, calm and certain, his chin held high. She saw the Dark Lord raising his wand, his red eyes wide, his deformed face twisted into a sick smile, the joy in his voice as he uttered those words—

And Harry…

Harry, just standing there, not moving, not trying to escape. Not a word of humor, not an attempt at a joke, just standing there, as he was told to, ready and happy to die for them, to end his short, painful life so that they could continue their own…

For a war he was born into, for the parents he’d never known…

“I thought… he’d had some trick up his sleeve,” Ron muttered. “When he woke up. That he’d tricked him. Or something. That he hadn’t. That he wouldn’t have. I didn’t think… that he had.”

“Me neither,” She whispered. 

“I can’t believe he did that,” Ron whispered.

“Me neither.”

“I can’t believe Dumbledore asked him to.”

“Me neither.”

“I can’t believe that was supposed to be it,” Ron said. “I can’t believe… He… was supposed to be—“

She kissed him.

His eyes were blue. “What does it mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think… Is it… should we—?“

“I don’t know.”

“It’s over now,” He said, and there was doubt in his voice. “It’s over, isn’t it?”

She kissed him, but she was crying.

“I don’t know.”

***

Chapter Ten: Worst Fears

The first class that morning was NEWTs, and Hermione sat small and silent in the front row, not meeting his eyes.

“Well,” He said, into the tense silence. “As you know, I’ve found a boggart.” 

Dean chuckled uncomfortably. Harry fixed his face into a smile. “That means it’s a good time to start practicing the Patronus on something other than each other.”

There was an interested murmur. Harry turned to Seamus.

“Your boggart is a dementor,” he said, and Seamus nodded grimly. 

“My father,” Seamus said. “During the war— he was kissed.”

Harry nodded, and turned to the box he’d placed in the middle of the empty class. “Well, it would be really helpful if you—“

“I don’t mind.”

“Good.” He placed a chair next to the box, and Seamus sat on it. Harry passed him a small pile of chocolate frogs. “As long as Seamus is closer than anyone else to the boggart, it’ll stay a dementor,” He explained to the rest of the class. “That way, you can all practice on it. Hermione, want to show us the wand movement?”

Surprised, Hermione came forward, and pulled her wand out of her pocket.

“Expecto Patronum,” She said, clearly, and an otter sprung out, only to vanish a moment later.

“Good,” Harry said. He turned to Seamus. “Ready?”

Seamus nodded. Harry opened the box with a flick of his wand, and out climbed a dementor, throwing the room into cold.

Harry was not bothered. He glanced at the back of the dementor, basking in his emptiness.

Hermione raised her wand, holding her breath, and cast the spell again.

The otter did not return. Instead, a misty silver hue came out of her wand, and dissipated almost immediately.

“That’s all right,” Harry said. “We’ll take it in turns. It’s a lot harder with the real thing— we never had one in DA.” And the war would have only made them harder. 

Stop it.

“Hannah, you’re next.”

They filed into a line, and Harry passed Seamus more chocolate. After a while, Hermione managed to create a powerful enough mist to keep the dementor at bay, but all the others just seemed drained.

Harry, on the other hand, was not feeling drained at all. He watched the dementor, feeling void. Would he be able to cast a Patronus, ever again? He hadn’t in months, not even during their disastrous search for the Horcruxes. Maybe it was better that he wouldn’t. He did not know if he could bare meeting Prongs. 

It was a good lesson, and by the end Neville and Ginny’s mists were also solidifying. This was evidently more complex than what they’d practiced back in fifth year, and Harry was trying to recalculate his teaching plan, wondering if he should allow more days for this to give everyone a better chance to improve. 

The class filled out. Harry was obstructed by Ernie Mcmillan, who wanted to review his wand movement, and was in the process of explaining that the movement mattered less than the chosen happy thought when he noticed that some had remained, alone in the class. 

Hermione and Ginny were arguing in tense whispers. Once Ernie left, Harry glanced at them, thinking about the night before with deepening mortification. 

He couldn’t even bring himself to look at Ron and the rest. Seamus was staring fixedly at the boggart, on whom Dean, Neville and Ron were still practicing. Luna hummed to herself next to Ginny, who was heatedly trying to talk Hermione out of something. 

But Hermione turned to Harry, nonetheless. He had walked towards his desk, shuffling through notes sightlessly, but now glanced up in apprehension.

He didn’t want to fight with her. He felt humiliated at the very thought of the night before. 

“I just have to know one thing,” Hermione said, stoically. “Do you have the Resurrection Stone, or not?”

He felt his shoulder blades loosening, surprised. 

“Err,” He said, dumbly. Ron had frozen with his wand stationed at the dementor, listening hard. Harry felt Ginny’s eyes on him, piercing. “No. I left it in the forest.”

“George told us you gave it to him,” Hermione said carefully. Harry’s scar seared suddenly. His eyes shifted to the bookshelf behind her, latching on to Defensive Charms as Offensive Measures. Atoine Addington. The spine was blue and crumbling. 

“Where are you keeping it?”

No Harry, listen, you don’t understand—

“I threw it away,”  he said.

Rethinking  the Unthinkable. Elton Fawcett. The spine was black, glistening. 

Hermione’s voice was accusing. “Where?”

Unmasking Invisible Darkness. Camden Lancaster. Red. 

“Harry.”

Ron was ignoring his dementor. Seamus looked utterly sick, watching it. The classroom had emptied, and Harry shook his head, looking at Ron’s mist. 

Focus. Empty. Come on. “A-A lake. I don’t have it.”

Hermione was looking at him seriously. He kept his eyes at the mist, dissipating. The room was growing colder as the dementor breathed closer to Ron. 

Wait— Harry, Wait—

“Really?” Hermione said finally, sounding skeptical. 

“Really,” He said honestly. “I don’t want that stone.”

“But you did. At Luna’s father’s, you said—”

He swallowed, forcing himself to look at her. “I don’t anymore.”

“But—“

“I don’t want it. I don’t want to bring anyone back.”

Hermione bit her lip, blinking at him. He met her eyes accidentally but then glanced sideways, at Dean. 

Dean let out a horrified shout. 

“What—“

Death Eaters and giants and an army of the dead—

Harry jumped, whirling back, wand out, to the dementor— but it had vanished. The boggart was now closer to Ron than it was to Seamus, and what once was a tall robed figure was replaced with a body, sprawled on the floor, motionless and pale, blood surrounding it. 

Someone gasped, and Hermione screamed. Harry raised his wand, but didn’t know what to do with it. He was looking at himself, eyes staring lifelessly upwards, a knife in his hand, his wrists covered in deep, vicious cuts that oozed red all over the tiles.

Ron stood stiffly, his wand still raised. The silver mist  had vanished completely. The body on the floor wasn’t moving. Its green eyes stared emptily, it black hair sticky with blood. The knife was held loosely between grey fingers, dripping onto the floor.

Ron stared down at the blood, his face white, the tip of his wand trembling before him. 

Severus Snape had bled onto the floor of the Shrieking Shack, his blood dripping onto Harry’s robe, and Lavender’s Brown blood trickled onto the floor in the Great Hall where Fenerir ravaged her—

Focus, focus—

Stop—

Ron swallowed, shook his head, and raised his wand. But before he could utter the spell, there was movement, and someone held him back.

Neville’s face was determined as he stepped forward, in front of Ron. He glanced at Harry, the living one, who stood frozen behind the box, and then down at the dead one, at his feet. With a bang, the body was gone, to be replaced with a different scene.

Harry stood in a white hospital gown, his right wrist encircled by a hospital band, on which were typed the words: FOURTH FLOOR, Janus Thickey Ward. This Harry’s eyes were wide and staring too, but they weren’t an emerald green, but a mellowed, greyed green, too large and wide, and they stared at Neville unrecognizing, empty.

And Hermione stepped in front of Neville, and now Harry was sitting with his back to the box, drinking a bottle of Dreamless Sleeping Potion, shaking his head. “I’m fine,” Boggart Harry was saying, but there were dark circles under his eyes and he was thinner than he’d ever seen himself. He didn’t look like he could manage to stand up, his voice was raspy and broken, and he didn’t look at any of them, just at the bottle, watching the liquid inside splashing. “I’m fine…”

Luna stepped up, and a strange creature was flying over Harry’s head, and he had a wand in his hand, but he was pointing it at himself. The creature buzzed, and it was prodding his wand arm, keeping it raised, and Harry opened his mouth, there was a flash of green light—

Ginny stood in front of Luna, and as the green dissipated, a new image appeared. Harry was sitting with his back to the box again, his hands pressed over his scar, sobbing. The real Harry stood rigidly, staring at the boggart. It wasn’t a future fear, he realized, but a memory of the night before. 

He’d never seen himself crying, and had to admit it was rather terrifying. Whereas he felt like he was moving and shouting and screaming, in reality his body remained almost motionless, vibrating with the effort not to shake, and his face was contorted and he wasn’t making any noise at all, other than tiny shuddering breaths that rocked him, and his hands pressed so tightly on his head it looked like it hurt.

He couldn’t watch it anymore. Harry felt himself walking, across the classroom, next to a large eyed Dean, past the stunned Seamus, until he stood right before Neville and Ron. The body vanished, and now Remus Lupin was looking at him, his arms folded across his chest.

Harry turned his eyes away from him, swallowing. He had researched another spell to get rid of boggarts, which did not involve laughter.

“Vanisko,” Harry said, his voice forcing confidence and power, and the boggart vanished, back into its box. 

There was a heavy silence.

Slowly, he turned. The others were pale and silent. Ron was looking at him, and he couldn’t peal his eyes away. 

He wasn’t sure what to say. He felt cold, but also a strange heat was growing within his chest, estranged but familiar.

Ron cursed, reaping his eyes off of Harry and pushing Neville off of him. Harry watched him pulling his left shoulder back roughly. That was the shoulder that had been spliched, a few weeks before he’d left Harry and Hermione the year prior. 

He cleared his throat. 

“I’ll… come over tonight, all right?” He said, and his voice cut through the silence, through the cold, so that relief flooded into Hermione’s face and Neville smiled.

“All right,” Neville said, and clasped him on the shoulder. Harry forced himself to smile back. “Seven?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. Ron was red, but he looked at Harry, and nodded. “I’ll get to Hogsmeade myself.”

Neville gave him the address, and they began leaving. Hermione took Ron’s hand and pulled him after her, speaking softly. 

Harry began to rearrange the desks so the Fourth Years could sit. When he looked back up, Ginny was still there, pale and staring at where the boggart had been.

Their eyes met. Harry put his wand back in his pocket. 

“I’m staying” He said, as sincerely as he could, and her face flooded with gratitude. She nodded.

“Alright.”

You will be our light, the man had said. 

You will be our light. 

He had had dark skin, wrinkled, spotted, his eyes deep brown and the face around them creased from a life well lived, years of laughing. He had had very white teeth, and he had been smiling through his tears, as his eyes watched Harry with trust and gratitude. His daughter had died. A Hufflepuff sixth year. Harry had never checked her name.

You will be our light.

And he was right, of course. It had been wrong of Harry to leave, all those months ago, when everyone needed him so much. He was, after all, not a boy… a man… of his own devising. Prophesied before birth. Vanquisher of dark forces. He owed them more. It was wrong of him to just vanish.

George, beneath the light of the ragged old shed, sitting amongst abandoned muggle trash, hiding a stone behind him.

He shouldn’t have left.

He swallowed, rubbing his hands together. The air was becoming cooler as the year progressed, and Harry, standing alone in grounds behind the greenhouses, was enjoying the cool sting on his skin.

He closed his eyes, listening to the silence. The man with the wrinkles looked back at him trustingly.

Harry shivered.

The night before, with Ginny lying next to him on the soft four poster, he had dreamed.

He dreamed of Albus Dumbledore. At first he thought he would show his fury, his disappointment: at Harry’s inactions during the battle, at his failure to finish the war sooner, at his inability to follow the clues Dumbledore had left behind. Or worse: stand there and stare, as they so often did, his sadness worse than any anger.

But the dream was different from what it always had been, and Dumbledore had not spoken to him at all. He sat in his office, Fawkes perched serenely before him, singing his melody as Dumbledore ran his healthy, un-greyed hand over his feathers.

Harry stood in the shadows. Rays of sun washed over his Headmaster, and his purple robes glistened beneath them. Outside, the sky was blue. He thought he heard students laughing. 

He had felt himself moving back. A step, stumbling, and then another. He slunk into the shadows, constricted, unable to stay any longer in this serene place of beauty and power.

He nearly fell as he stumbled over a chair in his haste. Dumbledore’s eyes flashed to him.

A fragment of blue through a broken shred of mirror.

His breathe caught.

He woke up.

And he woke up so different.

No fog, no headache, no muscles protesting the notion of getting up. With a strange, odd calm all around him, not induced by a potion, but emanating, somehow, from within him. 

Or from her.

Ginny slept with her face dug into her pillow, her red hair a mess all around her face. He lay for a while watching her, marveling at the clarity of her red lips contrasting with pale skin, the light eyelashes shifting as she dreamed, her fingers holding onto the blanket, dug into the folds.

But.

He stood up. And when he did, a spell was broken.

But.

Because he was a light. The Chosen One. The one the world looked up to.

And because he was broken, tainted, his soul blackened by murder and his heart torn by another’s shredded soul.

And because he was alive. And they were not.

And he could not bear lying here with her, while they lay in tombs of stone.

He had left her there and closed the door behind him.

There was a system.

The system worked.

But now, as he stood alone before the well-prodded trail leading to Hogsmeade, the castle tall and silent at his back, he could not help remembering the morning, calm and good.

And the morning before, dark and cold. 

Were they right? Was it the potion?

Was it the potion, which he could hardly pull out of his thoughts? The potion, of which he thought and for which he longed for hours and hours, the one that afforded him the thing he craved most, the thing he wanted most desperately: oblivion?

And it frightened him. He was not a fool. It frightened him, standing in class, the students hectic all around him, and thinking of nothing but the craved silence that would engulf him come night.

And every night, more and more. Once he used to drink half a vial and drop senseless onto the pillows. Now, even three did not last…

But no. No. It had nothing to do with it. He swallowed, shaking his head, digging his hands into the pockets of his robes. The night before had been a lucky escape, certainly, but nothing more. And tonight, if he did not use the potion…

If he did not use the potion, the ghosts will come.

And he could not face them. 

And he needed the potion. He did. He did. So that he could close his eyes and stop the empty hole growing in his stomach, stop the shaking, vanquish the eyes staring at him into the night. Stop his heart flipping wherever Ginny drew near, stop his breathe catching whenever he passed by the Great Hall, stop his hands shaking when a student spoke about someone who’s died. Stop. Just stop.

He needed it. 

He did.

He took a deep breath, feeling calmer. And when night came, he would drink it again, and oblivion would come, like it always did. 

But before that, he had a promise to keep.

He stepped forward, his feet more certain than the fear in his gut.

I’m staying.

You will be our light.

Ron and Hermione were living in the same flat, which was rather a bit of a shock.

“It’s like the tent,” Ron said, red, as Hermione let Harry in. The living room was tiny, and Neville, Hannah, Dean and Seamus were sitting in it, looking at Harry apprehensively.

Ron showed him around.

“All the flats look the same,” He explained. “We’re twenty, right, doing the NEWTs, and there are ten flats. Dean, and Seamus have their own, and Hannah’s staying with Neville.” He gave Harry a meaningful look, and showed him into the bedroom. “This one’s mine,” He explained, unnecessarily, because orange screamed out of the walls, “And that one’s Hermione’s.”

Hermione’s bed had clearly not been slept in for a while. Harry refrained from commenting.

“Ginny and Luna should come around soon,” Ron said. “Seventh years are allowed to come and leave as they will.”

“Right.”

“Then there’s the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen. That’s it.”

“It’s nice,” Harry said, sincerely. It looked like a similar model to the flat he was staying at, only less ancient. They sat around the living room table, which served also as a dinner table, and Hermione gave him a huge, relieved smile.

He tried to ignore her.

He refused a cup of tea from Ron, who’s face fell dejectedly, and then accepted it to appease him. Crookshanks landed himself firmly on Harry’s lap, and he petted him absentmindedly, straining to hear Neville speaking over the purrs. They were speaking about the Transfiguration Professor. When questioned, Harry hummed.

When Ginny and Luna arrived, they all got to their feet, and left for the Three Broomsticks. “Don’t you cook?” Harry asked, quietly, and Ron turned a smirking face towards Hermione.

“We finally found something she can’t do,” He confided, and Harry laughed.

Ron seemed rather surprised and rejuvenated by this, which made Harry uncomfortable. They had to put two tables together to have enough room for everyone, and Madam Rosmereta immediately began passing out regulars. Harry ordered butterbeer, and settled down to listen.

There was a lot of chatter, and mostly he wasn’t required to say anything, which he appreciated. Ginny was sitting across the table, laughing at things Hannah was whispering in her ear. Ron, Seamus, and Dean got into a rowdy argument over Quidditch teams, which Harry had heard a thousand times before at the dorms. It was odd, having them here, but he knew Neville, Seamus and Ginny became very close during their last year at Hogwarts, rebelling against the Death Eaters, and didn’t comment.

“Harry?”

He turned, and Neville was leaning close, speaking quietly. 

“Yeah?”

“You all right?”

“Yes,” He said, trying to keep irritation from his voice.

“I know,” Neville said quickly, nervously, and Harry shut his mouth, feeling guilty. “Just… about the DSP.”

“The what?”

“DSP - Dreamless Sleeping Potion,” Neville explained. “Hermione’s right, you really shouldn’t be using it so often— but I’ve had an idea,” He added quickly, seeing the anger in Harry’s eyes. “I know a type of root that can have a very similar effect, only not so…” He searched for a word, “dangerous,” he decided, and gave Harry a worried look.

It was infuriating, being analyzed by people who’d very little idea of what he’d been doing for the past five months, but Harry swallowed his irritation and nodded, forcing a smile. Neville looked relieved, but also happy to change the subject.

“I’ll get you some,” He said. “Hey, did you taste the new dish Madam Rosmerta’s been serving? Victory Stew, she calls it, as a joke, but…” He was looking at Harry strangely. “Well, I guess it’s not that funny,” He muttered, as if kicking himself. “Look, I’ll order you one, you’ll like it I think, it’s something like that stew you always ate during feasts—“

“I’m not that hungry,” Harry said, and the table grew considerably less cheerful, all conversation ceased. Hermione’s face was solemn.

He swallowed, plastering a smile on his face. “But I’ll eat,” He added, and the relief was tangible. 

The food arrived a few minutes later, and Harry forced some of it down his throat. Like everything else, it was odorless, tasteless, and made his stomach churn in protest, but he minimized the grimacing and nodded to something Ron was saying, about the Quidditch season, and Ginny’s captaincy. Hermione was looking at him.

“You like it?” She asked, wearing the same smile she always wore when he or Ron were about to walk into a trap.

“Fair enough,” He replied, wearing an identical smile.

“Like the taste?”

“Very good.”

“Care to describe it?”

He didn’t let the smile slip off. “What do you want, Hermione?”

Her face hardened. “Losing the ability to taste is a sign of abuse of Dreamless—“

“I can taste it, it’s fine, I like it, drop it.” He growled, and Hermione dropped her eyes to her own dinner, stung.

“Sorry,” He added. Sighed. “If it bothers you so much, I don’t have to use it.”

Her eyes were shinning. He smiled back, and the table fell into a happy chatter once more.

They went back to the flat, now discussing upcoming weddings around the living room table.

“It’s like a plague, is what it is,” Ron said, and Hermione rolled her eyes. “The war is over, what’s the point hurrying now? If it were during, then maybe…“

Harry was thinking about the piles of essays he still had to grade, but for once he wasn’t in a hurry to get to them. The fire was lit, and the flat was warm and comfortable, with people laughing and tea on the table. He had only finished a fraction of the meal he’d paid for, but still it rested comfortably in his stomach, making him sleepy.

Ginny was laughing, which made him glad. And Dean was sitting far away from her, which made him more glad. He should leave, it was getting late, and his eyes were dropping. But he’d promised Hermione anyway that he wouldn’t use the potion tonight, so what difference would it make if he just…

“He’s asleep,” Ginny said, quietly, and was met with little grins from all directions.

“He’s still got that horrible charm on himself,” Hermione said darkly, twirling with her wand. “I don’t want a spell to wake him… do you figure it just wears off in the night?”

“Probably,” Hannah was sitting next to Neville, who had his arm over her shoulder. Seamus yawned.

“It’s only after midnight,” He said, glancing at the clock. “Who wants more tea?”

“Fancy something stronger, myself,” Ron told him, and they both got to their feet and went rummaging in the kitchen. Hermione turned to Neville.

“You told him about the root?”

“Yes. He said he’d try it,” Neville nodded, and Hermione visibly relaxed. “It’s pretty rare, so I doubt he’ll manage to find it on his own — at the very least I could watch how much he’s using. It was a good idea.” Hermione nodded. Ron placed bottles of Firewhisky on the table, and opened his with a flick of a wand. 

“I was speaking to some of the younger students,” He said, leaning back. “And it’s not like he’s got much to compete against, but Harry’s pretty good at this.”

“We knew that,” Dean said. “We were all in the DA.”

“I couldn’t cast a summoning charm before DA,” Neville said. 

“Well, you were still using your father’s old wand.” Hannah defended, and Neville grinned at her. 

“I think McGonagall’s pretty happy with him,” Hermione said, refusing a bottle from Ron. “When I spoke with her this morning, and asked how the search for next year’s Defense Professor was going, she sort of avoided the question. I don’t think she’s looking, she wants Harry to keep at it.”

Seamus frowned. “Would he want to? Didn’t he want to be an Auror?”

“There’s enough time. I think if she asked, he’d stay, if only to prove that the curse was broken.”

“If it is broken,” Luna said dreamily. 

“Please, Voldemort’s dead, all his spells died with him.” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “Alright, Ron, fine, give me one.”

He smirked and passed her a bottle. Just then, Ginny rose to her feet. She was frowning.

“What…?”

They looked. Harry was muttering under his breath, shaking his head in his sleep. He was lounged on the side of the sofa, head on the arm, and now his glasses slid off his nose and tumbled to the floor as he twitched, muttering more urgently.

“Harry?” Ron, who was sitting next to him, tried to shake him awake. This wasn’t the first time he had to wrench Harry out of a nightmare, and he could tell it wasn’t just a harmless dream. He couldn’t understand what he was muttering, but Harry’s entire body was rigid, contorted, and his brow was creased. “Harry, wake up.”

He got to his feet and moved around the couch so that he was staring right at Harry’s sleeping face. He was white, sweating, muttering faster and faster, and it sounded like he was pleading with someone. Ron grabbed his shoulders and shook him, to no effect. “Harry.”

“I’ll get some water,” Hannah said, and vanished. Hermione was pulling out her wand. Crookshanks meowed loudly from beneath the table, his yellow eyes sharp and staring. But Ron had woken Harry up countless times before. He was gripped by the dream, but once he realized he was asleep he’d wake up and blush sheepishly.

He shook him again, put his hands on his clammy face. 

“Harry, you’re dreaming, snap out of it,” He said, thinking stupidly about Dean and Seamus watching. 

Harry’s eyes opened in confusion, and Ron relaxed. His fingers loosened. 

Then Harry jumped to his feet, throwing Ron off. Ron hit the table in surprise, and Hannah dropped the glass of water. Harry’s eyes were no longer confused, but terrified— he gaped at Ron, stumbling away from him, his hands shaking, his gaze unfocused.

“N…No— No—”

He had pulled away from the sofa, scampering back to the wall. He shut his eyes, still muttering incomprehensibly, the words growing faster and faster. When he opened them again, he was looking frantically, and when he turned back he caught sight of Ron, who had followed him to the corner. Harry grabbed him around the collar, pulling him off balance. Ron yelped in surprise, trying to regain his feet.

Harry wasn’t truly seeing him, he realized, but his whispers were desperate, his eyes full. Behind him, the other were on their feet, frightened. Ron could hear him now, standing inches from him. “I don’t—“ His breath smelled like the potion. “—More people than—  And if— bodies—”

“What are you—?” Ron tried to understand. “Harry, snap out of it—”

“…They’re… I didn’t— Dead—“

Ron grabbed his arms and Harry struggled, but Ron was taller and more well fed, and he spoke quickly over the panicked muttering, quietly, trying to shield his friend from the rest. 

“There are no bodies,” He said. “No one’s dead, everything’s fine— you were having a dream—”

“He said— And I—“

“Ron, maybe you should give him some space—“

Ron ignored Hermione, putting his hand on Harry’s nape, looking at him steadily. “Harry— listen,” He stressed.

“I didn’t,” Harry breathed at him, his voice broken. “I didn’t, I didn’t go—"

He felt like a Quaffle hit his stomach. “I-I know,” Ron answered. “I know, it was the right thing to do—“ Harry tried backing away from him, pulling back, but Ron held him firmly. 

“No, no—”

“Harry. You’re dreaming. Ok?”

Harry hadn’t looked him in the eye for months. His anguish made Ron’s stomach construct. “I didn’t go,” He breathed, and Ron put his hands on his face, trying to make him see him. 

“Harry. Listen. Harry. Harry.”

“I—”

“It’s ok. Ok? It’s ok.”

He stopped struggling, and his eyes latched onto Ron. 

“Harry. Listen. Listen.”

They grew more focused, and the breathing slowed steadily, until he was blinking at him with recognition etched on his face.

“Ron,” He said, breathlessly, his hands on Ron’s collar loosening. “…Ron.” He was still white and shivery. He looked at Ron as though he couldn’t believe he was here, as though if he stopped looking he’d vanish. Ron let him go grimly. 

“What was that dream about?” Hermione asked, sharply, from behind them, and Ron sharpened his eyes on her, shaking his head for her to stop. 

Harry’s face whitened, and he blinked at the floor. Ron could feel the spells strengthening around his friend, and handed him back his glasses.

Harry took them, emotions chasing each other on his face. Behind them, Ginny’s eyes were steady on him, waiting. 

Hermione opened her mouth again to speak, but Harry shook his head, pulling away from Ron.

“I need to go.”

“Wha— No!” Hermione blinked, surprised. “No, stay— Harry, what were you dreaming—“

“I need to go, I should have gone hours ago. Thanks, it was fun,” He said, automatically, and he smiled the horrible smile. 

“Harry, are you sure you’re—?”

She made to follow him, but Ron pulled her back. When she looked at him, angry, he was watching Harry walking away, thinking about Voldemort’s laughter.

Chapter Text

I’m Not Leaving

They were sitting in the infirmary, and Harry was fast asleep.

Ron’s mother had gone to speak with Dumbledore. Sirius had left. Ron’s siblings were back in the common room, Madam Pomfrey in her office, Bill gazing darkly out of the window, watching the Pitch outside.

Ron was sitting next to Hermione by Harry’s bed, playing with his fingers. They were too big to play with: chunky and awkward, too long and too freckly. He glanced sideways and saw that she was looking at Harry with a fierce expression, blinking quickly like she did whenever she was solving a difficult problem in Arithmancy.

He knew. He’s watched her.

Outside, the grounds were a flow with people. Reporters from the Prophet, being held back by Ministry officials who were running around in a frenzy trying to make sense of everything. The students from Drumstrang and Beauxbatons had been ushered away to their dormitories. The Professors came and went, and Ron heard them rushing by in the corridor outside the infirmary, their long cloaks bellowing, their voices nervous and hurried.

Hermione was still looking at Harry.

Ron looked at him too.

He knew Harry probably did not want them looking at him. Probably would have blushed and told them to sod off had he been awake. Probably would hate the idea of them staring at him while he slept, or talking about him, or whispering about what happened.

What happened?

He had come back with a Goblet-turned-portkey and a corpse.

A corpse.

Ron had never seen anyone dead before. He had been to one funeral— his uncle’s— and it had been a closed casket. He had never seen a body without a person inside of it. The thought of touching someone who was dead made his skin crawl.

Cedric Diggory had been dead.

And Harry clutched him like he would never let go.

“Hermione?”

She jumped and glanced back at him, blinking rapidly, pulled out  of her thoughts.

“Hmm?”

“Did you… Have you…”

Did you see the body?

Did you hear the noise that Mr. Diggory made, that… that howl, that growl, that…undiluted… agony…

Did you see Harry?

Did you see his eyes?

“What?”

He looked at her, and she looked back. Her eyes were the most aggravating shade of brown. Dark and chocolaty, with little rings of honey inside. She was always frowning, and pulling her hair impatiently out of her face. She seemed disheveled, now, and forgot to do it, so that tendrils of bushy curls fell over her forehead. 

“Ron? What?”

“Nothing.”

“You have to tell me now, you can’t just say that and then—“

“What do you reckon’s gonna happen now?”

She blinked at him twice, her eyes frightened.

Then she looked away, and her voice was bossy and annoyed again. “Oh, I don’t know,” She said irritably. “How am I supposed to—“

On the bed, Harry steered. They both fell silent. He noticed that her breathe was caught, too.

“He looks sick,” She said finally.

“Yeah.”

“His hair’s all sweaty.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe we should leave,” She said, and he glanced up at her, blinking.

“I’m not leaving,” He said, a note of finality in his voice he did not mean to have there.

She gave him a strange look he did not recognize.

“Alright.”

They sat. Outside, more professors passed. He heard reporters and flashing cameras. Madam Pomfrey left her office for long enough to close the infirmary door, glance at Harry professionally, and glare at them in case they dared make noise.

“…Hermione?”

“Hmm?”

Did you see his eyes?

Did you see how broken he was?

Did you see how unHarryish?

Wide and scared and breathless, with trails of tears?

Shaking hands? Ripped cloths? Dust and blood and horror?

“Hermione…”

“What?”

“I’m not leaving,” He said again, and Hermione looked at him, and swallowed.

“Me neither,” She said after a long time.

“I don’t think this’ll be the last time.”

“No. I guess not.”

He wanted to say something more, but had no ideas, so he leaned back in his chair and looked at Harry again.

“I’m glad you’re here,” She whispered, and his head whirled to look at her, stunned.

She wasn’t watching him. She was crying.

“I’m glad you’re here. Ok?”

“Ok,” He said, and looked back at Harry. “Yeah. Ok.”

 ***

Chapter Eleven: Kill It

They had a class with him that day, and while the others were practicing the Patronus (Seamus was liking the chocolate less and less) Hermione was trying to be persuasive.

“It’s the potion,” She said, and Harry rolled his eyes at her, unimpressed. “No, listen to me— that’s another side effect. If you use it too much, then when you don’t use it the dreams get worse—“

“Just another reason to use it, then,” Harry said, and she could have smacked him.

“No, Harry, just another proof that you’re developing an addiction to—“

“It’s not an addiction, it’s fine, and it wasn’t that bad a dream anyway.”

“It was a bad dream,” Ron said, flatly, and Harry glared at him. “It was a bad dream.”

“Fine. You’re missing the practice, Seamus can only take so much of this.”

“Don’t change the subject. Did you use it last night?”

Harry looked guilty. Hermione groaned. “You said you wouldn’t!”

“Yeah, well, I can’t not sleep all night, Hermione, I’ve got classes to teach—“

Just then, someone had managed a corporeal animal, and Harry escaped them, to congratulate and offer advice.

“At least come over again tonight,” Hermione said when class ended.

“I need to grade the papers I was supposed to grade yesterday.”

“Then we’ll come over to you.”

“Hermione—“

“Please?”

He sighed, his eyes not meeting hers. “I… Fine.” 

She felt her body loosen with relief. Harry was looking at the floor uncomfortably.

“Thank you,” She said, and his eyes flitted up at her momentarily. She thought there was relief in his eyes, too.

A few days later, they managed to coax him into another dinner at the Three Broomsticks.

He didn’t order anything, but smiled when Seamus was telling about the latest Quidditch updates, which were, it seemed, funny. 

“How’re the roots?” Hermione asked Neville discreetly. He sighed.

“Not ready yet,” He said. “They grow real quick, though, and I’ve put quickening spells on them. I planted them in Greenhouse Five, but it’s going to take a few days before they’re usable.”

“Alright,” Hermione sat back in her chair, thinking. When there was a lull in conversation, she turned to Harry, biting her lower lip.

“Harry?”

His eyes were guarded again. “Yeah?”

“Why don’t you stay the night?”

He played with the bottle in his hands, twisting it between his fingers.

“It’ll be fun, like old times,” She said, ignoring the tense silence around the table. Harry stopped spinning the bottle. Perhaps it was the use of the word ‘fun’ in relation to their horrifying search for horcruxes the previous year. She decided not to beat around the bush, breathing deeply. “Well, if you say it’ll be so easy to stop using the potion then… then why not not use it? We’ll wake you if you have another nightmare. It’ll be…” She paused. Straightened her eyes at him. Cleared her throat. “‘Fine.’”

He took a long swing from the bottle, his movements slow and deliberate. She could not catch his eyes.

She thought her heart would beat right through her robes.

“…I—“

“Your classes start late tomorrow, I checked,” She added quickly. The bottle was empty. He placed it back onto the counter without shifting his eyes away from the label.

Then he shrugged. His face turned impassive. “Yeah. Alright. No problem.”

She thought she saw Ron slump with relief. She held herself higher, not letting her emotions show.

“Great,” She said, and Harry fit his face into a smile. “Good. You’ll sleep with Ron.”

At his insistence, they let him sleep on the couch. 

It was old, brown, and deep. He sunk into it, his face pressed onto a laundered pillow. The fabric beneath his fingers was rough and the room was oddly large all around him, too open in contrast to the small bedroom in his own flat. 

He should have brought vials with him. 

Daft.

He twisted and turned. Crookshanks kept rubbing against his hand, purring, his bushy tail brushing over his face. The butterbeer had made him sleepy, but a part of him was wide awake and tense, waiting. For high pitched laughter. For long thin fingers. For red eyes to come out of the dark.

He didn’t want to wake them.

He didn’t want to dream.

He fell asleep after a long time, staring at the table, under which Crookshanks’ furry tail had vanished. 

It started immediately.

It always did. 

He was teaching. 

A joint class of Ravenclaw and Slytherin fourth years. He was telling them about the Unforgivables, explaining about the Avada Kedavra. One of the braver Slytherins raised his hand, and asked the unavoidable question.

“But you survived. How?”

Harry opened his mouth, about to explain about the power of his mother’s sacrifice. Before he could, the boy stood up.

“Not that one,” He said dismissively. “The second time. How did you survive?”

Harry stood rigid, angry. This kid had no business questioning him. He opened his mouth to retort.

But someone else spoke from his lips, the words poison in his mouth. 

He knew the voice.

“He didn’t,” Voldemort said, and the boy was dead.

He felt his wand being raised, laughter forced out of his throat. He knew who the muggle borns in the class were, and in a series of green flashes they all lay motionless on the floor, eyes staring upwards. The others students were screaming, shoving desks and each other out of the way, trying to get to the doors. The laughter grew louder. The wand slashed, white fingers holding it loosely, familiar and terrifying—

He was in the hallway, rushing somewhere. A boy ran into his route. He flicked his wand, and the body was left discarded. He paused by a mirror hang on the corridor wall, and looked at himself, noseless, white faced, red eyed…

The image changed, and it was the real Harry now, green eyes wide, banging his fists against the glass.

“STOP!” He yelled, but Harry-Voldemort just laughed. 

“One more horcrux,” He taunted. “Thought you got it? Guess not. You can’t just come back from the dead, Potter. And I cannot die.”

“LET ME OUT!”

He turned his wand on the mirror.

“Avada Kedvra,” he hissed, and the image in the mirror vanished.

When he turned around, the room was full of people, wands raised, faces fit for battle.

But there would be no killing him. He’ll live forever. His joy mounted as he slashed the wand back and forth, and bodies dropped around him, and he laughed, and laughed, and laughed—

“HARRY!”

He’d reached her. Her red hair blew around her face, her brown eyes fierce. “Ah,” He said, lowering his wand so it pointed right at her heart. “You.”

“HARRY, WAKE UP—“

Her eyes were furious. She grabbed his collar, pulling him towards her, staring into his eyes. Her words were toxic. 

“Kill it.”

There was a flash of green light.

“HARRY!”

He was drenched in sweat, on the floor, and Ron was shaking him, looking scared.

Kill it. Kill it.

“Kill it,” Harry said. Ron gaped at him. “Kill it—” He jumped to his feet. “Ron— where’s my wand?”

“Your…What do you—?”

“Kill it, kill it, I have to kill it—”

“Kill what?”

Kill it, kill it, kill it—

He was throwing pillows around, tearing the sofa apart—

“Harry—“

“Help me— It’s here somewhere— “

Kill it—

He found his wand in the bag, and pulled it out—  Ron grabbed it out of his hand—

Kill it, kill it, kill it—

“KILL IT—“

“Harry— What— OW!”

They hit the table, Ron cried out, Hermione screamed, but Harry had the wand, he had the wand—

“Expelliermus!” Hermione squeaked.

It flew away and Harry roared, trying to grab it. Ron tackled him from behind, but he struggled up to his feet again, out of his grip, advancing towards Hermione, who stood frozen with his wand clenched in her outstretched hand. “GIVE IT TO ME, KILL IT, I HAVE TO KILL IT—“

Kill it, kill it, kill it—

Hands over him, pulling him back—

“Harry— stop—“

“I’VE GOT TO— RON— KILL IT—!”

“KILL WHAT?”

“THE HORCRUX, RON, LET ME GO—“

Ron’s voice was shaking. “Harry, there is no horcrux, they’re gone—“

“ONE LEFT, ONE LEFT, HERMIONE GIVE ME THE WAND—“

But she hid the wand behind her back and backed away, and Harry tried to force Ron’s hands off and managed to break loose only to be tackled again— They were on the floor and Ron grabbed him from behind, his arms tight over his chest, one around his throat, constricting his windpipe—

“CALM DOWN!”

“GIVE ME THE WAND!”

Kill it, kill it, kill it—

“Harry, the horcruxes are all finished, we finished them, it’s over—“

“IT’S NOT OVER, THERE’S ONE LEFT, THERE’S ONE LEFT AND IF WE DON’T KILL IT HE’LL BE BACK, HE’S THERE I CAN FEEL HIM RON GIVE ME THE WAND—“

“HARRY, WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT—!”

KILL IT, KILL IT, KILL IT—

“ME, IT’S ME, I’M THE LAST ONE, HERMIONE, YOU CAN FINISH IT, JUST DO IT, PLEASE, FINISH IT—“

Hermione’s face was frozen with horror, and Ron’s hand grew tighter around Harry’s throat—

“It’s gone,” She said, her voice high, shaking her head. “He destroyed it himself, in the forest, it’s gone—”

“KILL IT, HERMIONE, PLEASE, KILL IT—”

“I… Harry—“

“JUST DO IT— YOU HAVE THE WAND— PLEASE, JUST—“

“But—“

“KILL IT, HERMIONE, PLEASE, KILL IT—”

“I can’t— I don’t—“ She was shaking and crying, but it didn’t matter. Harry tried to force his elbow through Ron’s hold, could hear Ron cursing behind him—

“KILL IT—“

“YOU ARE NOT AN IT!” Ron bellowed, and the front door was wrenched open, admitting Neville, in night clothes, looking alarmed. “YOU’RE NOT AN IT AND WE’RE NOT KILLING YOU, HARRY!”

“I CAN FEEL HIM, HE’S THERE, KILL IT BEFORE—“

“YOU WERE DREAMING, HARRY, SNAP OUT OF IT!”

“NO, NO, YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND, HERMIONE, FINISH IT, PLEASE, PLEASE, YOU HAVE TO GET HIM, YOU HAVE TO KILL IT, I CAN’T WATCH IT HAPPEN AGAIN—“

Hermione was shaking against the wall. The arm around his neck tightened and he chocked into silence, spluttering. Neville had vanished but was back, holding a little bag that he brought to Harry’s face, and Harry struggled but his movements grew weaker. His nose filled with a sharp scent.

Slowly, his head cleared. The hand around his neck relaxed hesitantly, so he could breathe again. From under the table, he heard a loud, unhappy meow.

He was panting. Hermione was still keeping her distance, paralyzed. Ron’s hands were firm on him, but Harry wasn’t struggling anymore, and Neville pulled the bag away from him, swallowing audibly. 

“Harry?”

His breathes came as gasps. Ron’s voice was scared. 

“Harry? You ok?”

He swallowed. Nodded mutely. He felt them exchanging looks over his head, before the pressure lifted as Ron let him go. 

Harry leaned his back on the sofa, rubbing his neck.

Kill it.

They stood around him, staring.

“Sorry,” He said, and his voice was weak. “Hermione, I’m sorry.” 

She was shaking, and she wasn’t moving forward. She locked her eyes onto his, and he couldn’t look away.

“Stop using that potion,” She said, her voice full of emotion. “Please. Please stop using it, I can’t take this anymore.”

He nodded. She didn’t smile, but she did pull away from the wall and come closer. She gave the wand to Ron shakily, and he did not give it to Harry. 

“What was that?” Harry asked, breaking the silence, and Neville glanced at the small pouch.

“Ground roots of Visteria. Sharp smell to wake people up. We used it when the Carrows had people unconscious in detention.” He tied it shut with a rope. “Want it? I have more.”

“Don’t see how I could use it,” Harry said, and Ron extended his hand, taking the pouch from Neville, and went over to put it in the kitchen.

Harry rose to his feet and sat on the sofa, head in his hands. His scar hurt, but he didn’t press on it because he knew it scared them, so instead he pressed on his eyes, and Hermione handed him a glass of water.

Ron was saying something.

“What?”

“Maybe sleep in my room,” He repeated, and Harry laughed, but it didn’t sound like him, and he soon stopped.

“Don’t think I should go back to sleep,” He replied, and Ron put out his wand for him to take, an uncertain look in his eyes. Harry looked at it, not touching. He swallowed. “Keep it,” He said, raising to his feet. “I should… I should leave.”

There was a collective round of protest, and Harry raised his hands.

“Look, I get it, alright, you’ve made your point,” He said. “I won’t use the potion anymore. But if I wake up reaching for my wand planning to cast Unforgivables around—“

“You weren’t—“

“Then it’s better I’m not around people who can get hurt, all right?”

“Harry, you weren’t going to do anything to us, you were going to—“

“I know, I know, but it depends on the dream, doesn’t it?” He pulled his bag to his shoulder. “It’s almost dawn, anyway. I’ll finish some papers and I’ll see you after classes.”

“But—“

He was out the door, walking quickly.

Ron grabbed him, pulling him back.

“Harry—“

“Listen, Ron,” He cut him off. “Keep me away from her, all right?” 

Ron looked at him, confused for a minute, and then comprehension dawned. He swallowed, and nodded. 

Harry turned back around, and marched to the castle.

Chapter Text

No End

“Hermione?”

She looked down, surprised, pulled out of her thoughts. Ron was on the floor, tucked into his sleeping bag, his voice quiet in the dark. 

“Yeah?”

He said nothing at first, but simply looked at her, his blue eyes boring into hers. Hermione looked back. Outside, she could hear the trees shifting in the wind. It was late, Harry had been on watch for hours, and still, neither of them could sleep.

Ron still had the bandages around his shoulder, and he lay oddly, so as not to upset the wound caused by his splinching. Harry was carrying the locket tonight, but tomorrow it would be Ron’s turn, and she knew he dreaded it: he had told her, quietly, that it made him think things that later made him disgusted.

“Is this… do you…” His voice was hushed, and she glanced up, but Harry was unlikely to hear them. “You… think we can do this?”

“Destroy all the horcurxes?” Her heart beat loudly. “Yes, I think we can.”

He looked miserably at the tent above them, playing with the sleeping bag between his fingers. “Sometimes I think… I mean… the odds— We’re seventeen, the lot of us, and Dumbledore’s expecting us— Harry— to do all these—“

“We can trust Dumbledore.” She said. “We have to.”

“What if we can’t?” She looked down, and Ron’s eyes were steady on the tent ceiling, wide awake and full of fear. “If he’d wanted Harry to succeed— why did he leave only hints behind? Why not just say it? What if—“ He fell silent, breathed, and spoke more fiercely. “What if there’s something we don’t know?”

“Like what?” She pushed hair out of her eyes. “About the horcruxes?”

“I dunno,” He muttered. “But… doesn’t it seem to you like Dumbledore’s always been… a few steps ahead? Like he’s always… known something that we didn’t? And if he really wanted Harry to make it then— why not just say it?”

“You’ve been reading Rita Skeeter’s trash, haven’t you?” She said, becoming angry, her fear turning red. “We knew Dumbledore, the only bad thing I could think of saying about him is that he loved Harry too much—“

“I’m not saying he’s evil,” Ron retorted, fiercely. “I’m just— wondering aloud. If I had all the facts, I would make damn sure the people I sent to war knew them. All of them. And also, I wouldn’t send three seventh years to do it. It makes no sense.”

“Obviously it makes some sort of sense.”

“If there’s something we don’t know,” Ron said stubbornly, “Something we don’t know— we can’t know— the only reason Dumbledore would keep something a secret is if… if it was too terrible to—“

But he fell silent, for the tent door opened, and Harry walked through.

They pretended to be asleep. He went rummaging in his bag for a minute, and through slits in her eyelashes Hermione saw his face, set in the same grey, taut expression he always wore now, determined and fierce only to the extent that hid the fear and hopelessness beneath.

He left, and she turned back to Ron.

“I think we shouldn’t be questioning—“

“What if this doesn’t end?”

She froze, and Ron was looking at the ceiling miserably again. 

“It’ll end,” she whispered.

“What if it doesn’t? What if he lives on forever? What if there are twenty horcruxes, a hundred, what if he comes back again and again—“

“He won’t.”

“That’s what Lupin and Sirius and all of them thought,” Ron said. “They’d fought a war thinking it would end when he died— but it didn’t, and here they are, fighting it again—“

“Ron—“

“They were just kids too,” He whispered. “And they— I mean, they didn’t really get to grow up, did they? The Potters died, Sirius was locked in Azkaban… All they knew was war.”

She looked at him, and he turned his eyes to meet hers.

“What if they die?” He whispered. “What if Charlie or Bill or Ginny or… or… what if they die? And I don’t hear about it? And they’re dead and I’m laying here, doing nothing—“

“We’re doing everything,” Hermione pleaded.

“Are we? Aren’t we just wasting our time?” 

“No.” She looked back to the ceiling. “Look. I know it’s… it’s cold and dark and rainy. But don’t let it get to you, alright? This war can end, Dumbledore was good, and we can beat You Know Who.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know.”

They lay in silence.

“Because of Harry,” she said, very quietly, filling with fear. “Because Harry has that look on his face.”

She looked down, and Ron was pale and his eyes were dark.

“Yeah,” He whispered. “I know he does.”

***

Chapter Twelve: Stop

He was back in his rooms quickly, having nearly ran the way back. 

His heart was pumping, and once the door closed behind him, it did not stop. He stood rooted in place, with nowhere left to rush, his thoughts catching up to him.

For once, the dead did not bother him. What he saw now behind closed eyes was Hermione. Hermione, her brown eyes terrified. 

Terrified of him.

He felt cold, and stepped towards the hearth, reaching for his wand. But it was missing. It was with Ron. It was with Ron, because Harry couldn’t be trusted with it.

He stood uselessly in the middle of the living room.

Terrified. Of him.

Kill it.

He had never dreamed like that. Not like that. The dream, yes. He’d had it hundreds of times, in a hundred different ways— sometimes, he was a snake, slithering towards students asleep in their beds. Other times, he was himself, stuck in the mirror, watching it happening from the outside. He’d wake up cold and shivering. Grab for a vial. Sink into oblivion.

But never had he woken… but not woken. Never had he stayed in the dream. 

Stayed in the dream, controlled by the vision. Never had he been so far in it that he did not know what he was doing. That he could struggle mindlessly to get at Hermione, shaking and afraid by the wall. 

Afraid of him.

Of him.

The sun was starting to raise out the window. He would not go back to sleep. 

He closed his eyes. His hands were shaking. And what he wanted…

Was oblivion.

He shook his head. No. That was the problem, wasn’t it? The potion.

The potion.

He opened his eyes again. Walked slowly to the bedroom door, and opened it to find the vials perched innocently on his nightstand.

The potion. 

The next day, Hermione and Neville asked Harry to give them the vials.

He showed them where they were, under the bed, and they pulled them all out, one by one. 

“This is all of it?” Hermione asked, and Harry nodded. She put her hand in his, and smiled.

“This is a good thing,” She said. “And Neville will have the roots ready in a few days, so if the dreams get too bad—“

“It’s fine, Hermione. Really, I’ll be ok.”

“I wish you’d stay with us.” 

He shook his head adamantly. “No. Don’t ask me to.”

She looked crestfallen, but she followed Neville, who was levitating the box full of vials out the flat and back with them to Hogsmeade.

It took three days.

He tried to stay awake as long as he could the first night, and fell into bed, exhausted, at around three. It did not work. He woke up from three different nightmares, shaking, and was late for his first class, which he taught wandless, though the students didn’t seem to notice. He was tired throughout the rest of the day, and jumpy. But it only made him more beaten when night fell, which he thought was a good thing.

It wasn’t.

When he woke up, he wasn’t in his bed, but in the kitchen, on the floor, shaking and frozen. He stood, and tried to light the fire before remembering the wand was at Hogsmeade. So he shuffled back to bed, shivering, and tried not to fall asleep.

By the third night, he was almost too tired to fight it. The moment his head hit the pillow he was there, and the screaming did not relent. He wasn't sure if he was awake or asleep, and he curled into the smallest possible ball, wishing it would stop.

It never stops.

The next night, he locked the door before bed, and went to sleep only when he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. 

It never stops.

His hands were long fingered and white, and the wand was pale and foreign. At his feet was a masked Death Eater, gasping under the Crucio.

“Get up.”

He stood shakily, and Harry’s voice was hisses. “Take it off.”

The Death Eater shook his head. Harry raised his wand again. The man dropped to the floor, screaming.

“Take it off!”

No.

“NOW!”

No.

Enraged, Harry stepped forward, and pulled the mask off himself. As it clattered to the floor, he took a step back, stumbling, his breathe caught.

Ron looked back at him, panting. “I won’t do what you say,” He said, and Harry gaped at him. “I won’t do what you say, Harry, I won’t—“

Harry raised his wand, but his hand wasn’t white and long fingered— it was young and regular, with scars on the back, I must not tell lies. He wasn’t Voldemort, he was him, Harry, and Ron dropped to the floor with a scream of pain but Harry hadn’t cast any spells, and the wand fell to the ground—

He woke up, panting. 

Stop stop stop stop stop—

His hands were shaking over the blankets and he pulled them close. His scar was searing, and he pressed against it. He couldn’t calm his breath. He put a fist in his mouth, and bit into it, and the pain made the rest bearable.

Stop.

Stop.

Turned around. He had class first thing in the morning. He rearranged the blankets around him, forced his heart to calm. He had to get some sleep, or he won’t be able to teach it. He shut his eyes, willing for silence.

Stop.

Ginny lay broken on the floor, and her eyes were shut tightly under long red lashes, her breathing gasps. She had been injured opposing him, he knew, fighting against his forces. Her hands lay outstretched to her sides, like she had lain in the Chamber when they were children, but that was such a long time ago, when he’d thought he could save the world.

She opened her eyes, looked at him, and they were green.

“You were supposed to be better,” Lily said, her voice hollow. “We didn’t die for this.”

He was on the floor.

Under the bed, he saw an empty vail, uncorked and abandoned. It took him a long time to force his gaze away from it.

Groaned.

Dragged himself up, his muscles tingling. 

He fell on the bed, dug his head into the pillow, and breathed. It was cold. He felt oddly calm. The cloth on his forehead was comforting.

Come on.

Come on.

He needed to sleep. He had responsibilities. He needed to be able to function…

But.

No but.

But.

He was in a graveyard, and the dead were laying on top of the earth, sill and motionless. 

Harry was crying.

His head was in his hands and he was rocking back and forth, each sob breaking him. They were dead. They were dead, and it was his fault they were— he knew this with complete certainty, without a glimmer of doubt or hope. He couldn’t look at them. He couldn’t bear their empty eyes. 

Someone grabbed him from behind, pulling his hands away from his face, and now he stared at them, rows and rows of them, through his tears.

“You killed them,” a voice said, and he didn’t recognize it. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, the rest of the Weasleys, students, teachers, they were all there, staring at the sky. “You killed them.”

“No—”

“You killed them.”

He fought. He couldn't bear it, but the hands held him firmly and forced his eyes open, so that he couldn’t look away. He fought and sobbed and screamed. The tears were like a screen that only amplified the sights, and Ron’s neck was snapped, Hermione’s lips were still bleeding, and Ginny…. Ginny—

Harry opened his eyes with tears streaming down his face, his throat raw, shaking.

She’s dead.

Ginny. Ginny was dead. He was sobbing into the pillow. Her body was small in his arms, and broken, beyond repair, he’d killed her, she was dead because of him, he’d never hear her laugh again…

She’s dead.

He stumbled off the bed, blindly reaching for his glasses. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He needed the potion. He couldn’t bear this. 

She’s dead.

He fell next to his trunk, ravaged through it. Just a swallow and he could fall into oblivion. He found a bottle, the first he’d bought, the one he’d never finished, and brought it to his lips, gulping. It felt cool in his burning throat. One swallow, two, three. To make sure. 

She’s dead. Make it stop. She’s dead. I can’t. She’s dead.

He took the bottle with him when he stumbled into bed, but as soon as he closed his eyes he knew it hadn’t worked.

Teddy Lupin looked like his father, with his mother’s eyes, and he stood at the Shrieking Shack, tears in them, his wand pointing at Harry.

“You’re going to kill me, Teddy?” Harry asked, quietly, and tears filled his own. Teddy lowered his wand, Tonk’s eyes hesitant, but Harry reached for him, and held it steady.

“Do it.” 

On the floor, his head searing open, his scar like a brand of fire, and he couldn’t stop shaking. Stop stop stop stop. Please stop. Stop.

He grabbed for the bottle, and swallowed. Dreamless. Work. Dreamless, work damn it, work—

He was in the shed at the barrow, and George was pointing a wand at him.

“Give it to me!”

“I can’t, I’m sorry—“

“GIVE IT TO ME!”

“George—“

“GIVE ME MY BROTHER!”

He cast a spell, and Harry blocked it mindlessly, stupidly, and it bounced back— George smiled as it hit him, and he crumbled to the floor—

Harry woke up, grabbed the bottle, gulped—

STOP STOP STOP—

KILL IT—

SHE’S DEADEADEADEAD—

BUTBUTBUTBUTUBT—

STOP—

He wasn’t sure whether or not he was asleep, and people where yelling at him, betrayed, he’d done something terrible but he didn’t know what, all he could do was cry, and gulp, and spells shot out of the tip of a white wand and eyes were empty and her hair was wet with blood and the castle was in shatters, and Lord Voldemort laughed out of a mirror, and the world was cold and he gulped and gulped and gulped—

Finally, black.

***

As they made their way to the castle, thoughts whirled around in Ron’s head.

“Kill it,” Harry had said, his eyes popping, mad. “Kill it, finish it, please, kill it.”

He ran the words over in his head, and they made him cold. It’s been three days, and Harry was fine now, he knew, he looked as always in class, maybe tired, but fine. Maybe the mistake was waking him up in the middle. Maybe if they let him sleep, he’d get through it, and wake up like his regular self.

But Harry wasn’t even a little like himself these days.

They shuffled into class, and Ron felt colder still. Something was wrong. He glanced at his watch, and up again. Harry was never late for class.

He glanced over at Hermione, who was also frowning, rubbing her hands together. Their eyes met. Five more minutes.

He chatted with one of the Ravenclaws, who was going over an essay he’d written for Slughorn. It was funny what people found important. Ginny was trying to catch his eye. Keep me away from her. Ron shook his head, pointed at himself, got a curt nod from Hermione and went to the office door, trying to keep dread from overcoming him.

The office was empty. He crossed it quickly, found the door to the flat locked, and tapped at it with his wand. It opened easily. He walked in, hesitant. 

“Harry, you’re late,” He called, but there was no answer. His mouth was dry. He walked quickly to the bedroom door, only to find it locked as well.

Why would Harry lock the door to the bedroom?

“Harry?”

He tapped it with the wand, and it swung open powerfully, and Ron was through it before it came to a stop. He looked around wildly. The bed was empty. Where—

He saw a foot, and rushed forward, stumbling, and Harry was laying cold and still on the floor, his eyes closed, his night clothes a tangle around him. Ron called out for help, and fell on his knees next to the body, feeling for a pulse. For a minute he couldn’t find one, and his heart beat against his chest, and he screamed out for help and heard them running in, but there was no pulse, there was no—

He found it, weak and slow, and breathed again.

“Harry, I’ll kill you,” He spat, and Hermione was next to him, her face white, and Neville was already pulling herbs out of his bag.

“What happened?” Ginny demanded, from the door, and Ron looked around wildly. There was a bottle under the bed, empty, and he picked it up, feeling sick.

“Was he hiding it?”

“Hermione, we need to get him to—“

“Throw up, I know—“

They turned him to his side, and Hermione pulled out her wand, muttered an incantation. For a minute nothing happened, and she cast it again, and then Harry’s still body moved, convulsing under the spell, and Hermione vanished everything that spewed out of his mouth, and he was shaking, and cold, but at least he was moving—

“Take it,” Neville said, passing Ron a bottle, into which he started pouring herbs. Ron’s other hand was on Harry’s forehead, and he held him as best he could as he shook and vomited. Neville had finished whatever it was he was making, and took the bottle from Ron’s hand to shake it quickly in his, and then forced Harry’s clenched jaw open to pour it down his throat.

Harry moaned, and Ron held him as he thrashed, trying to keep his hands away from the others, and green eyes opened to look at him unseeing, and Ron was ready to yell, he was so furious, and the bottle was empty under the bed—

“Stop dying,” Harry sobbed, and the shaking continued. “Stop, please, stop dying…”

“Harry, wake up!”

But he didn’t. He stared and cried, and Ron held him tighter, and Neville was white and breathless and Hermione’s hands were on her mouth.

“Please,” He was begging, and Ron couldn’t listen to it, he’d never heard Harry beg for anything— “Please, stop, stop, come back, stop, don’t… don’t leave—”

“I’m not leaving,” He said, but Harry couldn’t hear him. “Harry, it’s Ron, I’m here, I’m not leaving—”

“…Stop dying… Just stop dying… Stop…”

“Harry, I’m not dead,” Ron said, but Harry didn’t believe him, and he lay staring at the ceiling with tears streaming down his eyes, shaking and pleading. “I’m here. I’m not dead. Wake up.”

But he wouldn’t. Neville put another bag to his face, but it didn’t work, and Neville didn’t seem to expect it to.

“Let’s get him on the bed,” He said stiffly, and helped Ron carry him. They covered him with blankets, but by this point he was shaking so badly he nearly fell back on the floor, and Ron got into the bed and held him firmly, but Harry couldn’t tell.

“We need to give him something,” He said emptily, but Hermione was shaking her head.

“No. We can’t. There are too many potions inside.”

“Madam Pomfrey, then,” Ron whispered, and Harry begged him to kill him, and he tried not to hear him but he wouldn’t stop, and now Hermione was crying too and Neville put his hand on Ron’s shoulder.

“We’ll call her here,” He said, glancing at Ginny, who was pale. “Hermione, you should tell McGonagall.”

She nodded. She squeezed Ron’s hand and they left, and Ron sat on the bed with Harry in his arms sobbing over people who weren’t dead, and Ron told him so, but he couldn’t hear him.

“I’m here. Harry, I’m not dead. I’m here. Wake up. I’m here.”

He’d fall asleep, and wake up almost immediately from something worse. 

They’d cancelled his classes and didn’t leave his side. Madam Pomfrey had nothing to give them, and McGonagall spoke with Hermione for a long time.

Neville threw the bottle into the garbage, too forcefully, and it shattered, to no one's heed. Ginny wouldn’t leave, so they sat in silence in the bedroom, listening to him pleading with them.

They took their turns leaving, getting fresh air, but Ron stayed on the bed, holding, whispering, comforting. He couldn’t leave him. Not like this. Not when his greatest fear was that he would.

Sometimes in the afternoon the shaking stopped, and Harry fell into a fitful sleep, out of which Ron didn’t dare wake him.

“How are the roots?” Hermione asked.

“I’ll make them ready,” Neville replied grimly.

They’d scrounged the flat in search of more potion, but none of them thought Harry’d have hidden any of it away. Hermione went over to their flat, took the box of vials and spilt them all into the sink. They’s made a bed in Ron’s room, and moved some of Harry’s cloths into a drawer there. They’d argue with him when he woke up.

Just wake up.

“Ron, you need to eat something.”

He looked up, and Hermione’s eyes were tired and bloodshot. He shook his head.

“He’s not shaking anymore. You have to get up, you must be starving.”

He swallowed, and sighed. Harry was motionless in his arms, but his skin was warm to the touch. He pulled his arms from around him, and made it to the floor. His whole body ached, and as he looked at Harry on the bed, his stomach lurched.

“This is our fault,” He said, and Hermione flinched like he’d slapped her. “After the battle… I didn’t  notice, I thought—“

“Me too.”

They stood silent over him, and Hermione took Ron’s hand in hers.

“Come on. There’s food.”

He managed a few bites when they heard moaning again.

They ran to the room, but Ginny was there, holding him, and wouldn’t move. Harry’s eyes were open again, but not unseeing, and when he saw them he seemed to know they were there.

“Harry? Harry!”

He shut his eyes painfully and shook his head. Ron put his arms on his shoulder, and Harry’s eyes opened, and he looked at him. 

“I’m not leaving,” Ron said, right to him, and Harry’s eyes flashed.

“Everyone’s left,” He replied, and his voice was hoarse. Ron shook his head.

“We haven’t,” He said, adamantly, but Harry’s eyes were closed again. “Harry— Harry!”

But it was too late. The shaking started again, and more vomiting, and soon the begging began, and he couldn’t hear it, he couldn’t bear to hear anymore—

But he couldn't leave. He’d promised. He couldn’t leave.

They stayed there through the night, listening.

Chapter Text

Soon

“Hermione?”

She looked down, not surprised, and Ron’s eyes met hers familiarly from the sleeping bag on the floor, blue and uncertain.

“Something’s different,” He whispered, and she looked at him steadily, biting her lower lip.

“What do you mean?”

“Harry. He’s different.”

She looked up at the tent above her. Harry was keeping watch outside, perhaps at this moment watching the waves hit the beach, deep in his dark thoughts.

“A lot has happened,” She said. “Since… you left.”

And she told him, of Harry asking, timidly, for the hundredth time, to see the house where his parents died. Of the flash in his eyes when she finally agreed, of the way his arm tensed in hers as they stood by the ruins…

“You saw the graves?”

“Yes,” She shivered. “They’re… really beautiful. And I’ve never… Did you realize they were twenty-one?” She muttered miserably. “The Potters? Sirius when he went to Azkaban? They were four years older than we are right now.”

“Yeah,” Ron whispered back. “I heard my parents talking about it once when Harry was staying over. Said they were just kids.”

“They were,” Hermione said softly. 

“What did Harry say?”

She wiped her eyes, closed them, breathed. “Nothing really,” She replied. “He…” 

And she fell silent, remembering the silent tears sliding, unhindered, remembering the horrible expression on her best friend’s face, the way all his shields had collapsed around him, the way he seemed, suddenly, not like the Chosen One, prophesied to kill a Dark Lord, but like a seventeen year old, who has never met his parents, who was so lost and lonely in a quest thrust upon him before his birth…

“He’s so miserable, Ron,” She said then, her voice choked. “God, he’s so miserable—“

“I know,” He replied quietly. “I—“

“He hates this,” She continued, and her tears were warm on her cheeks, sinking into the pillow beneath her. “I know you’ve… you’ve always thought… But God, he hates it, all of it, the prophecy and the quest and the fighting— and he’s got— you know how he’s got that expression, where you can’t… you can’t see what he’s thinking? Well he uses it all the time now— all the time— all the time— and I know his scar hurts but he won’t say anything— and God— he hates  it—“

“I know,” He said again. “But it will be over soon.”

She dug her face into the cloth. “Will it?”

“Yes,” He said forcefully. “Real soon. Can’t you feel it?”

She looked down at him, and his expression was set and determined. 

“We’re heading towards the end,” He said confidently. “One way or another. It’ll be over.”

She fell silent, watching his blue eyes shine in the soft moonlight coming in through the flap in the tent.

“We’ll be alright after,” He added, so quiet it was hardly heard over the wind outside. “All of us. You’ll see. Go and finish out NEWTs… We’ll get accepted to Auror training, help round up the last of the Death Eaters, but they’ll already be on the run by then. Ginny’ll smack some sense into Harry and they’ll get together again… And that expression he’s got?” Her tears slid silently. “It’ll be gone forever. And all that’ll be left is happiness and laughter and family.”

“He’d like that,” She whispered.

“Soon,” He said quietly. “Real soon. I can feel it.”

They fell silent, and outside, the wind continued to howl, the trees swayed, the waves hit upon the shore, and she could imagine Harry sitting outside of the tent, holding the blackthorn wand and staring emptily out towards the water, his green eyes matted, his head too full of dark thoughts.

***

Chapter Thirteen: Difference

The following day, a Saturday, Ron woke up to find two emerald eyes staring at the ceiling in exhaustion.

“Harry?” He whispered, and they moved to him, and Harry’s mouth twisted into a grimace.

“Thought I told you to keep her away,” He said, coarsely, and Ron rose so that he could see him better, breaking out of Hermione’s arms.

“She’s stubborn,” He said, to say something, and tried to compose his face.

Ginny was fast asleep, and Harry lay next to her, still shivering every few moments, as though a phantom passed through him. He was pale, his hair sticking to his forehead, and he breathed heavily, as if he’d forgotten how to breathe any other way.

“Why did you drink it?” Ron asked, his anger back, deflated. 

Harry looked at the ceiling again.

“I wanted it to stop.”

He didn’t put up a fight when they told him he was moving, and chewed obediently on the root Neville’s given him. 

“It’s less powerful,” Neville warned. “Might not work completely the first few nights. But as the DSP leaves your system, it’ll start working better.”

Harry nodded, wordless. Neville put a hand on his shoulder. Harry smiled an empty smile. 

“I’m giving you one dose at a time,” He added, and Harry had no protests. “You can come day and night if you need more, but I’ll be giving them to you, ok?”

Harry nodded. Neville didn’t smile.

The first night Ron tried not to wake him up, wondering if it would be better, but it wasn’t. When he finally couldn’t take it anymore, Harry woke up unable to speak, and even afterwords wouldn’t tell them what he’d seen.

He used his wand during the day, but at night Ron locked it in his own trunk, just to be safe. The dreams were constant and brutal, and Ron felt like he only woke for some of them, because often he found Harry staring miserably at the ceiling, shaking his head when questioned. 

He found him staring miserably often. He was jumpy, skittish, flinching at the softest of sounds. He’d look around searchingly every time a wind blew through the curtains, and then back away quickly, paling. When they left him alone too long, he’d get a far, detached look on his face, and it would take Ron’s hand on his shoulder to make him flinch back to the present.

They tried to help. Hermione prepared long lectures about the side effects of DSP, about muggle studies she’d read up on regarding addiction, and about the benefits of speaking to professionals. Harry would sit rigidly and nod numbly until she stopped, and she would bite her lips, looking frightened. Neville tried to come over often, and when he did he’d have long lists of questions about the effects of the roots, Harry’s sleeping patterns, and the quality of his dreams. Harry would answer shortly, staring at the table, sometimes forgetting to steady the tremblings of his hands. Seamus and Dean came as well, but usually fell silent after a few timid attempts to speak about Voldemort. They did this at least twice a week, despite the fact that Ron told them they didn’t have to. “We grew up with him, too,” Seamus said with a stubborn look on his face at one such occasion. “What, you’re the only ones who get to care?”

They tried to talk to him about the dead a few more times. But whenever they did, Harry’d shut down, his eyes becoming foggy, and afterwards they couldn’t get him to talk to them again for long minutes, his mind locked on other things. Finally, they decided  they just won’t bring it up again. At least not until Harry did.

Ron did not forget Harry’s request, and tried his best to keep Ginny out of the flat.

“I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work,” She told him over lunch one day, her fierce eyes glaring at him in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of their mother.

“Doing? I’m eating,” He tried feebly, and Ginny’s eyes slimmed into the smallest of slits.

“I care about Harry,” She said, her voice strained. “I care about him just as much as you and Hermione, and you can’t decide for me if I—“

“Ginny—“

“You don’t get to make my decisions for me, Ron!”

“I haven’t—“

“I don’t know what it is you guys think you’re doing, but it’s not working— it’s only getting worse— you can’t keep me out of things, you can’t make me—“

“Gin, would you slow down a minute?” Ron said hissingly, grabbing hold of her flailing wrist. People along the Gryffindor table were looking with interest, Harry’s students, their eyes large and intent. Ginny swallowed, quieting. “Look. We’re not… we don’t know what we’re doing. We’re just trying to be helpful. And Harry… he doesn’t want you there.”

Her eyes widened. He could tell she was hurt.

“I don’t think it’s personal,” He said quickly. “That is— of course it’s personal. But not in a bad way. Just in a… I think…” Ginny pushed hair out of her eyes.  “I wouldn’t want Hermione to see me like that,” Ron said very softly. “You know?”

“But…”

“Just give it a little while,” He squeezed her hand. “It’s Harry. He’ll be alright. He always is.”

He could feel her eyes at the back of his neck as he walked out of the Great Hall.

He’ll be alright.

He’s gotta be.

Harry had not seen this coming.

Had not thought the small, purple little bottles were a real concern. Did not guess the very thing that kept his dreams at bay contained within it the worst of nightmares. If he’d known this would happen, he wouldn’t have started using them to begin with.

Yes you would have.

Ok. Yes. He would.

He had spent grey months after the battle battling ghosts and whispers and pains in his scar, and the little purple vials had been the craved solution. They made breathing bearable. Now, without them, he couldn’t keep the dead away.

Sometimes he would find himself just sitting in Ron and Hermione’s kitchen, incapable of working or eating or speaking or thinking of anything, other than the images that were awaiting him come night. He would sit and shiver and try to keep his mind clear only to fail miserably, because he did want to dream these images, did not want to hear those scenes. He would sit with his hands shaking and sweat tickling down his brow, his breathe hitched and his eyes too wide, staring at the tabletop. He would sit until Ron’s shadow would block the light, until his odd, cheery, hysteric voice would fill in the silence.

They tried to be convincing. Ron had a suggestive, encouraging tone. You know? Right? Yeah? He’d speak of how terrible the potion was, and how better off Harry was without it. Harry would nod mutely and try to smile, but this only made Ron more nervous. Hermione would pull out books about addiction and read him extracts in a self important tone, glancing up hesitantly to see if he listened. And Harry would close his eyes miserably and wish they’d stop.

He’d grown accustomed to the taste of vomit. It always happened at night, when he’d used to take the potion, a fact Hermione had a complex explanation for, which Harry only pretended to listen to. He'd sit in the bathroom floor and stare at the bottom of the sink. Whenever he looked in the mirror, his father’s disappointment would look back.

And the food. The food. All the time, unrelenting, their eyes careful, their gestures timid, pushing back plates and watching nervously as he swallowed. And it tasted like vomit, and it felt like vomit down his throat, and he’d throw it all up later anyway. He kept getting dizzy in class, losing track of conversations, and began writing out lesson plans word to word, and giving the lessons while sitting. Confused eyes would meet him from the desks, and worried students asked if he was all right after classes. He had his spells up, and he’d laugh and calm them. Then at night he’d think about their relief with his head in the toilet and his robes covered in barf.

One night, he was sitting at the kitchen counter, staring at a pile of ungraded essays, unable to read them.

Unable. Useless. Because soon, he’ll have to go to sleep again. Soon it will be night. And Hermione will stand stoically outside the bathroom and ask if he needs help flushing the vomit down the drain. And Ron will look at him as though he was insane when he’ll wake him up from a nightmare, and ask him questions Harry did not want to answer. And all he wanted — all he wanted — was just a few minutes of clarity. Just a few minutes of blank nothingness, of no screaming and no ghosts, of oblivion, of an end to this horrible game, and end to their staring and their horror and their disappointment and their fear.

They wanted to be helpful. He knew that. He knew that. But more often than not, he wished they’d stay away. He hated them looking at him, hated their whispering behind his back. Hated the insistent righteousness. Hated the feeling of I told you so. Hated them standing on the other side of the bathroom door.

“I looked it up. And there’s such a thing as a wizard psychologist.”

He closed his eyes, but Hermione braved on.

“Someone to talk to,” She said with her voice overly breezy, damn near whimsical. “About… the battle. About… Lupi-“

She stopped abruptly, and Harry didn’t open his eyes. He could hear her sharp breaths, imagine her staring at him.

“Harry?”

It was too much.

It was. They were asking too much.

Just go away.

“Harry?”

Just go away. 

Ginny spent every Defense lesson looking for clues.

At first it was just an immediate, shocking, frightening worsening. Harry had gone from occasional jumpiness and scattered thoughts to stuttering, shaking, and mumbling his way thorough most lessons, often losing his line of thought and staring confusedly into space. She could see him trying: swallowing, chuckling, layering on his spells thicker and thicker. He gave more independent work, and made slow rounds through them as they practiced, his corrections softly spoken and stubbornly accurate. His hair was untidy as ever, his eyes vibrant and green, his motions easy and relaxed; but she could always see the spells shimmering most clearly when he stood before them and tried to stay present, and not get lost in his thoughts.

She questioned her brother, who had given up trying to tell her to let it go. But neither Ron nor any of the others had much to say other than the often strained, always uncertain mutters: give it time. And meanwhile, Harry continued with his curriculum, adamant at handing back perfectly graded essays and staying late to answer questions after every class.

And she hated it. Being out of the loop. Getting her information second hand, from Hannah and Neville, or from investigations in class. But whenever she scourged up the courage to step forward, Ron’s warning gaze would push her back. 

And she was afraid. Afraid, that it wasn’t working. Afraid that something bad would happen, her mind always wondering to that night spent in his flat.

And what made it unbearable was the difference.

Because if she closed her eyes…

If she closed her eyes, she could smell summer grass and tendrils of wind on her face. If she closed her eyes, she could hear a shy chuckle transformed into a bellowing roar of exploding laughter. If she closed her eyes, she could see vibrant greens looking back at her over a background of cloudless blue, full of mirth and excitement, uncertain hands exploring, timid lips tasting.

If she closed her eyes… she could almost imagine him when he loved her, such a long time ago, before the war.

Long conversations into the night. Large warm hands holding hers in the corridor. Pushing his untidy hair out of his eyes. Getting him to stop being shy about kissing her.

Kissing Harry was better than kissing anyone she’d ever kissed. It wasn’t that he was any good at it— she had been his first real kiss. But his uncertainty and his excitement somehow made it more special. Every time he kissed her, he was surprised. And she would laugh and kiss him harder. And he would be further surprised by this, as if stunned to find her loving him. And he would kiss her back, so deeply it was exhilarating. 

And now he wouldn’t even glance at her.

She couldn’t remember the sound of his laughter.

She couldn’t remember the taste of his lips.

And the truth was, that she wasn’t only afraid for him.

She was also unexplainably, selfishly, undeniably angry.

Harry was having a hard time with his ghosts. 

They followed him everywhere. In class, in the corridors, while he walked back to Hogwarts, while he waited to fall asleep. There was a great big mob of them: not just one or two but them all, just outside his field of vision, shuffling together in a great big mass of death. He tried not to notice them. It was easier when other people were talking to him about small things. But when he was alone, between classes, or while Ron and Hermione argued whisperedly amongst themselves, or after everyone’s gone to sleep— he could once again hear them screaming, sobbing, afraid and accusatory.

He tired to ignore them.

He tried the best he could.

The first Hogsmeade weekend of the year came along at the end of October, towards Halloween. The others tried to persuade him to join them for a day of shopping and snacking among the crowded streets, but he refused outright. They left with Ginny and the rest of their year to explore the town in all its glory. Harry stayed behind, a pile of essays before him, hoping to finish writing the lesson plans of the classes up to Christmas at least. 

He knew they were there. The ghosts. Sitting in the living room sofas, just waiting for the others to make their leave.

The door closed. Harry squinted stubbornly at his parchment, laid out on top of the counter in the middle of the kitchen. He could hear movements behind him. He could hear someone breathing.

But he ignored this, and dipped his quill into the red ink, keeping his breath even. The first essay belonged to Sam Lory, a fourth year muggle born, whose eyes shone whenever she tried magic, but became glassy whenever bookwork was mentioned. Her handwriting was small and neat, but the words slipped out of Harry’s consciousness, and he read the first line six times before it registered as a title and a name.

They were staring.

He ignored them.

He tried.

The ink had dried. He dipped the quill again, and his fingers were shaking. He strained to make sure the ink didn’t drip on the parchment, staining her work.

Behind him, the ghosts were getting closer.

But they weren’t. Because they weren’t real.

There was no one there.

There was no one there.

He read squintingly, his free hand in his hair, pulling.

CRASH.

Harry jumped to his feet, reaching for the wand Ron had taken away, heart beating at his throat. Crookshankes looked back, his yellow eyes studying him contemplatively, his large bushy tail swinging back and forth in a slow, meaningful pattern. He was standing on the windowsill, a pot broken on the floor beneath him.

Harry stopped groping through his pockets.

He swallowed and moved forward, picking the pot up. Crockshnakes was watching him. He attempted to repair the pieces wandlessly— sometimes that worked— but not today. Today, his heart felt like it was trying to punch its way through him. Its beats were deafening and his blood rushed through his veins too fast. He felt dizzy. He placed the broken pieces on the tea table, found a broom, collected the dropped earth and Neville’s plant, and placed them all in a large bowl for Hermione to repair later.

Crokshanke was still staring at him.

He turned his back to him and walked back to the counter. The ink had fallen at his sharp movements, and was dripping steadily onto the floor. It covered Sam Lory’s essay so that he couldn’t see any of her small, neat lines. He couldn’t fix it without his wand.

He picked the ink well up, feeling oddly constricted. If he had a wand, perhaps he could vanish the ink, and see the essay beneath. But Hermione and Ron wouldn’t be back for hours, and by then, the essay would be irretrievable. Sam Lory, who hated research and reading, who had gone to all this effort to write this essay for him, had done so in vain. He would never read it.

He swallowed and got a rag to mop the spilt ink off the rest of the counter. His movements were angry, and he felt his body tense and edgy. There was someone watching him, but he was not sure if it was Crockshnakes, or the ghosts.

He turned. Crockshnakes. Harry gave him a nasty glare.

He rinsed the rag in the sink, and then returned to mop up the ink that’s spilled onto the tiles. On all fours, his anger turned into something else. His hands were covered in red ink, under the fingernails, and he told himself it was not blood. 

Last night he had had a dream about blood.

It had been all over the place. In the dream, he had been drinking it, like a vampire. Only he hadn’t been a vampire, but a snake, his fangs sunk deep into someone’s forearm, and he drunk the blood like mother’s milk, warm and thick and satisfying.

STOP.

His fingers were shaking again and he went to rinse the rag a second time, ending up with his hands under the water for over three minutes, being scrubbed compulsively until there was not a single drop of blood left on them.

It’s not blood. It’s ink. It’s ink.

He returned to the tiles. Ran the rag over the legs, which were also spluttered, and then finished up the floor. Ghosts were staring. He could hear them whispering. In his head, a snake was sucking the life out of Arthur Weasley. He was deafened by the sounds: hissing, slurping, cries of pain. He knew someone was standing over him, as he sat on the floor, knew a shadow was stretched above, angry eyes staring down, fury mounting, knew he deserves it, he’s done it, it was his fault—

Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop—

The ink has spread beneath the counter, and Harry lowered until he was laying on his stomach, squinting through the gap between the wood and the floor, wiping the last of it away. Maybe this way,  the ghosts will not find him.

But they will. Of course they will. They always found him. He would never get away.

Then, he saw it.

A small, triangular, purple little vial.

A vial. 

A vial.

It was in his hand, glistening and innocent, before he remembered deciding to pick it up. He sat on the floor under the counter, his hands covered in blood again, the rag in his fingers soaked in it, and behind him the mob of the dead had grown oddly silent.

And silence was so blessed.

Silence was so good.

Just a little bit of silence— Just a little break from the yelling, from the whispering, from the sobbing and the stares…

Just oblivion.

Just this once.

It was not a decision.

It was never a decision.

He emptied it before he could think why not.

At first it worked.

He had time to put the essays away and close the bedroom door behind him. He had time to lay gingerly on the bed, his ears ringing with things Ron and Hermione would say.

But they didn’t know. They didn’t know.

And then: familiar numbness, starting as always at the tips of his fingers, the edge of his mind, the end of his breath.

It spread slowly, and it was wonderful. Wonderful. And wherever it went, there was calm and certainty. The ghosts dispersed. So did colors and noises and tastes. Nothing. Nothing.

Nothing was good.  

He closed his eyes, and his mind was submerged. Soon, soon he’ll fall asleep: hours and hours of nothing. Hours and hours of freedom.

Yes. Yes.

At first, it worked. 

Then, it did’t.

The spreading numbness caught fire. It spread faster and faster, burning, through his fingers and his toes, up his arms and legs, and soon it would encompass him, everywhere, everywhere, fire—

Fire—

But it was not fire. It was that feeling.

It was that feeling.

The opposite of numbness.

The opposite of oblivion. 

That. That, everywhere, a hundred times stronger than ever before. Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop STOP—

He was on the floor, groping blindly, but there were no more vials, and the burning had spread to his chest, and his head was pounding, and his scar was searing—

Searing—

Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop—

He was huddled into a corner, shaking and burning, and the world was aflame. His knees were jammed into his chest, his hands pulling at his hair, his glasses missing. He was in a closet. A cupboard under the stairs. No, a closet, a closet in Ron’s room, and it was small and comforting but his scar was burning burning burning stop stop stop stop stop—

It was dark and the dead were screaming out of the shadows, and Harry’s face was wet and his breaths were loud and thunderous and he asked them to stop but they couldn’t, they couldn’t. They couldn’t, and it was his fault they couldn’t, because they were dead, and it was his fault they were dead—

Stop— stop—

Please, please stop—

A hand over his, prying his fingers off his scar.

It was Sirius.

And it was odd, it being Sirius. It was not the Sirius that usually came, the young man from his parents’s wedding photos. It was his Sirius. His. He’d come. He was here.

You’re here.

His eyes were dark grey and non accusatory. His hands were large and warm and they held Harry up, as if he was a child, keeping him from falling.

“I did what he wanted,” Harry told him, and talking made sense of things, and the yelling was growing dimmer. “I did what he wanted. I did it, I did it.”

“I know,” Sirius said, but not with his mouth. His words reverberated inside of Harry, banishing the flames. He could almost see Dumbledore behind him, standing powerfully between the coats, his blue eyes sharp behind half-moon spectacles. 

“I did what he wanted,” Harry said again, and he was crying, but Sirius just held him tighter, fingers strong over his shoulders, looking right at him, grey eyes deep. “I finished it. I finished him. Voldemort. I did what he wanted.”

“I know.”

“So what difference does it make?” Harry asked him, and his voice was small, a little boy in the cupboard. Dumbledore’s eyes flashed. “What difference does it make, what happens now? I did it. He’s dead. It’s finished. I did it.”

Sirius looked at him, and Sirius understood, like Harry knew he would. He understood the fire and he understood the ice. He understood the whispers and he understood the silence. He understood.

“What does it matter, now, what happens to me?” Harry said, and Sirius’s grey eyes were full of acceptance. “What difference does it make? I did what he wanted. I finished it. He doesn't need me anymore. So what difference does it make if I—“

There was a loud CRASH. Harry jumped, flinching. Dumbledore vanished. Sirius had banged his hand powerfully over the closet door, so loud the wood reverberated with the force all around them. He banged it like he was furious, like he was desperate, like he was running out of options, taking out his frustration on the wooden plank. Like he would have liked to bang his hand against Harry, instead, but couldn’t bear to, and changed direction in the last second. The noise rang in Harry’s ears, and he looked up again, following the arm up to the shoulder and then to Sirius’s face.

But it was not Sirius, it was Ron, and he was crying.

“It makes a difference to me, you bloody git,” He choked, and Harry gaped at him, stunned, disoriented. “It makes a difference to me what happens to you, it makes a difference to me if you live or die, it makes a difference to me if you’re you or a shadow, it makes a DIFFERENCE TO ME, YOU GET THAT? IT MAKES A BLOODY FUCKING DIFFERENCE!”

Harry said nothing, and Ron’s eyes were blue and fierce and full of tears. Harry had not looked at them in months, and now he couldn't stop. Ron’s arms were on his shoulders, holding him up. Ron’s tears fell onto his robes, mixing with the red ink. Ron’s stare bore into him, angry and weak and pleading and hopeless. Ron. Ron.

He pulled him up and Harry stood swaying in the closet, his breaths caught inside him, his mind numb and burning and confused. He thought he was falling but Ron held him steady. Then they were in the bathroom, and he knew this because the lights were brighter, and there was water on his face, cool, and the burning went away.

He was propped up with his back to the tub, hands useless at his sides, and Ron lowered over him, holding a wet towel, wiping his own eyes.

“It makes a difference to me,” He said again, in a whisper.

Harry wondered if he really had said that or if it was just another one of the whispers that were again crowding inside his mind. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen: Conflict

Today 

They managed to destroy the horcrux.

Hermione, sitting up with her wand half raised with a spell at her lips looked up at Ron, panting, and he looked back, his face white as a sheet and his blue eyes enormous.

“Blimey,” He said, appropriately, and she giggled helplessly and let herself fall back so she lay on the cold stone, her laughter echoing in the vast Chamber, not minding the smell of sewage or sweat or death.

Ron was almost grinning as he came towards her, collapsing at her side, still breathless.

“You’ve got something on your nose,” She told him, and he wiped at it absentmindedly.

For the first time in weeks, her heart was light. They had vanquished another part of his soul. Soon, it would all be over.

“Still there,” She said, turning back to Ron, but when she looked at his eyes he was no longer smiling.

“It’s going to happen today,” He said, his gaze on the basilisk’s skeleton, large and weathered on the floor around them.

“What?”

“Harry,” He said, “And… Voldemort.”

He shuddered, but not just because of the name. The sounds of their breathes filled the Chamber thunderingly, and the same fear gripped her that did every time she thought of it.

“Prophecies don’t have to come true,” She whispered. “Might be someone else who’ll— who’ll finish it.”

“This one will come true,” Ron said, blankly, and she looked at his face again, to see his eyes darker than she’s ever seen them.

And then they turned to her, and she was unprepared for the fullness of them. He was taut with withheld fury, his hands clenched in his sides, his eyes screaming, but his voice was weak.

“I just want…” He breathed. “I just want him to play Quidditch,” He said. His eyes were on hers, filling her completely. “I just want him to marry Ginny and play Quidditch.”

She nodded, her heart flattering in her chest, her mind a buzz, her body cold. 

And while a war raged on over their heads, destroying the castle where they grew up together, she lay on the wet floor of a hidden Chamber next to the skeleton of a basilisk and the boy she loved and thought of Harry, with a Snitch in his hand, grinning at her from a broomstick, free of dark thoughts or pain or fear or his terrifying, absolute determination. 

“Yes,” She said, and Ron breathed again, a shuddering sort of breathe. “Me too.”

***

“I need an extra of the root.”

Neville seemed confused. He stood with his mouth hanging open, arms still heavy with Hogsmeade merchandise, half way into his flat.

“Extra? I thought we said we’ll lower the dosage.”

Ron kept his face impassive. “Yeah. I know we did. I need an extra, Nev.”

Neville must have seen something on his face, because he placed the shopping bags on the floor and went wordlessly into the pantry, returning with a small brown bag.

“He’ll get really groggy,” He warned, and Ron nodded mutely and placed the bag in his inner pocket. “Need help?”

He hesitated, and then shook his head. “I think it should be me. Right now. Thanks, Nev.”

He went down the stairs slowly, counting the eyes in the wood.

Hermione and Ginny were both still at the Three Broomsticks. He’d gone back with Neville and Hannah early, mainly to check on Harry, truly to get away from the younger students who were staring at them, sometimes asking timidly for stories about the war. The students were young and bright eyed and eager for adventure. Sometimes, Ron understood why Harry had left that summer to be on his own. 

When Ron had arrived at the apartment, Harry’s essays were spluttered with red, abandoned on the counter. Crookshanks had been standing by the closed bedroom door, giving him a piercing yellow-eyed look.

He’d meowed.

And Ron knew.

Now, he shivered at the memory.

He was fingering the root in his pocket as he reached their apartment once more, and walked in. He found Harry where he’d left him, sitting in the living room staring at the table. He was white and shook, as though he was ill. Ron thought he was ill. He briefly considered flooing his mother about getting a fever to lower, but decided against it. He also didn’t want to get Madam Pomfrey involved. More than anything, he wanted for tomorrow to be a new, better day.

He leaned down in front of him, getting into his line of vision. Harry didn’t call him Sirius again, nor did he really call him anything. He seemed grey. Ron poured the powder in the bag into a glass of steaming water and passed it to him. It was late afternoon, but he figured extra sleep would be beneficial at this point.

Harry took the offered glass and drank it automatically. The few minutes when their eyes had met in the closet were long gone now, and his eyes fleeted away from Ron’s. When he finished drinking, he placed the glass on the tea table, off of which it slipped off, tumbling onto the carpet. Ron picked it up. He placed it on the table. Harry watched him do it wordlessly.

“You wanna go to bed?”

Ron wasn’t sure he’d heard him.

“Harry?”

He was so thin. 

“Come on.”

He pulled him to his feet and Harry followed numbly into the bedroom. Hermione had transfigured an extra bed next to Ron’s, and Ron sat him down on it, and Harry stared at his knees. Ron took off his shoes, and decided to leave the rest on. Then he stood and pushed him onto the pillow.

Harry’s hands caught his collar. His eyes seemed to focus for a second.

“Ron,” He breathed.

“Yeah,” Ron said, his voice odd in his ears. “You ok?”

“Makes… a difference.”

“Right,” Ron said. “Right.” Harry nodded. He swayed.

“Light,” He said.

“Light,” Ron agreed. “Yeah. Light is good.”

“Light,” Harry said, and Ron left him in the bedroom, leaving the door open, just in case.

Hermione bit her lip the entire time that Ron told her what happened.

He had made them tea, and she was seeping it with a revolted look on her face. Ron felt oddly calm. The kettle cooled on the stove loudly.

“I must have dropped one when I poured them down the drain,” She said, after several long moments of silence. “There were so many of them, I must not have noticed.”

“Yeah,” Ron watched vapors disappearing over her mug. “Was bound to happen anyway, I think. Village’s full of apothecaries, DSP isn’t exactly well watched.”

She seemed shaken. He extended his hand so that it held hers, and the warmth of the mugs lingered on both their skins, comforting.

“So what do we do?”

“I guess we talk about it.”

“We should go to Madam Pomfrey,” She said. “We should go to Saint Mangos, actually. We should get help.”

Ron looked down at his mug, watched the snitch printed on its side zooming back and forth.

“Ron, we can’t handle this alone.”

“We’re not alone,” He muttered. “Between you and Neville, it’s practically a professional team over here. McGonagall’s keeping her eye on things. And Pomfrey’s ten minutes away if we need her.”

“This isn’t something we can make mistakes with,” She said. “What if—“

“I don’t think it’ll be a good idea. I don’t think a hospital’s a good idea.”

“But—“

“My dad said—“

“Your dad’s not… not exactly an expert, Ron—“

“Who is an expert?” Ron asked, bitterness slinking into his voice. “This isn’t just the DSP, Hermione. It’s the potion, it’s the dreams, it’s the battle. It’s the horcurx, too.”

She fell silent. He knew they were both thinking of the same thing. Ron still carried Harry’s wand with him, in case he would wake again into a nightmare, and try to use it on himself. 

“I don’t think strangers are an answer,” Ron said again, his voice stronger. “I don’t think tests and tubes and probing’s an answer. I think we need to keep doing what we’re doing, and eventually it’ll help.”

“I’m not sure.”

“What’s to keep him from taking off again? He doesn’t want to see other people, he doesn’t want them staring at him and making him into some big hero. What do you think’d happen at a hospital?”

“Well…”

“You said it yourself— the DSP will leave his system and everything will be easier after that.”

“Not if he keeps finding ways to use it.”

“It’s been getting better,” Ron said stubbornly. “I’ll talk to him. Ok?”

She seemed hesitant. 

“Ok.”

The following morning, a Sunday, Harry didn’t wake up until past noon.

He stepped out of the bedroom groggy and confused, squinting painfully against the sun. Hermione glanced over at Ron. Ron swallowed.

He’d spoken to his dad, who also seemed concerned about the lack of professional help. But Ron knew that being somewhere unfamiliar, surrounded by adoring fans, alone amongst strangers with only his thoughts to keep him company, would only make everything worse. Harry needed to stay with them. He had agreed to stop using the potion of his own, he understood what was at stake. He was Harry, and he’d be ok.

“Where did you find it?”

Harry looked at the vial Ron placed between them, paling.

“Under the counter,” he said. “Some ink spilled, and… it was an accident.”

“It accidentally got in your mouth?”

Harry frowned, looking at his hands. Ron watched him, waiting, thinking of the times his parents had been angry with him and how they used to wait for him to come to his own conclusions. But Harry said nothing, and his face had turned an empty, expressionless blank.

“You get why we’re doing this, right?”

He was watching Crookshanks cleaning his paws by the sink.

“Harry?”

“Yes, I get it.”

“Do you though?” Ron pressed, his mind slinking back to the closet, and Harry crouched hidden inside it speaking to people who were long dead. “You get that it’s dangerous? That it makes you—“

“I get it, Ron.”

His voice was sharp. Ron swallowed. But he needed him to understand. He needed to make him hear him…

“Look,” He said, his voice growing stronger as his resolve solidified. “It’s not as though— I mean— there are a dozen apothecaries in the village, and we can’t watch you every single minute of—“

“I don’t need to be watched, Ron—“

“I— yeah, that’s not… what I meant.” 

Harry glared at the floor. Ron’s voice sounded doubtful in his own ears. He saw a flash of anger cross Harry’s blank face, and racked his brains for a new direction when Hermione spoke from his right.

“We’re just worried about you,” She said, her voice pacifying. “We’re worried—“

“I know you’re worried, you’ve made that pretty clear.”

Ron felt Hermione shrink next to him, stung. Her voice wavered. “I think that— we just want to make sure you’re not… thinking about using it again, or—“

“I told you it was an accident.”

Ron said before he could stop himself.  “Come on, Harry, it wasn’t an accident—“

His voice faltered as cool green eyes landed on him.

Ron swallowed. “I didn’t— Look, DSP’s all around here. If you’re going to just go out and get more—“

“If I’m just going to go out and get more, then I’ll just go out and get more,” Harry cut him off, his voice matching Ron’s panic with cool fury. “It’s my business what I do or don’t do and what I use when I’m doing it—“

“No, it isn’t,” Ron said fiercely. “Not if it’s DSP— you can’t use it—“

“I’m pretty sure that I can,” Harry retorted condescendingly. “I’m rather certain, actually. As you said, the village’s full of apothecaries—“

“Harry— what are you talking about?” Hermione said desperately. “We said— you agreed— using it is a bad idea—“

“I agreed that using it frightened you. But that’s not even true— it’s the not using it that frightens you—“

“No— No, that’s not true— I told you, studies show that—“

“I don’t care what studies show,” Harry had his hands crossed over his chest, his eyes steady and furious on the floor tiles right behind them. Hermione had stood up, and Ron besides her, and when he glanced at her nervously her eyes were wide and scandalized. “You don’t… neither of you, you don’t even know what it is you’re asking—“

“We do—“

“You don’t,” He said, his voice bombarding over theirs, his body tense before them. “Things only started getting bad when I stopped using it. Well, they were pretty bad before I started too, and the solution seems pretty clear to me—“

“You need to deal with those things,” Hermione said quickly. “Shoving them to the back of your mind won’t—“

“Hermione, you’ve no idea what you’re talking about—“

“I do— I’ve read—“

“Oh, you’ve read,” Harry said, cruel laughter at his throat. “Well, in that case—“

“Hey, don’t start on her,” Ron said angrily. “We’re only trying to help—“

“You’re not helping,” Harry said evenly. “I appreciate the effort, but neither of you get it. Neither of you—“

“‘Get it’? What, I hadn’t lost a brother in that Battle? I hadn’t—“

It had been the wrong thing to say, and Harry visibly paled, fixating on Crookshanks once again.

“I’m just… we just want things to be back the way they used to—“

“They won’t get back to the way they used to,” Harry said, somewhat breathlessly, his face blank again. “Pretending they will is a waste of time.”

“No it’s not,” Ron said urgently. “We can do this. You can do this— we’ll help—“

“I don’t need your help,” Harry said. “You don’t… you haven’t…” He faltered, blinking rapidly, and then shook himself, raising his eyes again to stare decisively at the sink behind them. “This isn’t working,” He said calmly. “It’s ridiculous. Not using the potion’s what makes everything worse— it makes no sense—“

“It— Harry—“

“—I have other responsibilities I need to get to, I can’t not—“

Ron moved forward thoughtlessly, stopping himself just before his hands landed on Harry, who backed up away from him with blankness on his face. “Don’t,” He said, constrained, wishing he could scream. “Don’t— We’ve gone this far, you can’t just go backwards—“

“It’s not backwards. This is going backwards—“

“It’s not! Harry, you can’t be serious— you’ve already agreed— the potion’s a bad idea, we need to get rid of it—“

“It’s not,” His calm voice contrasted with Ron’s panic, and seemed to strengthen his resolve. “We don’t need to do anything. I need to get rid of the dreams, and the potion is the only thing that does that—“

“It’s DANGEROUS!” Ron yelled, and Harry blinked expressionlessly at the floor tiles. “You wake up not knowing where you are—“

“If I don’t use it,” Harry finished. Ron could have smacked him. “Look. Thanks, and everything. But you don’t understand. You don’t get it. You can’t. You’ll just have to deal with your… worry… on your own. That’s not my problem.”

His voice was final. He nodded to himself, and Ron saw his body less tense, his muscles loose with relief, looser than they’d been throughout the few weeks with them. He turned, stepping calmly to the door.

“You’re not leaving,” Ron said angrily after him. “We’re not doing this again— You can’t just go back to a shivering shadow jumping from wind passing through curtains—“

“Sorry to be so disappointing,” Harry said cooly. “I’ll try to contain my shivering.”

“That’s not what I meant— Stop—“

He’d placed his hand on his shoulder, and Harry froze under his hold, growing rigid.

Ron took his hand off with difficulty. 

“Please don’t leave,” He said, in the thundering silence, his voice a child’s. “Look. I’m sorry I said that it was… not an accident—“

“It wasn’t an accident,” Harry said. “It was a choice. The better one.” He had reached the door. Ron looked back and Hermione, her eyes wide and horrified, helpless. “I’ll see you in class.”

The door closed behind him. 

The air felt cooler out of the flat.

Cooler, fresher, better. He felt his lungs filling fully for the first time in weeks. The sun was brighter, and the sky was bluer, and as he was walking back towards Hogwarts he knew that he was doing the right thing. 

They didn’t understand. They didn’t. It was not just a potion— it was oblivion, and quiet, and peace—

He was back in his quarters before he knew it. Bare, empty, and cold. He’d left his wand at Hogsmeade but magic played excitedly at his fingertips, and it was easier than ever to light the hearth wandlessly. He was still wearing the cloths he woke up with, those he’d worn the day before, splattered with red ink, but did not consider changing them. He rushed to his bedroom, pulled a roll of parchment and a well of ink out of his trunk, and sat down by the counter to write the letter to Mr. Mulpepper's Apothecary. 

He had left the door open in his hurry. It took him a long time to realize someone was standing at its frame, her fury filling the room with acid.

He didn’t have to look up from the form he was filling to know it was her. He swallowed and fixated his eyes on the parchment, marking the quantity neatly with black ink.

“Students aren’t supposed to be back here, you know,” He said expressionlessly, but she ignored him completely and moved deliberately forward, her hair bellowing behind her powerfully. She came to a stop right over him, her eyes flitting over the parchment he tried to uselessly block from her sight.

“What are you doing?”

“This is a private room.”

She was looking over his shoulder, and her eyes slimmed to slits.

“Oh, don’t bother with that,” She said, acidly, and his hand over the quill tightened, blotching the neat parchment. “There’s an apothecary right down in the village, I can get you however many you want. What’s the daily dosage, now? Four? Five?”

“Students aren’t—“

“Spare me the bullshit, Harry—“

He had seen her upset before, but never at him, and her eyes blazed with anger. She stood over the table, her hair a tangle around her, her robes unchecked. She had her hands on her waist and she filled the room so that he could look at nothing but her.

He didn’t want to look at her. He stood up, dropped the quill, and moved over to the curtains, keeping his gaze on them.

“What are you doing here, Harry?”

“Don’t see how that’s any of your business, Ginny.”

“Oh, you don’t?”

“No, I don’t.”

She came up behind him. He moved away from her, crossing his hands, agitated. The sooner he sent the letter, the sooner the owl would return. But she was right— he could get some DSP from the village, to hold him until his order came through—

“Look at me.”

“I am a Professor,” He said, flushing. “These are my quarters, and you need to get out of here before I take off points—“

“So you’re just going to go backwards? Start all over again? Sink into a shriveling mess?”

Blood rushed his eardrums. He fought to keep his voice calm. “If by shriveling mess you mean functioning educator, then, yeah, that’s what I’m going to do—“

“You’re being a child.”

“I’m being an adult. I’m taking responsibility—“

“What are you so afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid—“

“I know what it’s like to have a horcrux inside of me.”

He swallowed, his eyes flitting back to her. Hers were brown and blazingly fierce.

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“It was different for you. It wasn’t—“

“What’s terrifying about it is that it controls you,” She said, her voice constrained. He shut his eyes. Leave. “You don’t know what you do and what you don’t. You can’t remember. You’re controlled by this other being, other thing that’s the exact opposite of you, evil and cruel and overpowering—“

“Get out of here,” Harry said, his words coming out more breathless than he meant. “You’re not allowed back here. I know what I’m doing—“

“You get that it’s the same thing?” She said, her voice higher than usual, her own breathes shallow in the small kitchen. “You get that? The potion controls you in the same way— the same evil being latched on to you, making you be someone you’re not—“

“You don’t get it,” He said, as a flash of pain rushed through his forehead, his scar blazing with someone else’s fear. “It’s not what you think it is—“

“You wake up and you don’t know what you’re doing— controlled by a dream to beg Hermione to kill you—“

Leave leave leave—

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to go back to Hogsmeade, to throw that order in the fire—“

“I’m not going to do that. I don’t need to do that— It won’t work if I do tha—“

“You’re throwing it away,” She said, and he heard the angry tears in her eyes and watched her wiping them off. “You’re throwing away the happily ever after— the war is over and you’re still there, as though any second Death Eaters will jump out of—“

“Ginny, get out of here you’re not allowed to be here—“

“And you’re doing exactly the thing you’re afraid of doing,” She spoke over him, and when he looked up he noticed that she was coming closer, her eyes full of ferocity. “You’re afraid of a horcrux controlling you— but you’re letting the potion take you over, make you into someone you’re not—“

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t understand—“

“And you’re pushing us away— as though we could just watch you destroying everything it was that you’ve fought for in some fit of unjustified self-loathing and stubborn blind guilt—“

“I don’t need you to—“

“And we’re not going away,” She said, nearly yelling, standing inches away from him with her eyes locked on his and her smell encompassing him, a blazing goddess of red beauty. “We’re not going away— we’re not leaving you in a war zone that’s not there anymore— because we love you, you get that? We love you and we won’t let you slip away—“

“I can’t— haven’t got— and if—“

“Come back with me.”

“I—“

“Come back with me. You promised me you’d stay—“

“You don’t… you haven’t…” His scar searing, his heart clenching, his thoughts scattered and the dead lined up around her in the room. She didn’t understand. She didn’t understand—

“It’s like it’s still there,” he heard himself saying, the words pulled out of him, his eyes closed. “I can’t help— I keep thinking— that it’s been there, dormant, my entire life— how do I know that half the things I did, I was, I thought I was— were me? Not— Him? And it’s almost— I can feel the place where it used to be, every time my scar— and I think— how could it be hurting, it’s not—“ He shook his head, and Ginny was gaping at him, as though he was insane, and he looked away from her, revolting. “I can feel it— inside, pulsing and beating like another heart, and it’s… It’s consuming everything else, I don’t… you don’t— I—“

“Harry—“

“I just— I—“ He stopped, breathed, swallowed. “I just don’t want to dream,” He said, stubbornly, shaking his head. His voice was calmer. “I don’t want to. I don’t see why I have to. The potion makes them go away, it makes everything go away, the pulsing, the scar— it works and when I don’t use it it all comes rushing back—“

“But it’s—“

“And I don’t want to talk to you,” He said, backing away as she was advancing. “I don’t want to talk to you, or Ron, or Hermione, I don’t want you to look at me like I’ve lost my mind— I don’t need you spying after my every move—“

“We’re not— Just listen to me—“

“You don’t get it. None of you get it— You weren’t there with Dumbledore, you didn’t hear what he said, what he wanted— You didn’t have the horcrux in your head. This isn’t written in a book, it’s not an easy solution, it’s not the potion that’s the problem, it’s me—“ 

Her distraught face hardened. Her brown eyes blazed. And suddenly, she closed the distance between them, and she was in his arms, her hands cool over him.

Her lips over his, soft and powerful and encompassing.

For a moment they were frozen, her lips hard on his, her hands cool on his nape, and it was sixth year, after a Quidditch match, with a room full of stunned spectators and the blazing Gryffindor hearth behind her—

And within his chest, a beast exploded, hungry and starving for the feel of someone, anyone, of kindness and forgiveness and peace…

But no— No— Another beast rose against the first, and a surge of revulsion engulfed him, bringing bile up his throat. Because she did not know what had been inside of him, and she was pure and right and he was contaminated and wrong, and her brother had been buried by his inaptitude, and her tears had been shed because of his resonating failures—

He tried backing away, pushing her off, but she was adamant, her hand on his nape and her tears on his cheeks— Her jaw pressing against his, her breath gasping alongside his own—

His protests were muffled, and he was trapped between her and the wall.

Stop— stop— stop—

“STOP—!”

He’d broken away, and his heart was a million miles a minute, thundering in his ears, and behind her were a mob of the dead and the screaming of the injured and Lord Voldemort laughing—

“Get out,” He heard himself saying. Ginny was pale and seemed just as surprised as he, but he pulled his eyes away from her, looking at the floor. “Get out—“

“No,” She breathed. “No, I’m staying—“

“Get out!”

“I— the horcurx, it’s not—“

He felt like he’s been hit by a Bludger. He shut his eyes, and the screaming was getting louder—

“Harry—“

“GET OUT!”

His breath caught— she’d moved towards him again, her eyes stubborn, her hands on his skin once more—

There was an explosion— the dead swopped forward— her hands were gone, and when he looked up he saw that she had fallen by the force of his magic, thrust against the small couch, clutching her side painfully with her eyes wide and frightened, her mouth opened and surprised—

He stood shaking over her, bile rising in his throat—

“Wait— Harry!”

But he didn’t. He was pulling the door open before she had gotten to her feet, rushing through—

“Wait—“

He closed the door behind him. He was in the corridor before he heard her rushing through it, but once he turned the corner he did not hear her footsteps behind.

Chapter Text

Remember

He had lived sixty years in a hut by the forest.

He had lived sixty years watching faces come and go.

Not everyone stayed in his heart. A few did. A few special ones.

He remembered them well: bright eyed and excited. Brave of heart. Kind of spirit. Open minded and true.

Them, he would never forget.

He remembered them as children, as teens, as adults. He remembered them when they died.

Laughing hazel eyes under untidy black hair. Large greens filled with wisdom. Greys, never resting, always joking, a barking laugh to fill your heart with cheer.

He had buried them.

He had cried for them heavy, wet tears.

And now…

Now…

Silver lined brown, a smile filled with kindness, old shabby robes and the pain of long nights.

Bubble gum pink, ever clumsy capers, soft piercing gazes and a smile made of light.

Bright orange hair, skin made of freckles, quick playful banter, nerve, humor, and might…

Dead bodies littering the green grass.

Dead bodies reddening the ancient marble.

Dead bodies overspilling between thick tree trunks.

And then…

Then…

He remembered shackles and high pitched laughter and green light. 

Harry. Standing tall. With his chin held high and his face calm and certain.

He remembered…

Green eyes losing their greenness.

A roar tearing through a forest.

He had never made a sound such as that.

Knees crumbled. Robes tangled. Glasses tumbled off. Hagrid could not stop the sound anymore. It was not him. It was the earth itself, crying.

“Pick him up.”

The body had not been heavy.

Limp and broken. 

But not heavy.

Hagrid had been heavy.

His hands like boulders.

His feet like the trunks of trees.

But he wanted to remember him, through his sobs:

Untidy black hair, too long.

Old worn robes, ripped.

Round spectacles, crooked.

Scarred hand, dangling. 

But he could see nothing.

There was nothing.

Just tears.

***

Chapter Fifteen: Breakthroughs 

He found himself in the grounds, rushing down the grassy hills under a grey sky threatening rainfall. 

He wasn’t dressed for a day outdoors, and a cruel wind swept the late afternoon hilltop. It was getting colder, and the sharp whips of it against his face made the flashing pain of his scar less overpowering.

He was walking towards the forest.

The same route. The same route he always walked— right by Hagrid’s hut, at a curve towards the outcrop— a few more steps, and he’d be where he’s dropped the Resurrection Stone on his way to die…

Not there. 

He stopped, turned, and walked in a different direction. But there were students near the lake, laughing, running somewhere with their bags over their heads. When he looked back, the castle stood morbid under the darkening clouds.

The Whopping Willow was already bare of leaves. He heard a bird calling from afar, and stood shivering in the middle of it all, feeling insignificant.

Ginny, on the floor, hurt and afraid.

He ran his hand through his hair, pausing over the scar, pressing. Shut his eyes, opened them. Let his arm flop uselessly to his side.

You don’t understand.

She didn’t. None of them understood. They didn’t hear the dead screaming at night. They didn’t have to face that…

You will be our light.

He shut his eyes tighter, digging his fingers into the scar, willing for it to stop hurting. How could it be hurting? How could it be hurting, unless Lord Voldemort was still there?

But he can’t be there.

He can’t be, he’s dead.

In his mind he saw her looking up at him, her mouth opened partially, hurt by his magic.

All he ever did anymore was hurt people.

And yet, her words stuck with him. He ran them over in his head. Controlled by a horcrux, controlled by a potion. She’d said it was the same thing.

Was it?

The same?

And through his closed eyes he saw the grounds littered with bodies, stacked one atop the other, pushed aside by running fighters… Discarded and torn to pieces, bodies of people who’d died because of him…

I shall wait one hour in the forest…

“Harry?”

He whirled. Hagrid stood hugely on the path a few feet away, hoarding a huge pumpkin in his large arms.

“What’re ye doing here?” He asked, mystified. “It’s rainin’!”

Jolted, Harry blinked around. The students had all vanished. The sky had gone dark. His cloths were soaked, and tendrils of water dripped under his glasses.

“Yeah,” He said pathetically.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Hagrid’s gaze lingered on his, his black beetle eyes questioning.

Under his wet robes, Harry had begun shivering.

“Come on, then,” Hagrid said after a long pause. “I’ll make ye some tea.”

Ginny, on the floor, hurt by his magic.

“Ye comin’?”

His feet were led, but they moved slowly beneath him following Hagrid’s huge frame down to his hut. 

Hagrid placed a steaming mug before him, and Harry reached forward and placed his frozen hands around it, letting the warmth seep into his skin.

The pumpkin had been lain by the door, sniffed throughly by Fang before he settled on the floor at Harry’s feet. Hagrid busied himself in the kitchen, humming beneath his massive beard, and paused every few moments to glance Harry’s way, his gaze gentle. Harry brought the mug to his face, letting the fumes raise up to him.

“Halloween tomorrow,” Hagrid said. “Always invited you over on Halloween.”

Harry forced his eyes off the vapors and to the large man standing by the sink.

“…Did you?”

“Ay. Ye usually came. Sometimes too busy. But usually.”

Harry nodded. He was blinking at the overspilling pockets in Hagrid’s coat.

“But ye never talked about nothing,” Hagrid continued, pulling rock cakes out of a hidden shelf, and cutting them with a knife the size of a sledgehammer. “Always thought ye would.”

Ginny, on the floor, her eyes large and frightened.

Ginny, in his hands, her lips warm on his.

“Yer not big on anniversaries.”

Ginny, clutching her side where his magic had hurt her.

“Harry.”

He jerked up, blinking quickly. Hagrid was frowning at him.

“…What?” He asked. “Anniversaries?”

“Halloween,” Hagrid repeated.

Harry looked at him in confusion for a minute, his mind still locked on other things.

“My parents,” He said, finally. “Yeah. I don’t…”

“Thought it was them muggles, never told you when they died.”

“They told me.”

“Ay,” Hagrid said. “Thought so. When Sirius died, ye never said nothing on the anniversary, either.”

Harry watched the vapors again. Fang’s panting was loud under the table.

“Dumbledore died two weeks after,” he said emptily.

“Ay.”

Harry brought the mug to his mouth, and let the scorching water burn his lips.

“Why is it?”

He had been staring fixedly at the shifting vapors, and his head was full of the blank spaces that appeared whenever his mind wondered too close to things he did not want to think of. It was several moments before he realized Hagrid had spoken, and a while after that before he raised his eyes up to look at his left shoulder, trying to grasp on to the edges of the conversation. 

“What?”

“Why don’t ye keep anniversaries?”

Hagrid was looking right at him, his eyes intent.

He felt like a child, squirming under his gaze. “I dunno,” He muttered. “What does it matter, the exact date? They’re dead.”

The word reverberated in the small hut. Harry’s gaze was locked onto the table, not seeing the patterns in the wood.

With a mighty groan, Hagrid pulled the other chair back, and sat down before him, placing his giant hands onto the tabletop.

Harry looked at his thick fingernails, earth trapped beneath them, his hands rough from work outdoors.

“Yer lookin’ better,” Hagrid said.

“Better,” Harry repeated, not sure he understood. The word tasted odd on his lips. He looked up. “Better?”

“Alive,” Hagrid said. “Not statue-like.”

He was speaking about the spells. He had let them slip off somewhere between Hogsmeade and Ginny. Harry seeped some of the tea, and it burned on the way down.

“People keep anniversaries to remember once a year. But you… ye remember all the time.”

Harry shut his eyes. In his hands, the mug was shaking.

“Do you want something else to wear?”

“I… what?”

“Yer robes.”

They were wet. Harry’s teeth were teetering. His mind was sluggish and slow, and he shook his head trying to clear it.

“I’m… I can cast a spell.”

“Ye should.”

“Ok.”

The fire was blazing in the hearth. Hagrid’s eyes slimmed. Harry had not moved. He could not remember what he was supposed to do. He felt like he was falling…

“Harry?”

“I… don’t…” His heart was beating too slowly, and he couldn’t form a coherent thought. Hagrid looked at him with concern. “I’m not… I should…”

He had no words. He felt like he couldn’t breath. The air was too rich for him, and the world too fast.

Hagrid said nothing. His eyes were sad.

“Have you ever felt… that you’re not really here?” Someone said, in his voice, from his mouth. “You’re… you’re somewhere else? Some… sometime, else?”

Hagrid thought carefully before answering. “When?”

“The Battle,” Harry said, and his voice echoed in the hut impossibly, echoing off the walls, whispered and yelled and screamed and sobbed. “Walking… to the forest.”

“Walking back from the forest,” Hagrid replied. “Ay. Carrying ye.”

“Bodies,” Harry choked. “All… All over…”

“Ay.”

“He said— before I went— He said if I didn’t come he’d—“

“Ay.”

“And I didn’t,” Harry said. “I didn’t. I didn’t mean to go. I meant… to fight. Until I saw Snape’s memories.”

“Tha’ was the righ’ thing to do,” Hagrid nodded. “What Dumbledore woulda wanted.”

Harry looked at him, willing him to understand. But Hagrid’s eyes were full of acceptance, of forgiveness. He did not understand, and Harry looked away, feeling more alone than ever.

“Ye don’t have te keep walking down te the forest,” Hagrid said. Harry shut his eyes. “It’s over, that.”

The tea was cold, but he drunk it anyway, and placed the empty cup on the table slowly.

They sat in silence. With a sigh, Hagrid  leaned back in his chair. 

“It’ll ge’ better.”

Harry shut his eyes tighter. 

“It seems like it won’, but it will. Ye’ll see.”

He opened his eyes, looked over at the large-eyed dog drooling over his sneakers. Fang looked back, his dark eyes drooping. 

“Ye need to let them help ye. ‘Mione and Ron and them. If not fer ye, then fer them.”

“They’re… they’re not helping,” He said, and this seething anger managed to clear his head enough to look resentfully out the window.

“They are. Ye’ve got them, at least. Remus… he didn’t have no one.”

He looked up, his heart jolted. Hagrid smiled at him. 

“Came often,” Hagrid said. “Had a way with animals, Remus did. When he was a boy. Made sense, o’ course. Came with yer dad and them others.” His eyes dropped sadly. “And then he came without them.”

Harry was suddenly freezing. At his feet, Fang raised his head, whining, until he remembered to move his hand far enough to place it onto his large head, rubbing.

“It was better for him, after a while,” Hagrid said, watching the repetitive movements. Harry looked into the fire. “It’ll be better for ye, too. But ye need to let them help ye. Ye can’t do it alone.”

“I…”

“Ghosts are louder when we’re alone.”

“How do you know?” Harry asked, before he could stop himself.

Hagrid smiled. His eyes reflected the flames of the fire. 

“Ah,” He said, his voice far away, and Harry looked at the darkness in his eyes, and his sagging shoulders. “Ah, Harry. I know.”

Harry spent the night sleeping at Hagrid’s, on a makeshift bed made of huge blankets and gigantic pillows. 

He was oddly calmed by Hagrid’s loud snoring, which made any other, less violent sounds less obvious. He could not hear curtains swooshing, or soft footsteps. With the avalanche at the other side of the room, coming out of the mountainous pile that was Hagrid on his huge bed, covered by what could only be described as a tent for a blanket, Harry could almost pretend there were no ghosts.

When he fell asleep, Fang had slept soundly by Hagrid’s feet. But when he woke up at around midnight, blinking away the imprints of inferi coming out of the lake in the shape of Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, the dog was standing right over him, breathing heavily and dripping saliva steadily into his hair.

“Hey,” He breathed, rather unnecessarily, as it seemed unlikely Hagrid would wake. “Hey— g’off me, Fang.”

He pushed the large head away, rubbing his thick nose. Fang whined loudly and settled heavily at his side, digging his nose into Harry’s stomach.

“Hey,” He said again, more softly. “I’m trying to sleep here.”

His fingers shook less when they were buried in fur. Fang smelled terrible. His large eyes looked steadily at Harry, and he whined.

Harry rubbed his head again, resting his own back onto the pillow. There had been more inferi behind the first three, their wet, white hands reaching out from the black water and their large, empty eyes staring at him through his own reflection…

He shuddered, suddenly cold. Fang crawled forward, and soon Harry’s face was buried in his fur.

“Hey,” He whispered. He pushed his head deeper into the fur, and as he did so, the images of the inferi seemed to be pushed away as well. He concentrated on Hagrid’s snoring.

“…Hey…”

The last class of the day were second years.

He stayed late with three of them. They were scared.

“You really shouldn’t listen to everything you see in the Prophet, Ms. Jones,” He said, and the small ginger glanced up fleetingly before looking back down.

“They said there were Death Eaters at Hogsmeade,” the boy next to her said. “And May, she’s… she’s… muggleborn, and last year—“

He stopped, glancing at her, and she shivered.

“It’s alright,” Harry said. “Don’t worry about those sightings. No one’s getting into Hogwarts.”

“But they did before!” May said, squeakily. “They did last year, all the time—“

“Right, I know,” Harry said, nodding. “But we’re not letting them come now.”

“If there are still Death Eaters out there—“

“There are,” Harry said, and her eyes widened with fear. “But you’re safe at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall has powerful protective charms around the castle. And the Ministry’s keeping their eyes on things: The Aurors are going to get hold of all the Death Eaters, and they’ll get them all to Azkaban.”

“But you’re the Chosen One,” the boy said, businesslike. “So it’s your job.”

Harry looked at him for a moment, and then forced himself to smile.

“Right,” He said. “That’s right. I’m keeping my eyes on things, too.”

“And you haven’t seen anything?”

“I’ve seen a lot of really good people working hard to make sure you guys are safe,” Harry said. 

“But—“

“And me too,” Harry said, and did his best to keep smiling. “I won’t let anything happen. I’m on it. Cross my heart. Alright?”

The boy seemed satisfied. He turned to the ginger.

“See?” He said self importantly. “Professor Potter’s on it. If he’s here, nothing bad’s going to happen. Right?” 

Harry nodded his assent.

“Right,” The boy said. “Thanks, Professor!”

“Don’t mention it,” He said, as they were filing out, muttering softly to the muggle born, who seemed to be walking a bit taller.

When he looked up, he saw that Ron, Hermione and Neville were standing at his door.

“Har—“

“Don’t,” Harry said, feeling tired. 

“But—“

“Don’t,” He said again. He rose to his feet, and pulled up his bag. Ron seemed to be readying himself, as though prepared with a speech.

Harry readjusted the bag on his shoulder.

“Let’s go,” he said. 

Ron gaped. Neville’s mouth curved into a surprised smile

“You…”

Harry walked past them, trying to ignore Hermione’s shinning understanding.

“Don’t,” He said, when she opened her mouth to speak. “Alright? Just don’t.”

She opened her mouth, and then closed it. Harry felt Ron’s hand on his shoulder, and for once, it did not feel wrong.

Chapter Text

 Say His Name

On the Quidditch Pitch behind the Burrow, between tall trees hidden from muggle eyes, under an offensively blue sky with the wind running through the canopy, a game was being played.

The Quaffle was old and battered, its red paint nearly pink around the handholds, its outer shell cracked. Still it was passed confidently between strong arms, flung in the air with precision, hardly ever dropped.

Charlie, newly made captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, had caught it early. He always seemed to. Sharp eyed and focused, nearly as good with the large ball as he was with the Snitch, he dodged and parried expertly, already raising his arm in anticipation. Bill, recent Hogwarts graduate, hovered confidently by the hoops. As Charile came towards him he lowered in place, squinting. His hair was short and spiky, and his hands huge over his broom. He was smirking.

Charlie saw this, and glanced around suspiciously. Two shadows closed in on him from both sides. He cursed, and dived. The two others were right behind him. Their robes bellowing behind them in the quick wind, their broomsticks zigzagging in perfect sync at his trail. One of them caught Charlie unaware as he flew right into his course, and he dropped the Quaffle, right into the other one’s arms. 

George had caught the ball, and sped towards the opposite hoop. He was grinning, his eyes shinning, a laugh at his throat. He wasn’t nearly as good a Chaser as he was a Beater, and the ball nearly dropped twice. Ron, ten years old and tiny in contrast with the large hoop he was meant to be guarding, fingered his broom nervously, glancing at Bill every other minute for reassurance. He grew paler as George came closer. Charlie was flying right underneath, shouting words of advice. George lifted the Quaffle, squinting against the soft summer sun…

But he was never interested in scoring. With a sharp motion he threw the ball up, higher and higher, only for it to be caught by—

By—

                                                                           Come on, Ginny scolded herself. Come on.

George twisted mid-flight, flashing a smirk into the sky, and, taking both arms off the broom, tossed the ball to—

To—

                                                                           Come on.

To Fred.

And Fred caught it with a ringing laugh, and Charlie cursed, and Bill yelled at him not to in front of Ron, and Fred whirled upside down, his hair comical in the wind, aimed with his tongue pulled out, winked at Ron, and threw the Quaffle.

It was a mile off. 

George exploded with laughter, rolling around with his broom, tangling his robes around himself. He sped that way towards his twin, and barreled right into him, throwing Fred off the broom and onto the soft grass beneath…

Ginny opened her eyes.

She was sitting on the highest branch of the tallest apple tree. Her feet dangled off, her shoes hidden in an enclave in the bark, where she always placed them during summer, when she snuck up here to watch her brothers play.

She was hidden by a wide canopy of green, leaning back against the thick wood, at a perfect vantage point. Both hoops were visible. If she wanted, she could climb through here all the way around the paddock, and climb up to sit right inside of the left hoop, swinging her legs in and out of it. 

The pitch was empty. She could still see the remnants of Bill and Fluer’s wedding tent, hastily brought down midway through the party. Moss had grown over the hoops. No one had used them for two summers. It had been two weeks since Fred had given her a thumbs up on his way to battle, teasing at her having to stay behind in the Room of Requirements.

She closed her eyes again, and her brothers reappeared on the pitch, young and vibrant and laughing.

“You’re worse then the Chudely Cannons!”

“I wasn’t aiming, Charlie.”

“How do you guys plan on getting on the team, huh? If all you do it pretend to practice—“

She was smiling, but she wasn’t sure why. She wasn’t sure if it was normal, to be smiling while her heart was ripped apart in her chest and her tears had dried out, with her throat burning and her stomach aching, but here she was. 

Her hair whipped around in the wind. She let it wash over her, breathing deep. The pitch was silent and empty and cold. But if she closed her eyes…

If she closed her eyes, the sun shone through the gaps left between new, green leaves, and plump apples still shone red and juicy on the lower brunches. If she closed her eyes, her mind filled with laughter and teasing, with running footsteps and the zipping of brooms. If she closed her eyes…

“Just don’t let it take over you, yeah?” Fred told her during the summer before her second year, ruffling her hair. “It’s alright to be dark sometimes, considering everything. But then you gotta put your chin back up and remember,” He leaned in closer, his eyes serious. Somehow, he always smelled like the residue of smoke. “Remember: There are pranks to be pulled.” Ginny giggled, and Fred winked at her. “Who’s gonna get Perce all riled up, if not us?”

She opened her eyes, and jumped off the tree and onto the soft grass bellow. She walked onto the field, right to the middle, and lay between the tall stems, looking up at the cloudless sky.

She kept her eyes open and let her lungs fill with summer air.

Who’ll get Perce all riled up, if not you?

***

Chapter Sixteen: Talk

They were tiptoeing.

It was odd, how precise the word was: tiptoe. One toe after the other. Walking as quietly as they could. Breathing as quietly as they could. Watching as discreetly as possibly. 

Ron had the unshakable feeling that if he moved too fast, something would break. 

Or someone would. 

They didn’t know what it was that had brought Harry back to Hogsmeade. He would not discuss it, nor, in fact, a great variety of other things. He did not speak of finding DSP again, and Ron dutifully woke him every night from an array of terrible nightmares, both upset by the white-washed face and the deadened green eyes, and all the while, sickeningly relieved to learn no sleeping potion had been consumed. Harry didn’t have any explanation for his decision, he just seemed adamant to keep moving. He was stubbornly quiet. And yet, they were always afraid he’ll leave again.

 But he didn’t. 

He ate, he graded, he went to sleep when they did, without complaint. He passed Ron the salt over dinner. He opened the door when Hermione came into the flat laden with groceries. He chewed. He swallowed. He brushed his teeth. 

But he said nothing, and his eyes were greyed, his movement stoic. He did not look them in the eye. They would find him sitting and staring into space, jumping at loud noising, flinching from touch. 

He always sat at the wooden chair by the kitchen table, parchment covering every available surface, carefully inking his quill. He stood to go to class and sat right back down when these were over. It was past midnight every night that Ron weakly suggested they go to sleep.

It was as though he was not there at all. They did not know what to do. 

And in the greyed green Ron saw that Harry, too, did not know what to do. That going through the motions was the best he could offer, but that the weigh of this inadequacy was weighing on him. That he would soon come to the end of what he could bear. Somehow, the day to day duties were crushing him under them. Timid conversation was shattering. Touch out of the question.

He was not leaving, but neither was he truly there. And day after day, the silence rung more heavy, the movements more weighted, the green more grey. In class, others would notice, and lessons became a matter of textbook, as though the task of standing to correct spellwork was too strenuous to face. And as he stood by the bedroom door, looking at his best friend filling page after page with red ink, his face white and deadened, Ron began wondering if they should turn to professional assistance, after all. 

McGonagall had begun cornering Hermione daily over breakfast in the Great Hall, her sever face lined with worry. But they had no answers for her. Ginny had stopped coming nearly at all. It felt as though something had broken between them all. So broken, that despite the nightmares mellowing slowly as the DSP wore off, they seemed to be further than normal than ever before. 

“Harry?”

He stood over him, and Harry did not make any movement to show he had heard. 

“You… you wanna go to bed?”

He placed the quill down carefully, corking the ink. When he rose, the movement of bones against muscles  seemed like that of a long limbed puppet on strings.

His eyes were downcast, and he stepped slowly towards the bedroom.

Ron got in his way.

It was a break in the grey routine, and Harry paused, hints of surprise registering on his downcast face.

“Hey,” Ron said pathetically. “I… ah… Have your root.”

He passed him Neville’s bag. Harry pulled the root out of it and placed it dutifully in his mouth, and swallowed. 

He tried to move past him again to get to the bedroom but Ron stopped him once more.

This time Harry glanced up at him fleetingly, confused. 

“Does it… does it taste good?”

There was a long pause. He could hear Hermione flipping pages in her room.

“No,” Harry said finally. “It doesn’t taste like… anything.”

“Right,” Ron said awkwardly. “I— Nev said. That it… shouldn’t.”

Harry stepped forward again. Ron stepped up for the final time.

“It’s making it better, though?” He asked, almost pleadingly, and Harry glanced sideways uncomfortably. “It’s… the nightmares? Are less? Right?”

They were standing very close, almost in touching distance, and Ron had to remind himself that he shouldn’t reach over and place his hand on Harry’s slumped shoulder. 

Finally, Harry raised his eyes, to look at Ron’s left ear, closest to his eyes he’d come since he’d found him in the closet two weeks earlier. 

“Yeah,” He said, almost cheerfully, blinking too quickly. “Yup. Yeah.”

Ron swallowed the lump in his throat with difficulty. 

“Great,” He said, with equal cheer. “Just… yeah. Just great.”

Ginny had spent days keeping her distance.

Officially, it was because Ron had asked her to. Truly, it was because she could hardly bear looking at herself in the mirror, never mind Harry.

She was ashamed to tell the others of her march to Harry’s. She did not want Hermione to look at her shrewdly, Neville to grin expectantly, or Luna to nod wisely. She did not want Ron to ask her tactlessly what she had said. 

What had she said? 

Nothing. All she’d done was yell. Yell, and accuse, and humiliate. She had gone there so angry, and she had let her anger control her. Of course he’d rushed away from her. Of course he wouldn’t listen…

And she kissed him.

She was sitting in the pitch, on the tallest breeches, looking over the field. It was cool, and wind blew her hair about, but when she shivered, she knew it had nothing to do with weather.

She pinched her inner thumb tightly, to make the sudden hole in her stomach less mortifying. 

She’d kissed him. 

She closed her eyes. She could still feel Harry’s lips on hers, his jaw against her jaw, the skin of his nape on her fingertips.

And she was disgusted.

Disgusted, by how wrong it had felt; cold and wooden and rigid and false. How terrible she’d felt afterwords, the bad taste left on her tongue. Harry’s eyes, gaping at her momentarily and then quickly away, horrified, lost and afraid, his voice shaking pleadingly for her to leave—

It was her who had made him feel like that. Who had made his eyes bulge with helplessness. Who had made him feel so dark his magic had been set loose on her, trying to force her away…

Her actions.

Hers.

And if she closed her eyes…

If she closed her eyes, she remembered how it had been. Before the battle. 

Tingling electricity. His lips hard against hers, pushing back, his hands strong and loving, pulling her waist towards him, fingers in her hair, his thumb running over her chin, his eyes blinking closed as he pulled her towards him— 

Stolen kisses by the lake… hidden kisses in the corridor… whispered kisses after hours…

But more than that. More. Loud laughter. Sarcastic wit. Eye rolling. Flying chases over the forest. Unending rumblings into the night…

And his eyes. His eyes were the thing she missed most: the green looking into her so searchingly that she’d think he must understand everything underneath. His eyes, which now kept fleeting away from hers, the eyes she hadn’t felt full on her in months…

And that kiss. 

That kiss in his apartment. Hard and cruel and angry. And he had not wanted it. He had pushed her away…

She opened her eyes again, and blinked up. The hole was growing and growing, and no amount of pinching could force it back.

Because something had broken between them, then. And she was not sure she could ever put it back.

So she kept her distance. But everything seemed to be falling apart. 

The concealment charms shimmered during the day, but they did not fool her any longer. She saw him hover at the edge of conversation. She saw him lean tiredly against his desk. She saw the looks he gave Ron and Hermione, the words he dared not voice, the heaviness with which he left with them every evening back to Hogsmeade.

She saw him looking hopelessly out the window. 

Until finally, she’d had enough. 

She waited after lessons had ended and decided to come see him before he began walking back to the village. She didn’t knock on the door. When she stepped into the bare Defense classroom, Harry was standing rigidly next to his desk, hands clasping at the wooden table.

His back was to her, but she could tell the spells were down, and she wondered how much effort it took to keep them up and buzzing all day. Without them, he was thinner, his body sagged, his fingers white as he clutched the wood, though his shoulders quivered. He did not notice she was there, and she was able to stand there and study him as he truly was, for the first time in weeks. 

Skeletal, hair matted, eyes clenched closed, sweaty and pale. Yes, all that. But that wasn’t what made her stomach clench painfully. It was the way he blinked miserably at his hands, despair all about him, his eyes fogged with fear.

“It’s the nightmares,” Ron had told her days earlier, his voice defeated. “He can’t stand them. I can’t stand them, either. And they never end.”

Harry didn’t want to go back to the apartment. Didn’t want for the hours to tick slowly by. Didn’t want to be led to the bedroom, to face another night of seeing everyone he loves die.

She took a deep breath.

“Harry?”

He jumped. She saw his body jerk. He turned to her quickly, stumbling, his eyes confused.

“Hey,” He said hoarsely.

She stood at the door, her bag loose on her shoulder, watching him lower his eyes.

“There’s a school in America that teaches magic to muggle scientists,” She said. “Did you know that?”

He blinked at her, mouth hanging open.

“They’re trying to find out where muggle borns come from,” She said into the silence. “It’s this big… academic… research.”

She looked at him, willing for him to hear the apology in her voice, to accept the distance she was keeping between them as an attempt at making amends.

To not ask her to leave.

“Oh,” He said. “That’s… that’s nice.”

Her heart flattered excitedly. Harry seemed to be studying her shadow. Timidly, she sat down, and his shadowed eyes followed her with trepidation. 

“I was thinking that would be interesting,” She said. “As… a career. You know, if Quidditch doesn’t pen out.”

He was still looking at her. His breathes were less hitched.

“They say it has something to do with an inner core,” She braved on, her voice on edge. “I read about it in the Quibbler. It was an interesting article. You can tell by the writer; this one was Petty Corbot, she’s a serious reporter. Traveled the world and what not. Which, incidentally, is also an interesting thing to do. If Quidditch doesn’t pen out.”

She thought he was less pale. 

His shoulders were definitely less sagging.

And his eyes were almost…

Almost on hers.

So she looked over at his shelves of books, and kept talking. When she glanced over again, he was standing nearly tall, his face blinking with an odd mixture of confusion and gratitude.

And she spoke on. About anything. Everything. For what felt like hours, sitting on one of the back desks with Harry propped silent but listening on the other side of the room. Until Ron showed up, looking relieved to see them there, and gave her a quizzical look he wore while Harry packed his things silently and followed him back to the village.

“Alright, you win,” He breathed to her as they were leaving. “Come tomorrow. Come anytime.”

She began coming over more and more.

Ron was not concerned about breaking his promise to Harry. He didn’t think he had space in him at all for such foolish concerns any more. Because when Ginny was there, filling the air with random conversations about things she read in the paper or learned in class, her voice steady and carefree, he could see Harry’s shoulders loosening, and his eyes clear slightly of fog.

It was not perfect. With Ginny, sometimes Harry was better during the day, less shaky in class, and more capable of handling things. But at night, when she left, he’d be just as unsteady and broken, terrified of falling asleep. Ron found himself stalking after him before bed, to make sure he hadn’t found some apothecary to get DSP from. He’d make noise when he entered their room to see if Harry stirred in response, and stayed up worried in bed until he heard the nightmares starting, signifying that no potion and been consumed other than the mild root Neville still dutifully provided. At the first sign of mutters, Ron would flood with relief. Then he would feel horrible guilt and turn to wake him.

And it continued. 

On and on. 

Following Ginny’s lead, they filled the air with conversations about everything and anything but what really mattered. Ron thought often about what his father had told him, about Patronuses and good thoughts. It worked. When they managed to get him to focus on a subject of no relations to the Battle, to the dead, or to Voldemort, he’d become less pale, his eyes would blink presently, and he would sometimes, sometimes, answer back.

They convinced him to visit Hagrid. They went together to eat dinner in the village. They watched breathlessly as he managed to keep more food down every night.

Weeks passed. He stopped vomiting. He was able to return to normal in class. 

And he stopped using the spells while in the apartment. Ron wasn’t sure if this was a decision or simply an admittance of defeat. Hermione had explained that they must be exhausting to keep up. But finally, one evening, Harry came back from the castle and just let them drop all at once at the entrance. He said nothing. From across the room, Ron saw Hermione smile.

And in the pit of his stomach, he thought that maybe, everything was going to be alright. 

Chapter Text

Blood Quill

“What do you mean? What do you mean?”

She was gaping at him, her eyes huge and accusatory, her mouth opened comically.

How could brown eyes have so many hues in them, anyway? He thought, exasperated. 

“Ronlad Weasley, what do you—“

“Hey, don’t take it out on me, alright?” He said finally, annoyance slipping into his voice. “He’s the one who’s being a git about it—“

“Curving the words? With his blood? On his skin?”

“Yes.”

“With his blood?”

“Yup.”

“On his—!“

“Hermione…”

She closed her mouth with a loud SNAP and gaped at him.

“Ron,” She whispered. “Look. We need to tell someone.”

“He doesn’t want to.”

“Ron,” She breathed. “Look. Look. We can’t— she’s just— Harry’s—“

“Just let it go, alright?” He said, already feeling guilty, a betrayer of trust. “I only told you because I thought you might know some potion that’ll help, it looks pretty nasty—“

“You told me because Harry’s my friend too, Ron— I care about him just as much as—“

“Yeah, yeah, ok. Potion?”

“Potion? Potion? I’m going to McGonagall right now—“

“Hermione— no— hey—“

He had grabbed hold of her hand, and she froze. Her wrist was small and slender. He let go quickly, feeling himself turning red.

He looked at the floor. 

“Just… Just… let’s talk to Harry tonight, alright? He’s not—“

“This isn’t the time to play hero, Ron,” Hermione said, but her voice was flustered, and when he dared glance up he saw that she was pink in the cheeks, despite her businesslike voice. “Harry’s got this independence thing going, I get it, he’s cross with Dumbledore, I get that too— But Umbridge cannot be allowed to do this. We can’t let her get away with it—“

“It’s not our secret to tell.”

“No, it’s his, but he’s stupid about these things, Ron, come on, you can’t mean to—“

“I just don’t want…” He wet his lips. “…to start anything.”

She glared at him.

“Harry’s not a little kid,” She said self importantly. “He’s not going to stop talking to us if we try to help him.”

“I don’t know,” Ron muttered. Hermione was blinking in surprise and disbelief. “I just don’t know, alright? He’s been acting strange since… since the graveyard, hasn’t he? I just don’t want there to be a reason for him to be mad at us.”

“But—“

“I just want us to be there for him.”

“Well—“

“If he needs. You know. Anything.”

“Ron…”

“We shouldn’t be something more he needs to deal with. Ok? He’s got enough.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean?”

Betrayer. Complete and utter betrayer.

“Nothing,” He muttered. “Merlin. Nothing.”

She glowered.

He cowered.

“Just… he’s… he’s hardly holding it together as it is, isn’t he?” He said, so quietly he hoped she couldn’t hear. 

“How do you mean?” 

He didn’t answer. He was kicking the carpet irritably with his shoe.

“You mean the nightmares? They’re still happening?”

“At least Seamus looks more convinced every morning,” Ron said darkly. “Full night of mutterings about Death Eaters and Cedric and You Know Who, you can’t really pretend that’s nothing—“

He fell silent, because Hermione’s eyes were large and worried again.

“It’s fine,” He said. “I mean— it’s getting better. I just think we need to… to… be there. For him.”

She took a big breath.

“I’ll make the potion,” She said, her voice constrained.

“And you won’t—“

“I won’t tell McGonagall.”

“Oh, good,” He said. But Hermione was shaking her head.

“This is stupid,” She muttered. “There must be something we can do.”

“We can get a new Defense teacher,” Ron said, half joking with relief. “That’ll work…”

Hermione’s eyes shone suddenly, the brown hues in them multiplying.

***

Chapter Seventeen: Forward

November trudged slowly toward December, which seeped mellowly towards the new year. Their first snow at Hogsmeade they somehow managed to mess up, mainly due to a lack of foresight on Ron’s part. Though charged with the task, he had never actually gone out and bought firewood before, and was therefore rather befuddled to find that they had non in supply. His red-faced anger was very short lived, however, for his furious muttering under his breath, coupled with some of the juiciest words he could think up without prior notice, had made Harry glance up off of his grading, his lips quivering in an almost-smile.

In response, Ron stumbled hilariously on the boxes lining the pantry, and fell hard right onto Crookshanks, who proceeded to meow angrily and flap his furry tail into Ron’s face, leaving his gaping mouth full of ginger.

Certainly, this helped the almost grin complete itself.

Things were looking up.

A few weeks before Christmas, a joint and democratic decision was made that they would shop together for gifts in the village after classes had ended, before the weekend rush. This meant that Hermione had bossed them both out into the freezing street while Harry was still missing a glove. He summoned it easily (he was becoming frighteningly good with wandless magic, to the point the Ron worried his keeping tabs on the wand was becoming rather useless as a whole), but raised two uncertain eyes at them, rubbing his hands together.

“Come on,” Hermione said sharply. “We’d better go now, before the crowds settle in.”

Comprehension was followed promptly by gratitude, and he followed them less hesitantly into the deserted village.

They spent a long while in Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop, out of which they had to pull Hermione by the strings of her self-knit beanie, squeaking about the importance of the instruments used to write out Christmas cards. They encountered a similar problem in Tomes and Scrolls. When Ron finally managed to drag her out and into Honeydukes (“Obviously the best present to get is food—“ “I wish you heard yourself speaking, sometimes—!”), it was already getting dark. Harry had remained amusedly silent throughout the many arguments, but followed dutifully, happier to remain in the empty streets rather than entering shops where the clerics were likely to gape at him. Of course, most did not approach him, frightened both by Ron’s glare and, Ron later found out, Hermione’s forewarning. 

“So I came earlier this morning to ask them to keep their handshakes to themselves,” She muttered, red faced, at his whispered question. “Is that a crime now?”

“Of course not,” Ron said in a hurry. “I was just—“

“I’m just trying to make this… uneventful.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s our first… outing. I guess. I just want it to go well.”

Ron watched the seriousness with which she bit her fingernails.

“What else have you done?”

“There’s a local Quidditch match today,” Hermione muttered, glancing around suspiciously, but Harry was outside, looking thoughtfully down the street, not listening to them. “Village is emptier than usual… And I got Madam Rosmerta to have an open night at the Three Broomsticks, so anyone who’s not rooting for the Hoggie Fliers or the Sprinting Mead would be there.”

Ron whistled. “That’s really thoughtful of you.”

“It’s like you said,” Hermione replied, smiling at him. “Just need to be here, don’t we?”

He watched her walking towards a shelf of toads, red, shocked that she had remembered. 

They rushed through Dogweed and Deathcap (“As if Neville doesn’t know this place by heart, as it is!” Hermione moaned distraughtly, looking through shelves of foreign flora) and Gladrags Wizardwear (“Don’t you think that looks a little bit…” “It’s for Luna, Ron. The stranger, the better…”), but took their time in Spintwitches, where Harry actually showed hesitant interest in the new Commet 17. When they left, laden with bags and arguing blissfully over gifts Hermione should or should not buy for Ron’s parents, they did not notice the path. It took Harry’s prolonged silence at Ron’s plea for a sound voice in the madness for them to notice something was wrong.

“What?” Ron asked, the bags suddenly heavier in his arms, the lighthearted cheer quenched. “What?”

“Nothing,” Harry, said, shaking his head. “No. Nothing. Err. I think hand-knit mittens enough for Mrs. Weasley, Hermione.”

But he was white and pale. Ron looked around confusedly. When he saw it, he wanted to kick himself. Right before them, tall and dark, was the Hog’s Head.

“Oh, God,” Hermione squeaked, and Ron felt her tensing next to him. “Harry, I’m—“

“It’s fine,” Harry said stoically, not looking at them, walking forward. Hermione had frozen, and Ron lingered between them unsure. All her plans had become moot, and she stood thunderstruck with her hands rigidly holding the bags at her sides. Harry’s eyes were empty. “Let’s just keep going.“

“But I didn’t mean— and the Hog’s Head— I’m such an idiot—!“

“It’s fine,” Harry said again. He’d paused, and she looked at him imploringly, hands over her mouth. 

“I never meant— this wasn’t supposed to be—“

“It’s fine.”

There were tears in her eyes. But Ron was watching Harry.

“But— Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry—“

“Hermione, let’s just go,” Ron said suddenly. 

Something had dawned on him. He watched Harry averting his gaze, standing rigidly, wanting to leave.

She turned distressed brown eyes at him.

“Come on,” He said. “Let’s just… keep going.” Her eyes were confused. He took her hand in his, and glanced at Harry, who was looking at the floor. “Come on,” He said again. “We don’t have to stop here. We can just… move forward.”

He thought Harry’s head jerked in his direction.

He started walking, and soon Harry was following after him, Hermione hesitant behind, her fingers lightning in his hand.

When Ron glanced sideways, he saw that Harry had been looking at him, and his eyes were bright and grateful.

Just keep moving forward. 

One morning Ron woke up confused, not having been woken once during the night.

He found Harry already in the kitchen, reading through a large Defense book.

“Did you dream anything?” He asked, as nonchalantly as he could, while setting the kettle to brew with his wand.

Harry was flipping pages still. “Yes. Did I wake you?”

“No. You should have.”

“No, it was a regular dream. Like I used to have before.”

Ron looked up, surprised. “Not a nightmare?”

Harry glanced at him, and then back down. He seemed to be deliberating.

“A nightmare,” He said, for once not painting reality pink, and Ron was filled with both sadness and pride. Harry, sighed over his text book. “Always a nightmare…”

But it was. It was always a nightmare. 

Ron thought he could tell them apart better now. He knew when it was the battle being replayed, and when it was the dead ghosts come to visit. He knew when it involved his own death, and when it involved blank oblivion. Harry had always been a violent dreamer, and would twist and turn and mutter or even speak in his sleep. Ron had become an expert at finding the right moment to wake him so that he would be the most coherent when his eyes opened.

They were now practicing spells of advanced dueling in the Seventh Year NEWT class. It was hard comparing the Harry in the class with the one at night. In class he was vibrant and energetic and almost happy. At night, he was broken and shaky, his eyes empty, dreading the moment he’d fall asleep. Ron had never seen him more frightened of anything, not the prophecy or the war or dementors or the thought of death… He would lay dreading on the mattress, jumping up at the smallest of noises.

“Are you here?” He would ask  deep into the night, his voice gruff and husky. 

“I’m here.” Ron would say, watching fingers clenching and unclenching over the blanket. 

“Don’t leave.” Harry would whisper after a long time.

“I’m not leaving.” Ron would answer, and mean it with every fiber of his being. 

Weeks passed, and soon Neville was giving Harry smaller and smaller doses of roots.

“Eventually, we can stop all together,” He said happily, one night after they’d come back from the village, and Ron watched Harry smile his horrible, fake smile. Neville couldn’t tell and grinned back.

“What’s the matter?” Ron asked once Neville had left. Harry glanced at him, and shrugged. “Harry, come on.”

“Nothing.”

“Come on.”

“I… I’m not going on about DSP, alright?” Harry muttered into his book, not looking up, rubbing his thumb on the side of the counter. “But not using it… All it means is that I get to dream more and more every night.”

He was right. Though his nightmares were less violent, and though he could tear himself away from them before waking anyone, usually, the dreams continued unrelenting.

“You should talk to someone,” Hermione said when this concern was voiced in front of her.

“Hermione, please.” Harry’s eyes were deadened.

“I’m just saying—“

“Then don’t.”

Ron’s fighting abilities had never been so acute. Harry taught them spells out of books he fished out of the library. He practiced them on his own in the flat before lessons, and when he did, he was calm and focused, unbothered by dark thoughts. In class he had a way of explaining magic as if it was more than a tool, but an extension of the self. He spoke of dueling as movement, as instinct, as life, and Ron watched him breathlessly, seeing remnants of his best friend peeking through. At the end of the second week of December, they held a dueling tournament. Neville had won. Harry gave him a true, radiant smile.

He ate an entire half of a serving that night in the Three Broomsticks, and spent the night in animated discussion with Hannah over wandlore. They all stayed up late, talking, and the others only left close to one. Before he went, Harry looked at Neville expectantly.

“Not tonight,” Neville said, shaking his head. “Try it on your own tonight.”

Harry’s face stiffened. “Neville—“

“Just try it, Harry, please?”

There was a breathless silence, as eyes were averted, and Ron saw Hermione look at Harry’s face intently. 

Then he nodded, rigidly, plastered the smile. Ron felt his stomach rolling. But Harry’s voice was light. “Alright,” He said, nodding still. “Yeah. Yup. Ok.”

Ron was awoken by threshing and moaning.

He stumbled out of his blankets, and got to his knees next to the other bed. Harry’s eyes were open, but he was still locked in the dream.

“Harry.”

Green met blue, but it was like the sight burned him, and he turned away immediately to look at something else.

“Harry—“

“Go away.” It was a whisper. “Go… away—“

“Harry, it’s Ron. Wake up.”

Harry was shaking his head and strangled cries escaped him, but Ron pressed his hands over his arms stubbornly. “Harry, you’re dreaming—“

“…D-dead,” He was shaking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry…”

Ron’s blood ran cold. Harry’s eyes were shut tightly and Ron was afraid to touch him, afraid to breathe. 

“I’m not dead,” He said, and his voice broke. “I’m not dead, you’re dreaming, I’m right here, wake up—“

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please just leave, please, please, I’m sorry—“

“Harry.” His hands were over his again, but he didn’t see him. Ron shook him, desperation seizing him. “Harry, WAKE UP!”

He grabbed his head, forcing him to look at him. There was so much pain in the green, and blame, and exhaustion. But Ron looked at him unyieldingly, and the shuddering breathes grew more still and even. The eyes focused. Harry’s body lost its rigidity, and slumped feebly in the bed.

“Ron.”

“Yes.”

“You… you were—“

“I’m fine. It was a dream.”

Ron took his hands off Harry’s face, reluctantly, and Harry sat up with a groan, rubbing his scar.

“What time is it?”

“Just after three.”

Harry swallowed, embarrassed.“Sorry,” He muttered. “We should go back to sleep.”

Ron made no move back to the bed, but Harry fell back onto the pillow.

“I’ll get some more roots from Neville.”

“Ron, it’s the middle of the night.”

“It doesn’t matter, you need—“

“Let's just go to sleep. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“I DON’T CARE THAT YOU WOKE ME!” Harry jumped, and Ron tried to calm himself. He stood up. “Wait here.”

He left, dragged Neville out of bed, and was met with a round of questions.

“But Ron, look, the nightmares— he needs to deal with them, potions aren’t a good answer—“

“Not yet. Neville, you weren’t there. Please, just get me the roots and I’ll get out of your hair.”

He gave him a small portion, and Ron went back to Harry.

But he was already asleep, so he put the root on the night stand and got into his own bed, wondering when this particular nightmare was going to end. 

The next morning, Hermione was angry with him.

“You didn't hear him,” He told her during Transfiguration, under his breathe. “It’s just as bad as with the Dreamless Sleep only he doesn’t make as much noise. It’s not a joke, Hermione, it's not over reactions, and Merlin, it’s not a potions experiment— it’s horrible, and it’s every night, and he’s—“

“I know, Ron, I know, but you realize that this isn’t about potions or roots, it’s about Harry having to deal with things, and if dreams are the way he does it—“

“You can’t deal with things when you’re unconscious, Hermione!”

“Yes, you can, and considering the fact that he won’t talk to anyone about anything more touchy than Quidditch, I don’t see any other way for it to be dealt with!” She hissed, and her eyes were angry. “Don’t give him the root, all right? It’s better he has nightmares than he get addicted to something else. I know it’s terrible, but Ron, the war was terrible and Harry needs to deal with it or he’d never be able to function on his own. He needs to face it, and we need to help him, not put sticks in his way and give him easy escapes that’ll only make it worse.”

He agreed, grudgingly, and gave the root back to Neville, who seemed relieved. But that night, Harry also went to the flat over theirs, asking for it.

“Maybe just one more night,” He told Neville. “Just… just for tonight.”

“Harry, it’s better without it. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

Harry didn’t argue, and went heavily into bed.

Ron woke up to hissing.

He was facing the other direction, and for a minute he lay confused, not remembering where he was. He’d had a dream about Fred, a good dream, and George had been laughing, but now there were hissing behind him and it didn’t fit with the joke.

Then he shook himself, and twisted quickly, sitting up.

“HARRY!”

He dropped next to him and grabbed his hands, but Harry fought him and kicked and scratched. Ron tried to avoid being hit, but realized it was no good and went all in, ignoring the blows. 

“GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT—“

“STOP, HARRY IT’S A DREAM!”

“GET IT OUT GET IT OUT—“

Finally, he managed to wrench Harry’s hands away from his scar. Hermione ran into the room, and gasped.

Harry’s forehead was ripped open and bleeding. Ron pinned his hands to his sides, and the nails were covered in blood. He was still screaming.

“GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT—”

“HERMIONE!”

She unfroze and left the room with a small squeak, returning with her wand. She healed the wound around the scar and sat next to them, looking lost.

“What do I do?”

“Help me— OW! Help me get him to stop moving…”

They tried to wake him up, but Harry didn’t seem to know they were there. Finally Hermione fashioned binds, and put them over the flailing wrists still trying to dig into the new tender skin over the scar, so that Harry couldn’t move his arms, pinned to the bed, and Ron could let go, panting.

“Can we please get the root now?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, Ron, I told you—“

“Yeah, yeah, I know!”

He looked miserably at the mattress, and Harry was still hissing and twisting. He tried to wake him again, to no avail. Hermione’s hand closed over his, and she pulled him to his feet. 

“He’ll wake up on his own,” She said, trying to sound assuring, and pulled him out of the room. “Come on. I’ll make you tea.”

They sat at the kitchen, seeping, speaking in hushed voices.

“What did McGonagall say to you this morning?” He asked, trying to get his head out of the bedroom.

“She wanted to say things seemed better. In class. She checks sometimes.”

Ron glanced darkly at the bedroom.“Yeah. Just jolly good over here.”

“Well, yes, but at least—”

“How much longer is this going to last, Hermione?”

She shrugged helplessly, and stared into her cup. 

Ron sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Then a yelp came out of his room.

They ran over, and Harry was awake.

But his eyes were wide and scared and horrified, and he stared at them and didn’t seem able to form words.

“It’s ok, Harry, you—“

“What did I do?”

Ron came forward slowly, and Harry shrunk away from him. 

“WHAT DID I DO?”

“Nothing! Merlin, nothing!”

But Harry was looking at his bloodied hands in the binds, and he seemed like he was going to be sick.

Realizing what it must look like, Ron spoke quickly, kicking himself. “No, no, Harry— you hadn’t— those are just for—“

Ron couldn’t find the words, and Hermione came gently to the mattress and pulled the binds open, but Harry jumped away from her and crawled backwards into a corner, his face contorted and terrified, hands held before him.

She tried speaking soothingly. “Nothing happened,” She explained. “You were having a dream, we thought you’d hurt yourself—“

“ARE THEY OK?”

“Everyone’s fine, everything’s fine, nothing happened—“

But Harry wasn’t listening. He got to his feet unsteadily, and stumbled to the side, avoiding them, reaching the door and walking through it without looking back. Ron tried to stop him but he pulled away, and stumbled to the kitchen. Hermione ran after.

“What are you doing?” she asked with trepidation.

“Where are they?”

“Where are what?”

“The vials, Hermione WHERE ARE THE VIALS?”

She was trembling. “Harry, you don’t need—“

“YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT I NEED OR DON’T NEED!”

Ron stood next to her, and Harry was opening drawers and cupboards, throwing things out. He wouldn’t look at them still, and his face was white and clammy. “Listen, really, nothing—“

“Give them to me, they’re mine—“ silverware tumbled to the floor, boxes of sugar spilt under the counter. Harry reached into the higher cupboards, scattering plates.

“I threw them away!” Hermione said, hysterically, and Harry froze, hand clasped around the next cupboard, as if she’d hit him. “Harry, please, lets just go back to bed—“

But he was walking towards the exit. “Madam Pomfrey has some in the castle, I’ll—“

Ron rushed to stand in front of the door. 

“Harry, stop.”

“Ron, get out of my way—”

“No, sit down, we’ll make you some tea—“

“I DON’T NEED TEA!”

He didn’t have his wand, but there was a feel of magic in the air, and Harry was shaking.

“I can’t take this anymore,” He said, and his voice was broken. “Ron, let me go, please, I just need one night without the screaming, please, I’ll do whatever you want after, just one night, I can’t hear them—“

Ron felt himself shaking his head, and heard his voice empty in his ears. “Let’s go back to bed. We’ll get the roots from Neville—“

“THEY DON’T WORK!” 

Hermione tried to touch his arm comfortingly, but Harry pulled away from her, as if stung. She stepped away. “Just… just let me go to Madam Pomfrey, it’ll take ten minutes, just this once—“

“Harry—“

“PLEASE, RON, YOU CAN’T HEAR THEM SCREAMING, PLEASE, PLEASE, MOVE OUT OF THE WAY!”

There was a BANG, and Ron felt a wave of magic hit him, and he was on the floor and Harry flung the door open above him but Hermione had her wand out and the door shut closed again.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Harry’s voice said, small and betrayed. Ron wanted to strangle someone. “I’m not… I just need— Please, Hermione, I just want to close my eyes without the screaming. I just have to— I can’t— I can’t…” He was on his knees, and Ron felt sick, and Hermione’s wand was shaking. “Please, just let me out, just—“

“Harry, if you use it again you won’t be able to stop, it’ll be just like starting over again—“

“Just one night, please, please, I’ll do anything, please—“

Ron got to his feet and walked toward him carefully, but Harry put his hands in his hair and was rocking back and forth, his words cutting into them like burning knives. 

“I’m sorry about the binds,” Ron said, speaking softly, and Harry looked up at him and eyes were agonized. “I’m sorry, it was a stupid idea. Nothing happened. You didn’t do anything. It was just a dream. Everyone’s fine and Harry, you’re doing so much better, please don’t ask us to give up on you.”

Harry was shaking his head, and tears streamed down his cheeks. He sat with his back to the door, his knees at his chest, rocking, and they stood over him, frightened, waiting. He didn’t say anything for a long time.

Then he cleared his throat, shook his head, cleared his throat again. When he spoke, his voice was a dead man’s, hoarse and dry and empty.

“Fred died because I was stupid,” He said, and his eyes stared into the air. “And Tonks, I saw her going in, I told her where to go—“

Ron looked at Hermione, and she looked back, wordless. He breathed deeply. 

He sat next to him. “They died fighting for what they believed in,” He said, and his voice broke too. “They died to stop him, they would have gone whether we were there or not, they would have fought with or without you—“

But Harry was shaking his head and rocking, and he put his head into his arms. “We could’ve— I should’ve—“

Hermione sat on his other side, and she was crying too. “There was nothing we could have done differently. They died proud, Harry. And we beat him. You beat him.”

He was shaking his head, and whispering, and Ron strained to hear but it was an unintelligible stream, so he put his arm around his shoulders and Hermione placed her bushy head on the other one. 

“It was the last stand,” She was saying. “The last war lasted eleven years, this one was only three. One battle, one stand, horrible, terrible, but it’s over, and it couldn’t have been over without it.”

There was silence. Harry shook.

“Mom wants you to come over for Christmas,” Ron said. “She’s worried about you. She’s afraid you’re upset with us. And Teddy— Harry, he’s getting so much bigger—“

Harry grew rigid at his side, and suddenly the words he was whispering were clearer. Ron’s heart was beating powerfully, and his throat constricted.

“… oblivion, please, just once, I’ll do anything…”

“The shop’s a big success. Perce is ecstatic, he loves it, George keeps teasing him about wasting his time on grades and school—“

“Please, Ron, please, stop it, I can’t — I don’t know what— just one night, please—“

Ron’s voice was a whisper. “I can’t watch you destroying yourself, Harry.”

“I’m… I don’t… deserve…please…”

“You should come with us to Diagon Alley. Everything’s open again, all colorful and full of noise, the Cauldron’s full all the time, we can go look at brooms, owls…”

“STOP, Ron, stop—“

But he didn’t pull away, and Ron kept talking, and Hermione too, and Harry shook between them until dawn broke though the clouds and the world was light again.

Chapter Text

His

It was a month worth dying for.

A month of diapers and sleepless nights and first almost-smiles. A month of vibrant blue and exuberant pink, of stolen, exhausted kisses and spittle covered bed sheets more inviting than feather pillows. A month of forgetting about the moon.

Because he was the moon.

Small, round, large eyed. Shinning. His. His. 

His little boy.

Blue hair like a ray of soft, precious moonshine.

And her.

Her.

Her with her clumsy ecstasy and her bellowing, careless laugh.

Her with her soft hands and her beautiful, off pitch singing.

Her with her eyes never looking away.

Never looking away.

She was the sun. 

And they were his. 

His. 

It was a month worth dying for.

He stepped out of Ariana’s portrait, into a room he had never seen. An old excitement exploded in his chest, and he could almost imagine Sirius, like he had been Before, laughing maniacally and jumping around.

Do you see it, Moony? We found another secret room— this one’s for the map! Wait till I tell James—

The taste of her chocolaty lips was still with him, mixed with salty tears. His fingers prickled where he last touched the sleeping form of his newborn son. Little ears, little nose, little eyelashes. He had kissed his forehead, but the child did not stir.

Told you it was something special, Moony. Told you. There’s nothing like it. A son.

My son, He thought, and in his mind, James was smirking at him with his I Told You So smirk. Mine. My son.

And James’s son stood there, all grown up, his green eyes calm and focused. He caught Remus’s eye. Remus felt his heart skip a beat.

Something special, James whispered, his hazel eyes shinning beneath rectangular spectacles. He’s something special, isn’t he, Moony? 

Yes,  He thought back. Yes, he really is.

Enough with the girly mish mash, Sirius exclaimed. It’s time to kick some Death Eater butt!

You’re such a child.

You’d give anything to be like me.

Yeah. Give me a sec to curb my enthusiasm.

 Settle down, Remus thought at them. Professor McGonagall’s about to start talking…

He stood and listened to Shacklebolt speak. When he walked out the other man clasped him brotherly, meeting his eyes.

“One last battle,” He said, in his deep, calming voice. 

“One last battle,” Remus replied. 

One last battle, he told them, and James put this hand over his shoulder, ruffling his hair and smiling his assuring smile. Sirius tried to rip open his robe, but settled for tapping him smartly on the forehead.

You’ve got your sun and moon to get to, He said, and pulled his head back, laughing.

Remus closed his eyes, and looked out the window, seeing the moon shinning bright over the forest.

One last battle, he swore to his sun and his moon.

***

Chapter Eighteen: Christmas 

They stepped into the Defense classroom for third hour, but all the desks were still in rows, and Harry was standing next to the board, explaining something to two large eyed Ravenclaws.

There was writing on the board, and the two boys looked at it in concentration, and Harry was pointing and explaining.

“But is it yanked out, or does your hand just open?”

“Yanked. Not only a wand, either, you can do it with almost anything.”

“And can you control where it lands?”

Harry nodded. “You should be able to get it to come to you, so you can catch it easily, by the end of the year.”

“And what if you’re good at the spell, but just not so good at catching things?”

Harry laughed, and Hermione’s ears were ringing with it, she hadn’t heard it in so long. “First get the wand out of their hand, and if need be, we’ll dedicate and entire lesson to… er, catching.”

The two boys walked away, talking excitedly, and Harry wiped the board with a spell and turned to them.

“Hey,” He said. “Want to help me move these?”

They magicked the desks and tables to the sides of the room, leaving the familiar space clear. There were still ten minutes for lunch, and Hermione watched Harry carefully.

He was wearing the same charms he always used when he was in the castle, which meant that he looked in perfect health. She was glad, at least, that he’d stopped using them when he was with them, because they made her nervous, not knowing what was really beneath. But now, as she watched him flipping through the textbook, engaged, she felt her throat constricting. It was almost like old times.

They couldn’t see the dark circles under his eyes. He was fuller, less gaunt, and his hair was messy on his head, falling in his green, vibrant eyes. She could almost imagine they were sixth years, complaining about nonverbal spells, and that soon he’d get tired of it and declare that it’s been too long indoors, time to go flying…

Harry looked up, noticed her looking, and blushed uncomfortably. He turned the textbook around, pointing at the page.

“Like it?”

She looked. “I’ve never heard of it.”

It was a spell, complete with history, etymology, side effects, wand movement, and a drawing of the expected results. She skimmed through it, intrigued.

“This wouldn’t be on the NEWTs,” She said, and Harry shrugged. 

“I know, but this spell’s really useful. And it’s nonverbal. You could use it for bonus points.”

He raised his wand, pulled the sleeves back, and pointed his wand at Ron, raising his eyebrows.

“Go ahead.” Ron said eagerly.

Harry waved his wand, wordless.

Ron stepped back, his eyes wide. “That’s… cool.”

“How many do you see?”

He looked around in a circle, amused. “About twenty. And they’re all moving differently, like each is a different person…”

“But they’re all me?” Harry asked, and Ron nodded. 

“Yup. One of them’s casting— hey!” He jumped, but nothing had happened. Still, Ron rubbed his arm, surprised. “Alright, lift it, it’s creeping me out. It’s like that night at your relatives’s all over again.”

Hermione shot Harry a look. Mad Eye Moody had died that night, and George had been injured. But Harry lifted the spell, and glanced at the book again, without comment.

People filed into the room, and they didn’t have a chance to pursue the topic. Soon they were paired up, working on the charm.

“One person needs to practice casting,” Harry was saying, loudly, over the chatter, “And the other person needs to practice recognizing who the real attacker is.” This had not been written in the book, and Hermione was privately impressed. As Ron cast the spell on her, her vision filled with twenty tall gingers, grinning sheepishly. One of them winked, and she turned her wand at him, but the others just laughed, shaking their heads.

It had been a very good lesson, and by the time it was over everyone were smiling and speaking excitedly.

“An essay on recognizing the enemy,” Harry called after them as they left. “For next week!”

They were alone again, and he sat on his desk to look through the book once more.

“You don’t think fourth years can handle shrinking charms, do you?” He asked conversationally. 

“We learned it in DA, and there were some fourth years there,” Ron said, and Harry seemed thoughtful.

“Say, are you coming to dinner at the Three Broomsticks? Or will you be grading papers again?” Hermione asked, nonchalant. It was a daily thing, them going to dinner, Harry staying to work, and not eating the food they brought back for him. 

“No,” He said, and she hid a sigh. “No, I think I’ll go flying.”

There was a thunderous silence, and Harry glanced up, confused.

“What?”

“Nothing,” They said together, and he eyed them strangely. Ron recovered quickly. “Can I join? I haven’t been on a broom in ages.”

“Sure.”

“Alright then.”

Silence. Harry looked from one to the other, and he folded his arms together, wand poking out, looking irritated.

“What?”

“Nothing!”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t you have Charms now, anyway?”

They did, and they were late. Still, as the door shut behind them, Ron gave her a look of pure excitement, and she beamed at him, and it was the greatest feeling in the world. 

They flew over the lake, not talking.

Ron studied Harry carefully, trying not to show it. His friend always looked most natural when he was on a broom, and tonight was no different— his movements were fluid, confident, in sync. It seemed like the broom was part of him, and it answered his every touch perfectly, balanced and light. 

Harry’s robes flapped behind him, and his hair was sticking up by the wind. He was looking at the horizon, deep in thought, and the spells that usually hid his pain were gone, now that they were alone, to reveal the true picture.

Ron hated him like that.

He knew that it was better. That Harry had hidden behind the charms. That he’d spent months perfecting them, pretending to be fine, and that it was a large part of the reason he’d gotten so far from himself, part of the reason it took everyone so long to figure out he was falling apart beneath. Both Hermione and Neville said that the fact that he wasn’t using the charms with them anymore was good, an improvement, an encouraging sign. But Ron hated it. With his entire heart.

When Harry was in class, and the charms were up and buzzing, Ron could pretend that everything was fine. That they were in the DA again, and Harry was making up a curriculum as part of a rebellious effort against Umbridge. That if he wanted, Ron could talk to him about anything, and not be afraid to breech a topic that’ll send him into a whirlwind, or into a morbid silence. He could pretend Harry never told him to point a wand at him and cast a killing curse. That he’d never fallen on his knees, begging for an addictive potion. That he never looked at him with wide staring eyes full of agony, pleading with him not to die.

Now, charmless, these memories were unavoidable. Harry’s hands were thin on the broom handle, the nails bit to the bone, and his robes hang off him, hardly covering his skeletal body. He was pale and his eyes were hallow and the large black circles underneath them made him look like a ghoul. His eyes blinked slowly, painfully, and he held himself differently— even on the broom, his shoulders were haunched and his head bowed, as if the weight of the world was too heavy to carry. As he looked at the lake, his expression shifted, and for a minute he’d look almost happy, breathing in the fresh air, but then it would darken, and Ron knew he was thinking about the battle, about the things he’s done there and the things he hadn’t done.

He noticed Ron was looking, and smiled at him, a confident, happy, false smile that never reached his eyes. Ron smiled back, less convincingly, and his chest tightened. He hated that smile.

It was frustrating. He wished Harry would stop doing that. He knew that he was trying to calm them, to make things normal again, to make them happy. Maybe he, too, was missing the old times, when they could sit and laugh for hours at things Malfoy did, and talk about Quidditch, and not worry about the fate of everyone they cared about. Harry wanted to forget the war, too. But the smile wasn’t helping. It only made things worse.

“Race you to the castle,” Harry called, turning his broom back the way they’d come, and Ron copied him obediently. The wind hit his face powerfully, chasing the thoughts away, and exhilaration filled him, and Harry was grinning and it was a real grin this time, and he was washed with a memory of Quidditch Practice, sixth year, after they’d won the match against Slytherin—

They landed in the pitch, panting.

As they stood in silence looking at the castle, the smile slid off Harry’s face.

Ron followed his gaze. He recognized the window. Seventh floor, right next to the Room of Requirements. Where Fred had died. 

When he looked back, Harry had reapplied the charms, and too vibrant green eyes met his, calm.

“Let’s go back,” Harry said, but he couldn’t charm his voice to be happy.

Days passed, and Hermione heard Harry laugh three more times. 

The first time was Neville’s doing. He was putting on a show for Hannah, casting spells with his wand, making the tea cups dance. All was going great, until she’s grabbed the wand playfully away from him, and, panicked, he tried to catch the tea cups before they fell. They would have landed orderly on the table under Hannah’s guiding charm— but Neville interfered, and so they clattered to the floor, shattering all over his feet.

“Just don’t tell Professor Trewlany,” Neville said, as Hannah laughed. “She’ll have a field day…”

And then it happened. More of a chuckle than anything, but it was there, loud and clear amongst their own laughter, and Harry’s eyes were bright with it, clear from dark thoughts. Ron had grabbed her hand discreetly, and squeezed. No one else noticed. It seemed natural and right.

The second time was better. They were sitting in the flat, and Luna was reading something out of the Quibbler. She had come up with a new imaginary animal, and was enticing them with tales of giant mosquitoes taking over Britain. It was seven minutes before Hermione couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Luna, honestly, muggles fall in love for the same reasons wizards do, not because giant eyed mosquito cupids sucks their blood,” She said, rolling her eyes, and Harry’s face broke into a grin, as if he was remembering something funny. 

The third time was her favorite, and it happened on Christmas eve. They’d decided to stay in the village and not return home, despite Mrs. Weasley’s imploring. Harry was doing better, eating more, having less nightmares— they didn’t want to ruin it by forcing him back to the Burrow, to be confronted with everything that was holding him back. So they bought their own tree, and Ron sat with an open book on decorations and charmed them clumsily onto its branches. Neville found some flower that gave out a smell of reindeer, and Ginny and Luna came over to stay and slept with Hannah and him, so they could hear them deep into the night, chatting a floor above them. 

Cooking was out of the question, as was the Hogwarts Feast, so they booked sits at the Three Broomsticks, where Madam Rosmerta was making a night of it, inviting many of the families that lived in the village to take part in the celebration. Their table was laden with ludicrous amounts of food, and Ron piled Harry’s plate and Harry swallowed and nodded weakly, but picked up a fork and tried his best, which they all appreciated. Sometimes near midnight, Dean pulled up a bag of Every Flavor Beans, and as the table was cleared they sat around laughing and trying them, as if they were third years on the train.

To great applause, Ron picked up a red one with little purple dots. He eyed it suspiciously, and then placed it carefully into his mouth.

His face was priceless.

“Merlin’s woolly socks!” He gasped, when he was able to speak again, over their rolling laughter. “It tasted like Crabbe!”

Harry had been seeping his butterbeer, and now he was choking on it, and it spurted out of his nose as he coughed, laughing. 

When they finished the beans, they stood, paid, and started making their way back to the flats. It was past midnight, and Hermione was warm despite the snow, and Ron’s arm was over her shoulders, and he was grinning like he used to before, when she used to watch him in the common room. The village was beautiful, decorated with charmed Christmas lights, and people were caroling in the streets. Tomorrow they would sleep in, and have a delicious breakfast, and open presents and forget about school and the war. And Harry would be laughing. That most of all.

It was snowing lightly, and Ginny had Harry’s coat pulled over her. His smell engulfed her, and she breathed in deep. Harry himself was talking with Neville, speaking about the recent Prophet reporting of caught Death Eaters, and Auror training, which they were both considering. Hermione was laughing at something Dean said, which made Ron go into a very long, very unfunny joke he’d heard once with a good twist, and Hermione laughed harder just to see the relief on his face. 

“Harry?” 

“Yeah?”

“Walk with me.”

He followed her to the side, and she put her hand into his, and he didn’t pull away.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to hold your hand.”

He chuckled, a real laugh, and his smile was genuine. 

“What did you think of the game?”

They discussed it animatedly, exchanging Captaincy stories, and his eyes were green and bright and happy. They walked a distance behind the rest, and it felt almost like privacy. His hand was large and warm in hers, and his smell was all over the place, and though he was too thin and too pale with dark shadows under his eyes, he looked shockingly better than that first time in his flat, and it made her full of hope and excitement.

“Please,” He was saying, and his hand squeezed hers, his eyes rolling in that way that made her knees go weak, “Do not talk to me about Cormac McLaggen.” She laughed, and Harry grinned at her. She wanted him to kiss her, and was thinking of the best way to go about it when the air around her turned freezing cold.

Her steps faltered. This was not the kind of cold to be explained away by weather. It was piercing, penetrating, the kind that clasps into your bones and fills your lungs with frost. Ginny huddled into Harry’s coat, her fingers freezing inside woolen gloves, and she rubbed them together to try to get the blood flowing again.

“Where are the others?” Harry said, and his voice was different. He was looking out at the path, his brow creased, blinking quickly. 

They were alone, the others far off ahead, their footprints already vanishing under new snow.

“Come on,” He said, pulling her after him, walking faster. But they were advancing towards the cold, and Ginny knew what it was, and she could tell that Harry knew, too. He stopped, staring forward, and they came out of the mist: three, four, five, a large group, gliding towards them with their raspy breathes.

“We should go back,” Her voice was too soft to hear.

Harry pulled out his wand, and pushed her behind him. Ginny hadn’t been able to cast a real Patronus in class— her rabbit would only appear when she cast it without the presence of a dementor. Let alone an entire band. Harry’s hand was iron on her wrist, closing more firmly, cutting off her circulation, and it hurt, and Ginny squirmed, trying to break loose, but he didn’t notice, and the wand was shaking in his hand. 

Why wasn’t he casting the spell?

“Harry, you’re hurting me—!”

Why wasn’t he casting the spell?

They came closer, loads of them now, escaped from Azkaban and roaming the world at large, being hunted by Aurors across the country. She shut her eyes, wishing away the memories that now bombarded her thoughts, but they were relentless: Fred laying dead in the Great Hall, George’s face when he saw him, the way she could tell by his eyes that he had already known. Tonks’s tears falling onto Lupin’s tonic as she cradled his head, after finding him in the aftermath of his duel with Dolohov. Harry dead in Hagrid’s arms, his head lolling, his scar stark over his forehead. The cold was all consuming, then, now, and Tom Riddle laughed—

“HARRY!”

He wasn’t moving, and she couldn’t see his face— she struggled against his hold, dug her nails into his fingers, managed to break free, pulled out her wand, gasped: “Expecto Patronum!”

But it was just a mist, and the closest dementor hardly paused. Tom laughed harder. She grabbed Harry’s arm, trying to pull him back, but he was stone, immovable, his eyes fixated on them, and they came closer— closer— the closest reached out a slimy, grayish hand, but Harry didn’t move away—

And then, suddenly, light.

Two silvery beings sprung up out of the line of black-cladded figures, scattering them.

Ginny cried out in relief. The terrier barked silently, and the otter jumped about, whisking its tail threateningly, its fur on edge. As the cold receded, she heard running and the others were back with them, panting and worried, their wands out, their eyes wide. The dementors vanished as one back into the night. 

“Are you ok?” Ron was asking, looking at her, and she nodded. He tried to steady his breathing, put his hand on her shoulder, and squeezed. She was still shivering, but the true cold had now gone. Once again she could see the Christmas lights around her, the moon and the stars.

Ron looked sideways, frowning. “Harry? Why didn’t you cast a Patronus?”

Harry didn’t answer. Ginny was still clutching his upper arm, and now she let go, taking a better look.

“Guess all those lessons paid off, eh?” Seamus said, grinning, not noticing that the others had gone still.

“Harry?” Hermione said, but Harry didn’t look at them. Ginny took his hand again, and squeezed, but it was clammy and lifeless in hers, not squeezing back. He was pale, the merry lights contrasting with the color of his face, making it seem hallow and out of place.

“Come on, let’s go back to the flat,” Ron said, sounding afraid, and she pulled gently. The terrier hadn’t vanished, and it came closer, sniffing around Harry’s feet, and Harry’s head dropped to look at it, but it was as though he stared right through it, a horrible expression on his face.

Ron put his arm over his shoulders, and Harry stiffened, and she heard a rattling breathe. “Come on,” Ron said, in a voice that was both commanding and strained, and seemed to pull Harry with him. Harry’s movements were stoic, but finally he moved, and they walked him back to the flat, rigid and silent. 

Hermione dug up some chocolate but Harry just held it, staring at the wand still in his hand. They’d sat him on the large armchair next to the fire, and were sitting all around, working up a fake conversation while looking at him. He hadn’t said anything, and every few moments he’d close his eyes painfully, as though thinking of something terrible, and then open them again to stare at the wand.

Ron stood up and stepped towards him, stopping so that he loomed over Harry like a tree to a sapling. The fake conversation died out, the crackling fire thundering.

“Harry.”

He shut his eyes.

“Harry. Can I have the wand?”

Nothing. 

Then Harry handed the wand over, but he still didn’t look up. His eyes were in turmoil, boring into the carpet. Ron took it and put it in his pocket, his face somber. 

“Eat the chocolate.”

Harry swallowed. Ginny felt cold again, despite the fire, and she felt herself flinch every time he breathed, because the air seemed to burn down his throat with every inhalation. He shut his eyes again, and when he opened them they were less green, more grey, and Ron stood steady, not looking away.

Harry glanced up. Ron’s voice had been loud and steady, and as he towered, he didn’t break his gaze. Then, with a decisive motion, he pulled the candy out of Harry’s clammy hand and ripped it open, handing it back. The wrapper dropped to the floor and crinkled.  

“Eat the chocolate.”

Harry looked like he was going to say something, but changed his mind, and closed his eyes again. Ron’s voice was becoming less steady. She could hear the strain. 

“Harry, eat the chocolate.”

He brought the bar to his lips, swallowed again, and his mouth closed over it.

But his expression didn’t change. He was looking at the carpet again. Ron was rigid.

“It’s just a dementor,” He said, and now there was definite pleading in his voice. “Harry— don’t let it get to you. It’s just a dementor.”

Harry nodded, and looked up, forced a smile that didn’t fool anyone. Ginny’s fingers felt frostbitten in her lap. He finished the chocolate, still smiling, and Hermione put a steaming cup of tea in his hands, which he seeped compliantly. “I’m fine,” He said, cheerfully, when they kept staring. “It’s fine.”

She hated when he said that.

But apparently Ron was willing to go along with the lie, because he pasted a similarly fake expression on his own face and sat back down, starting to talk loudly with Seamus, who replied even louder. 

Harry was having a hard time hiding his distress, and his breathes were heavy, and he’d stopped seeping, and the tea was getting cold.

She had no idea what he was thinking, or what memories assaulted him when the dementors drew near. In class when they had practiced, he had always stood far away, and she thought it was to get a better look at them practicing— but apparently, not. And still, a boggart and a real dementor were different, and one was different from a horde, and a classroom full of silvery almost-patronuses was different from the cold street, bare and empty and dark.

He saw her looking, and moved uncomfortably. This made the others quiet and look, as well, which made Harry shut his eyes again, as if wishing they weren’t there.

He stood up.

“I forgot something in the castle. I’ll—“

“Get it tomorrow,” Ron said, also on his feet. Harry’s face was hopeless. He shook his head. 

“Ron—“

“You’re not leaving.”

Harry swallowed. He seemed like he was going to fall over, and he looked at Ron imploringly, his breathing strained. But Ron stood stubbornly, on edge, as though ready to pounce if Harry so much as reached for the door. There was silence.

Harry sat back down and put his head in his hands, an air of defeat about him, his eyes full of despair. “You can’t keep me here forever,” He said, so quietly that she could hardly hear him. Ron didn’t answer, and sat back down after a minute, still on edge.

Neville made an attempt to get the conversation on better tracks, but it was useless, and soon they packed the glasses and tea and said their goodnights.

Ginny went up with Luna, Hannah and Neville. Their apartment was warm and cozy, and they’d spread mattresses on the living room floor for her and Luna, but none of them was in the mood to talk. They trudged into bed and she lay awake for a long time, thinking.

The sun will shine and it’ll be better, she thought, watching the Christmas lights glistening out the window. It was just too dark and cold. Tomorrow.

She jumped when the door burst open. Neville and Hannah came running out of their room, and Ron stood in the doorframe, tall and lanky and grey.

“He’s gone,” He said.

Chapter Text

Second Kisses

“Oh— Mrs. Weasley, I’ll do that,” Hermione whispered quickly, pulling the laundry out of Molly’s limp arms. “I’m heading downstairs as it is.”

The older woman blinked slowly at her, her brown eyes oddly empty, and Hermione docked quickly out of the room.

She nearly ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time, though she made sure to deafen her steps and skip over the squeaking ones. In her hurry, she passed over Bill’s room, where she could hear soft French muttered to a morosely silent ear, skipped by the master bedroom, averting her eyes from Mr. Weasley’s silhouette gazing down into the yard, rushed past Percy’s door, beyond which he spent most days with his head in a book, and stopped her breath, as she always did, when she was forced to step by George’s silent room on the way down.

It was five steps. Each was independently excruciating. Once past, she let the air out of her lungs, and made her way lower.

Ginny’s room was empty, as were the living room and kitchen. Hermione dragged the laundry hamper with her into the scullery and placed it on the floor by the water pump. She glanced back nervously, trying to make her heart beat slow.

It was ridiculous. Of course it was. The alert nervousness, the rushing footsteps, the inability to meet anyone’s eyes. Holding her breath when she walked past George’s bedroom… She knew she was acting strangely, that her behavior was unhelpful. But she couldn’t help it. She didn’t know what else to do. 

It had been nearly a month since the Battle, and still, walking around the Burrow was like walking around a hospital ward. No one spoke, and if Hermione ever did, she felt like her voice carried around the silent halls, obtrusive, invasive, and rude. So she did not speak. Her voice was so underused, she was certain she’d have trouble using it again when this ended.

She pulled the cloths out, magicking them through the mangle with repetitive, rhythmic movements of her wand. She watched the old apparatus twist, pull, and squash loudly, letting her thoughts wonder off. 

She was never sure if she was an intruder in this grieving house, or a needed comfort. She tried to find ways to help out, whether it be laundry, cleaning, grocery shopping, or reading out the Prophet every morning, as she had begun to do. Her parents had demanded her immediate return home after she and Ron had retrieved them from Australia. But she could not go. She couldn’t go back to her yellow room with the shelves of muggle adventure stories and the wind chime over the window. Not after everything. She was a different person now.

Ron had been so happy to go. When she asked him to join her, he couldn’t wait long enough to pack. And while they were there, in the fresh salty air, surrounded by muggle tourists and sunshine and joy, she saw his face light up like it had Before, blue eyes sharp and acute, mouth always open with a smile or a joke or simple, curious wonder. They had walked into her parents’s apartment holding hands. She had sat next to him as she introduced herself. He had held her hand, and hers shook in his, but he had made her stronger.

Then they returned.

Hermione leaned back against the door, and closed her eyes. The mangle worked steadily, its soft thumps reverberating in the small room. She pulled loose strands of hair behind her ear, realized she was biting her lip, and scolded herself into stopping. Her hands were tight around her chest, her robes disorganized over her. She opened her eyes to glance at her fingernails, bit to the bone. 

Everything was different. The world was not as it had been before. Where once was warmth and love and certainty, now were cold and anger and doubt. The air was heavy with unspoken words. And it wasn’t fair, that a family that had given so much, would lose so heavily.

What was she supposed to say?

She felt tears on her cheeks, and wiped them angrily with the back of her hand. What to say? What words were there to comfort? What light in the dark?

As she always did, she counted them in her head.

Remus, Tonks, Lavender, Collin. Fred. Two Ravenclaws and three Hufflepuff from their year, a Slytherin sixth year who’d snuck back to fight. People whose faces she knew, but whose names she learned after: ministry officials, older Hogwarts graduates, members of the Order she had seen passing by headquarters but with whom she’d never spoken. Dead and staring, their lives snatched away.

“Hermione?”

She opened her eyes, and stepped cautiously around the mangle.

Ron was sitting under a pile of poorly constructed boxes which were threatening to fall on top of him. His too-long legs were pulled towards his chest, and he was barefoot, red eyed, and smaller than she could ever remember seeing him. 

“Hey,” He said. “Thought you were Mum.”

Ron. Who had retuned from Australia to a house representing the ghost of his childhood. Who played hours of chess daily, keeping his father busy, and who went into George’s room dutifully every afternoon only to come out wordless and grey long minutes after, his voice caught and his breath hitching. Who looked at her with uncertainty, held her hand with shy tenderness, who spoke to her with shattered bravery, insisting on making it through another night. 

“Just me,” She replied in a characteristic whisper.

“Just you,” He repeated, scoffed, a croak of a laugh in the suffocating room. “Just you.” She stepped closer still, and Ron placed his head back against the boxes, his freckles evident over pale skin. His eyes were too wide, like a little boy lost in a dark forest. 

She sat down next to him. The boxes shifted threateningly. Over their heads, the mangle worked and cloths hang themselves magically to dry between shelves of potion ingredients and recipe books. 

She put her hand in his. He pulled it towards him, watching her fingers curl around his. Australia seemed a long way away.

The tears made the freckles seem larger as they slid down his cheeks, collecting at his sharp chin, and dropping down into disorganized, slightly stained robes. His eyelashes were red, and long, and wet. His hair needed cutting, but no one seemed to care about such things anymore.

She tightened her hold on his fingers. Ron cleared his throat, took a deep breathe, and looked desolately at her fingers. 

His fingers were warm.

“In fifth year, right before the last Quidditch game, they sort of… talked to me,” He said, his voice oddly high pitched, jugged and trembling. “I wasn’t… I mean… You remember. I wanted to quit the team. And they asked… if it was them. That I was so panicked over.”

He laughed again, but the laugh was so miserable, it made her heart freeze in her chest. Ron shut his eyes, and the tears squeezed through more urgently, his fingers pressing against hers, pulling her hand towards his chest. “Said I was their favorite to mess with, other than Percy.” He spoke with his eyes on the ceiling far above them, blinking slowly. “Juiciest vocabulary, see, and the highest likelihood of using it next to Mum…”

He lowered his gaze again and met hers, his eyes big and afraid and confused.

“I dunno what to do,” He said, and she tried to smile at him, wiping her eyes. “I dunno… And George, he just— he doesn’t… And I wanna talk to Dad about it but he’s just as… just as… and…”

She pulled his hand towards her and kissed his rough, duel hardened fingers, letting her tears fall onto his spotted skin. 

“I can’t think of them as one,” He whispered. “And Fred… He’d wanted…” He swallowed, and Hermione dug her head into his shoulder. “He had all these plans,” Ron choked, his body taut and rigid, clenching into a smaller and tighter ball. “With the shop… With George… With Katie…”

“Katie?”

“Yeah,” His voice was dripping misery. “Katie. Katie Bell.”

“It’s not fair,” Hermione whispered.

“When he… When it… happened. I was so angry. I just wanted to get some Death Eater back.” 

“I know.”

“But what difference would it have made?” Ron sunk his head into his knees, and his voice came out muffled. “What difference?”

She watched his hand in hers, the sturdy wrist, the long thumb, the pale palm twisted with muscles.

“Ron?”

He was shaking, and it took him a long minute to raise his head and meet her eyes.

She placed a hesitant hand on his cheek, fingers curling around long strands of red hair.

She hadn’t kissed him since the Battle.

His lips tasted like tears and salt.

***

Chapter Nineteen: Horcrux

When they arrived at the apartment beneath, Hermione was standing over a map she’s spread on the living room table, tracing her wand over it, chanting incantations.

“We’ve put a tracking spell on him,” Ron said, non-apologetically, and went over to get his coat. Ginny had changed out of her night things, and now stood in boots and a traveling cloak, her wand in her pocket. Hannah, Luna, Seamus and Dean would stay behind. Ron had asked her to stay too, but she refused, and he didn’t seem to have the energy to fight with her.

“Godric’s Hallow,” Hermione said, and put her wand away. “Either the house or the graveyard, I’d say.”

“Let’s go.” Neville had a bag with him, and she knew there were all kinds of herbs inside. It was the same one he used to carry with him the year before, when at any given moment someone was bound to turn up under the imperious or something worse, and Neville was like their Healer after Madam Pomfrey was sent away— always ready with some magical root up his sleeve.

They disapparated. She’s never been to Godric’s Hollow before, and the street was beautiful. Tall trees, leafless now but probably full in summer, with rows of nice houses on each side, bright with Christmas lights.There were muggle cars hidden beneath mounds of snow, well kept gardens and red tiled roofs. They were standing next to a graveyard, and Hermione slipped inside with Ron at her hills, moving meaningfully, but they were back in under two minutes, shaking their heads. It was after four in the morning, and the snow had stopped, but the sky was full of clouds and the hint of a coming storm. They turned to the road again, and walked quickly towards the ruins at the end of the street.

Ron pulled the old gate open, and it creaked loudly, menacing. The path was overgrown, and plants had sprung up between the rubble, slithering around what must have been a nice garden, once. Ron was leading, and his steps were firm on the snow, his stride purposeful. He arrived at a door, old and weather worn. There were other places they could enter from, she saw, where the windows were broken and the walls had crumbled into nothing, but still Ron raised his hand, and knocked powerfully. She flinched, worried the door would fall in.

“Harry, we know you’re in there. Open up.”

There was no answer. Her breathe was visible fog before her, and she tried to ignore the cold. 

Hermione was looking around, frowning. Ron knocked again.

“There’s a spell on this place,” Hermione said, pulling out her wand and testing the air curiously. “It’s…” She looked up, surprised, and her eyes met Ron’s over Ginny’s head. “I think this is where Harry was during the summer.”

“But we checked here,” Ron said, unconvinced, and Hermione did a complicated gesture with her wand.

“That’s why there’s an enchantment over it,” She said, excitedly. “So we won’t be able to see…”

But Ron didn’t seem to care much about it. “We should try one of the other entrances. Come on, Neville…”

They walked to one of the broken windows, but came back immediately, confused.

“It’s not really broken,” Ron said. “When we tried to go in, it felt like regular glass…”

Hermione turned to the door. “I think…” She sounded excited. Hermione was always excited by complicated magic. She put her wand away, and knocked on the door again.

“Harry?”

Silence.

Ginny cleared her throat.

“Harry. It’s cold.” She said loudly, and Hermione glanced at her, impressed.

For a moment, nothing.

Then sound rose from behind the door, and a lock turned. 

Ginny gasped.

At the moment the lock switched, the ruins vanished. In front of her eyes, the house transformed, its enchantment broken. The door stood tall, new and firm, the wood recently painted. The walls rebuilt themselves, the windows sprung up, red tiles filled the roof. The path cleared, and now the snow was soft and white over a perfectly paved line of dark red stones, arranged pedantically. There was a simple wooden fence surrounding the property, unadorned for Christmas.

The door opened, and Harry looked back at them, rubbing his hands.

“I’ll light the fire,” He said, and walked off, leaving the door open in his steed. 

They stepped in slowly, wordless. The inside of the house was also decorated in red colors, deep and warm. They stepped into a living room, with plush sofas, a carpet, a wooden floor. The walls were bare, but through the windows she could see the street lights outside. An unobtrusive wooden staircase led up to a second floor, where she could see doors to other rooms, and windows, all in perfect condition, as if they’d just been built.

The living room led into a kitchen, and another door led to a dinning room, where a huge table took up all the space. There were large windows opening to a wide patio, where two rocking chairs stood, covered in white. She could hardly see the yard for all the snow, but tall trees surrounded it, winter bare, and she could see beyond the countryside the small lights of other villages glistening far off between the hills.

The hearth flared alive, and she was pulled back to the present. Over it, was the only piece of decoration: a hand drawn picture of two elderly people holding hands, rocking in the chairs on the patio. She moved closer. On the bottom was a signature, and a date. J. Potter, 1979.

Harry had already moved away. On the living room table was a photo album, and Ginny leaned over to look at it. There were pictures of Lily and James Potter, in this house, with these sofas and those rocking chairs, smiling and waving from the old prints.

“This is incredible,” Ginny said, looking up. “Did you do this over the summer?”

She said it loudly, but Harry didn’t answer. He was in the kitchen, and she couldn’t see him.

Hermione was the next one out of the stunned silence, and she strode after him, her footsteps echoing. She walked into the kitchen. They heard her intake of breathe.

They moved as one. In the kitchen, on the opposite wall to the one she’s seen from the entrance, was a clatter of words and colors.

Dozens of photographs, maps, notes, and scribbles were hang one on top of the other. They stretched the entire length of the wall, up to the ceiling, magicked, pinned, glued. She saw random familiar expressions, connected by thinly drawn lines. Dean Forest, Grimauld Place, Gringotts, The Ministry. 

It took her a minute to figure out what it was: the journey Harry, Ron and Hermione had been on in search of the horcruxes. Every step of the way was plotted, marked, charted, easily accessible. There were numbers and charts, things crossed out, arrows and lines and footsteps, magically making their way along the wall. In the center was Hogwarts, and all the arrows led to it.

Harry was looking at the inked castle, an odd expression on his face. It took her a moment to understand why it was odd. It was not pained, despaired, or rigid. He stood with his hands in his pockets, the picture of calm, his brow slightly creased, biting his lower lip thoughtfully, as if he’d done this a hundred times before. It was unnerving.

She tore her gaze off him, her stomach churning. Hermione’s eyes were wide and she had her hand on her mouth. Ron looked like he was fighting back vomit.

Ginny looked back at the wall. It was meticulously made, not a detail forgotten. A physical representation of all the mistakes they’d made along the way, that led, finally, to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Her mouth was dry.

She could imagine Harry, putting up every map, every photo, scribbling the little notes. Working for days and nights, not sleeping or eating, drinking vial after vial of DSP, trying to solve a riddle that shouldn’t be solved. 

“I’m burning it,” Ron said, his voice constricted. He didn’t wait for a response, and stepped forward, raising his hand, and ripped one of the photos off the wall.

It was like the movement jarred them, and now Hermione was making a small pile of shed parchment Ron wrenched savagely off on the floor, vanishing it with her wand nonverbally, her lips tight. Neville was helping Ron, pulling out the little pins, mindless of the maps tearing, the parchment shredded, the neat scribbles torn apart. Slowly the wall showed beneath, bare and clean and innocent.

Harry didn’t try to stop them. He stood, relaxed, his eyes on the remaining parchment, watching it being demolished. His expression was elsewhere. Ginny touched his wrist.

“Let’s go home,” She said, and his eyes were awake and bright and full. But it didn’t make her feel better. He nodded, not smiling, and as Hermione vanished the last of the parchment, he followed them out of the house wordlessly, his eyes still deep in thought.

They were in Hogsmeade before anyone said anything else.

“If you would be so kind,” Ron said, cruelly, not looking at Harry, “as to let us know next time you decide to take a midnight stroll, that’ll be great.” And he vanished into their flat without another word, not looking back. 

Harry didn’t look scolded, and, after glancing at her briefly, made his own slow way in.

Hermione stared after them, playing with her fingers.

“This is bad,” She told them, her face full of concern. “That wall…” She swallowed, shook her head, and gave Ginny a hopeless look.

“We got rid of it,” Neville said, and Hermione smiled at him, but her eyes were sad. 

“I’m pretty sure Harry remembers what was on it, Nev,” She said, quietly, and followed the others into the flat.

***

Harry lay awake listening to Ron sleeping.

The sun was almost up, and the streets of Hogsmeade were splendid with newly fallen snow. The sky was blue and clear. The air smelled like Christmas morning.

Harry’s head was clear, too. More clear that it’s been in months. Everything seems to have fallen into place when he went back to his parents’s house. Now he understood.

They slept till late, because they’ve hardly slept at all during the night, and Harry did not want to wake them. He knew that if he’d waited so far, he could wait a few more hours. They deserved an explanation.

When Ron finally stirred and rose gruffly to his feet, Harry followed. In the kitchen he pulled eggs and bacon out of the little pantry and began making the breakfast he used to make Dudley on his birthdays: greasy and delicious. Hermione woke because of the smell, and they ate in silence, studying him carefully. He kept his face calm, chewing, tasting. 

Flavors filled his mouth, almost colorful, and he relished them. The warmth, the crispiness, the satisfying feel of it down his throat, leaving tingling traces on his tongue. 

Ginny and the rest came down from their apartment, following their noses, and Harry made more food as talk erupted around the table, growing more and more cheerful. The night was forgotten, the dementor a bad dream, because the morning was marvelous and the food was good. Hannah was showing them a new hair pin her cousin sent her from Paris, and Ron, Ginny and Hermione walked around in Mrs. Weasley’s knit sweaters. Neville showed off a new strange looking potted plant, and discussed its functions excitedly with Hermione.

“Let’s go flying,” Ginny said. “Come on, it’s the perfect weather!”

It was, the sky a cloudless blue, cold but clear, and there was a round of agreement. Harry followed them to a large empty field, and as Hermione read a book, they took to the air, zipping around and laughing and throwing snow balls every which way. The broom was firm between his fingers, and he marveled at the feel of the wooden handle, the smell of the twigs. Ginny was laughing, her hair flapping around her as she dodged a curving ball, and her laugh filled him with warmth. He loved the thought of her, laughing, growing old.

He landed next to Hermione, whose book had an old leather cover. “Is it any good?”

She glanced over the pages, and gave him a careful smile. “Yes. You can borrow it, if you want.”

“Maybe another time,” He said, also carefully, and her eyes sharpened on him suspiciously, so he got back on the broom and flew away. He couldn’t talk to Hermione. He needed to talk to Ron.

In the afternoon, Hannah had made tea and invited them all to her and Neville’s apartment. Harry stopped by Ron and Hermione’s flat, pretending to look for something, and as always, Ron stayed with him.

He was sitting, waiting, in one of the armchairs, drinking a butterbeer and reading the Prophet. He had Harry’s wand in his pocket and hadn’t given it back yet, but Harry didn’t need it anymore. He stood for a minute looking at Ron, watching the way he flipped the pages. He wore the mahogany sweater every year, even though he hated it. But that was Ron. Dependable.

He cleared his throat, and sat opposite him. 

“I need to talk to you,” He said, and Ron closed the Prophet slowly, looking up.

“Yeah?”

Harry paused, feeling strange. This needed to be done. He couldn’t back out now. Ron needed to know. He wouldn’t understand, but at least he’d listen. And he’d tell the others. It was better this way.

There was no use kicking around the bush.

“In the forest, after I saw Snape’s memories, I managed to open the Snitch Dumbledore left me in his will.”

Ron was looking at him, motionless, his expression utterly void, as if he was afraid emotion would scare Harry away. The only time they’ve spoken about that night had been weeks ago, when Harry had woken with his hands bound around him, fearing he’d finally hurt one of them. But now Harry could speak of it freely, naturally. Everything made sense, and the pain was gone. He continued, his heart steady in his ears.

“Inside, I found what had been the ring Voldemort had turned into a horcrux. Dumbledore destroyed the part of the soul, but the ring remained. He kept the stone, recognizing it. It was the Resurrection Stone.”

Ron said nothing. His brow was creased.

Harry plowed on. As he spoke, the warmth of certainty filled him, and he was complete. “It was the final piece of the puzzle,” He said. “The final Hallow. My dad’s invisibility cloak was in my pocket, and the Elder Wand was mine. When I walked into the clearing, I didn’t realize it, but I was the owner of all three of the Deathly Hallows. Master of Death.”

He could hear the others laughing at something upstairs. He could tell Ginny’s laugh from the rest, like a bell, and it made him stronger.

“I walked into the clearing. He cast the spell. I woke up at King’s Cross.” This much Ron knew. “I saw the piece of soul that had been inside of me, and I left it there when I came back.”

He looked at Ron, willing him to understand. He didn’t. Harry breathed. 

“The reason the killing curse didn’t kill me wasn’t because it’d already killed the horcrux,” He spoke slowly. “It was because of the Hallows. The horcurx… I just left it there, on the platform. I just left it.”

Ron’s face was pale. 

Harry’s wasn’t.

“My scar has been hurting on and off ever since the battle. At first I thought I was imagining it, but I wasn’t. I could feel it, because I could feel him. When he died, he had no where else to go. He’s weak. But it’s been hurting worse and worse for months. These dreams— they’re not just because of the DSP. That’s why they never stopped. It’s him. Visions, like I had before. He’s becoming more powerful. The last bit of him. If I let it, it’ll take me over, and then he’ll be back.”

He let out a breath, relishing the feel of it passing through him, cool and sweet and wonderful. He had never felt so present. Colors were brighter. Smells were sharper. Magic tingled at his fingertips, tangible and vivid.

Ron closed his eyes tightly, and put his head in his hands, pressing hard, fingers digging into the scalp, pulling at red hair. Harry felt calm, in sync, focused. He knew what he had to do now. He smiled.

“I’d always known I’d die in the war,” He said. “Deep down. I never expected to live through it. If he comes back— he’ll make more horcruxes. He’ll find other ways. There’ll be no stopping him, not again. Not without losing anyone else.”

He stood up. Soon, he’d have to leave. Ron was shaking his head into his hands. He wasn’t making any noises, but his entire body was one knot, vibrating, strained. “I’ll do it myself,” Harry told him. “At Godric’s Hollow. That’s where it all started, after all. If I make it—“ His voice sounded skeptical in his own ears— “Great. If not… bury me next to my parents. They’ll understand.”

At this, Ron’s head snapped up, and his blue eyes were full of anger. As Harry watched, he jumped to his feet, and was moving towards him. Harry didn’t move. Hands grabbed at his collar and Ron pushed him back, powerfully, ramming him into the wall, and again, and again, his freckled face contorted and a strangled cry at his throat.

One last time, and Harry slid down onto the floor, his ears ringing.

Ron stood over him, panting, and tears streamed down his cheeks.

Harry’s face was calm, and his voice was even. “It’s better this way,” he said, and Ron made an unidentifiable sound, somewhere between a scream and a whimper, and he closed his eyes and opened them again, pale and shaking, his hands on his head, a picture of despair. He turned around, his back to Harry, still panting.

Then he pulled his wand out.

“I’m taking you to Saint Mungo’s,” He said, pointing it. 

The laughing had stopped upstairs, and they heard the door opening behind them. 

“What’s taking so long?” Hermione asked, stepping into the room. She froze when she saw them.

Ron’s voice was deadened when he told her of Harry’s plan. Neville stood behind her, and his expression wasn’t frozen at all. His mouth hung open, his eyes wide. When Ron finished, Neville put his hand in his hair, shaking his head.

Harry hadn’t wanted them to find out this way, but there was nothing to it now. The sun was slowly setting outside of the window, and snow had begun to fall. He watched it as Ron spoke, calculating ahead. Just a little while longer, and it’ll be over. Oblivion, at last.

When Ron’s voice was silent, he looked back, and Hermione was nodding, her face expressionless. She and Neville closed the door behind them, and they came forward, slowly, as if afraid to scare him.

Nothing could scare him now.

He felt the magic in the air, and thought the incantation, imagining the movement his wand would have made. There were three loud yelps as Ron, Hermione, and Neville froze solid as boards, petrified. Harry rose to his feet.

He stepped towards their immobile bodies. Their eyes bore into him, aghast.

“I’m sorry,” He said, and he was. “I love you. I’m sorry.”

Tears were sliding down Hermione’s petrified cheek.

“I’m sorry,” He said again.

Then he left.

Chapter Text

Closet:

Sirius Black was dead.

He ran the words over in his head, back and forth, in and out, loud and quiet.

Sirius Black was dead.

Sirius Black, who had fought against his family’s prejudice, who had fought also against the world’s. Sirius Black, who had been Harry’s father’s best friend, who had spent summer at his house like Harry spent summer at the Weasley’s. Sirius Black, who had been an outstanding student in all but scholarly discipline. Who had inspired generations of pranksters after he had left the halls of Hogwarts. Who had fought Death Eaters and raged a war against dark forces, who had befriended a werewolf and loved a muggleborn, who had laughed with a bark-like laugh that echoed through walls and sang Christmas Carols to fill dunk old halls with cheer. 

Sirius Black was dead.

Harry was sitting in the closet in his room in Private Drive, door closed, head pressed against Uncle Vernon’s old coats, stored here since Harry never used it. He looked blankly forward at the wooden door before him, tracing his eyes over the white planks, not seeing them.

Sirius Black was dead.

In the plank, he saw Sirius’s eyes as realization hit him. Harry had thought so often about the arch he had fallen through as he had toppled back, he was no longer sure if the images were memory or dream. Had Sirius smirked and winked at Harry before falling through? Had his hand truly extended towards him, as though to reach him, in his last moment? Had there truly been time for excitement to cross his sunken face, at the prospect of seeing his best friend again?

Sirius Black was dead. 

And around Harry’s shoulders, he could still feel the pinching clasp of Remus Lupin’s hands over him, pulling him back. In the pit of his stomach, there was still an urge to jump forward, as though he could step back through time and space into that second where he could have saved him. As though just a hand could stop the topple, could grab onto the dark robes and pull them out of danger. 

Sirius Black was dead. 

And Lupin— Lupin—

Did he truly wipe tears out of his eyes?

Had he really screamed in Harry’s ear to stop?

Was it memory, or dream, that his hands over Harry were too strong, too tight, as though somewhere, subconsciously, furiously wishing to hurt?

Was he furious?

At Harry’s stupidity.

Yes.

Sirius Black was dead.

Sirius Black, who had snuck into Hogsmeade to see Harry over a prickle in his scar. Who had placed his hand on his shoulder after the third task, holding him up as he retold Voldemort’s rebirth in Dumbledore’s office. Who had said, one night, under a full moon, that had it been up to him— he would have raised Harry, and taken him as his own. 

Sirius Black was dead. 

And it was Harry’s actions, which had caused it. 

*** 

Chapter Twenty: Snake

The street of the house where his parents had died was just as he’d left it the night before.

He stepped slowly down the road to the gate, enjoying the clarity in his mind, the feeling of control. No potions, no spells, just Harry, and the knowledge that this was right.

They’ll forgive him. They’ll have to. It is the right thing to do. The only thing to do. Or the war would start up again, and more people would die. One sacrifice— and it’ll be avoided. It all started with a sacrifice, and it made sense for it to end with a sacrifice, too. He should have died that night in the forest. He should have died, but he didn’t, and now he had to finish the job. One sacrifice. And oblivion.

He came to a stop in front of the gate, staring at the pebbled path leading onward.

He hadn’t felt this calm and confident in months. Finally, he had a purpose again. A mission. He knew what he had to do. He was never meant to live. Dumbledore had expected it. And tonight, it will finally be over.

He was wandless still, but it did not matter. There were other, better ways to finish the job. To destroy a horcrux, one had to destroy the host. Stab the diary, smash the locket, burn the diadem. Cut the head off the snake.

There was a collapsed swing hanging off one of the trees, and he strode toward it. A length of rope curled beneath the tree, buried in a thin layer of snow. Leaves and debris had accumulated around it. He could use the rope. 

Harry lowered, pulling at the rope, trying to clear it of earth and snow. It was rough on his fingertips, and the texture rushed through him, intoxicating. He stood, breathed, running his hand over thick splinters, testing its sturdiness. Yes. It would hold.

Stab the diary, smash the locket, burn the diadem. Cut the head off the snake.

It would hold. 

He turned towards the door. 

There was movement behind him.

Distracted, Harry glanced back. When he dug out the rope, he had unearthed more than then one coiling rope. A snake slithered heavily at his feet, tongue out and tasting.

“Sorry,” Harry said, his voice strange, bubbly, followed by a ringing echo in his head. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

The snake moved again, stretching to its full size, its eyes narrowing and focusing on Harry. It was black, not particularly large, and there was something familiar about the contempt in its yellow, reptilian eyes.

The street beyond the gate was empty. Harry stood looking at the statue of his parents, the cottage behind him giving him strength. He had built that door himself. He had reordered the pebbled path. He had painted the walls and installed the windows.

A pleasant buzzing of anticipation in the back of his mind. 

“I’m going to kill him,” Harry told the statue, or himself, or the snake, who had begun searching for its den once more. Harry was smiling, his chest full. “I’m going to kill him. For good, this time. So that he can never come back again.”

The sky was beautifully blue and cloudless. The snow on the path was pristine.

It was an omen, the snake. He lowered, watching it. Put his arm out in a friendly gesture, fingers reaching for the sleek black scales.

The snake moved threateningly, its fangs barred, sharp and poisonous. Harry put his hand up, placidly. “Go back to sleep,” He instructed. “Go on. I won’t bother you again.”

The snake hissed, and Harry wondered why it didn’t say anything.

He would do it in the nursery, he thought. Voldemort’s memory of the night he killed the Potters was still vivid in Harry’s mind, and it left no room for deliberations: the last horcrux would be destroyed where it had been created, and Harry would die where his mother had died, protecting him. 

One sacrifice.

And then oblivion. 

He rose, turning his back to the hissing serpent, and began heading back to the path. 

The snake hissed louder.

It’s not saying anything.

Harry’s step faltered.

It doesn’t understand what I said.

He stood frozen, the rope limp in his arm. In his head, through the clear images of the things he now must do, a lingering doubt rose timid.

It doesn’t understand.

If it doesn’t understand, then…

Then…

He whirled back, and the snake bared fangs, spooked by the sharp movement. 

“Hey," Harry said, dumbly, clutching at the rope. His voice was strange, guttural, and the snake rose higher in response, threatening and poised. Harry made his voice instructive, trying to hear the familiar hissing emitting from his own throat. “Come here.”

The snake jabbed at him. Harry’s mind was storming. 

If it doesn’t understand, then—

“Come here!” he said, his certainty breaking, the calm gone. He stepped forward, and the snake slithered back, its hiss louder, its eyes large and yellow. “Get over here. Get over here—”

Another hiss— he dropped the rope, leaning lower, his heart beating, trembling hands reaching towards it—

And the quiet was replaced by a storm, beating around his skull, crumbling Harry underneath it—

Stab the diary, smash the locket, burn the diadem, cut the head off the snake—

If it doesn’t, then—

“I told you to come here—”

It struck.

The spell broke, and Ron fell to the floor, numb.

Hermione’s sobbing filled the room, freed from its prison. He shut his eyes, curses chasing each other in his head. Neville was panting. Shit. Shit. Shit.

He got to his feet, and ran to the door.

“Ron!” Hermione hiccuped. “Ron… if the spell broke—“

“He’ll be in Godric’s Hollow, Hermione, we’ll need to apparate—“

“Ron, the spell wouldn’t have broken if he wasn’t—“

“Shut up!” His mind was empty. He felt himself moving, and was pulling her to her feet now, shaking her, and she was crying. “Shut up,” His voice was weak. “We have to go—“

“Ron…”

“We’re going to Godric’s Hollow!”

She closed her eyes, and Neville was standing to the side, ashen. But there was no time for this. No time. They had to leave.

Ron pulled her by the arm, and she stumbled after him, still crying. Neville followed clumsily, and Ron couldn’t bear to look at the horror etched on his face. They made it out of the building, and Ron turned, reappearing immediately in the muggle street, over looking the rebuilt cottage.

A storm was brewing in the distance, threatening the tranquil blue. They could see the cottage proper now, having been shown it by Harry as the Secret-Keeper, and it was tall, red roofed, warm and beautiful. 

Ron imagined Harry looking through pages of an old album, recreating the house from the old prints. All alone, for months and months, his head full of darkening thoughts and guilt and horror.

“Come on,” He said, his voice dry, and dropped Hermione’s hand to walk quickly to the gate. He didn’t want to think of what they’d find inside. He didn’t want to think of anything, and forced his mind off the future, thinking instead of his hand over the newly painted wood of the gate, of the shadows of leafless trees over him, the snow pushed by his boots. Now. Now he was here. Now he was here, and Harry might still be alive. Now was better than later. Later…

He opened the gate with a strong pull.

“Ha— Ginny?”

She was standing, frozen, under the snowed canopy of a large tree. Her red hair clashed with the white ground, and at her feet, was—

A body.

Ron stood rooted in place, caught unprepared. He thought it would be inside. 

He. 

He—it.

It—he.

Shit—

A body, laying motionless under the tree, blood collecting around it, twisted and pale and alone.

His heart wasn’t beating but he ran to it. He dropped to his knees, robes sinking in red snow. He cradled Harry’s head in his lap, feeling for a pulse. Harry’s eyes were closed, his skin ice cold, and blood dripped and dripped, staining the path.

Hermione walked slowly up to them, shaking. Ron couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t look at anything. 

They’d failed him. They’d failed him. He was dead.

It was Ron’s job. Ron’s job to save him…

He shut his eyes, and in his mind a different scene was playing, an army of dark creatures advancing with Hagrid shackled before them, tears sliding down his huge face, a body dangling, doll-like in his shaking hands…

No—!

I shall await one hour in the forest—

You have let your friends die for you—

He sat on the pavement in the snow and felt as though he was floating. He clutched Harry to him too tightly, and blood streamed from the body over Ron’s scarred wrists, sinking into his robes, warm still and glistening…

He was dead. 

He was dead. 

He was dead. 

Ginny was holding her left hand glove, and expressionlessly, she shoved it into Harry’s limp palm.

“What are you doing,” He asked her, and she glanced at him calmly.

“There’s a pulse,” She said.

A pulse, she said. 

And he was in the Now again, the battle shoved to the back of his mind, and the sky was blue and the house was beautiful and the snow was cool and Harry’s blood still flowed—

He shook the body, but it did not respond. Ron ripped open the robes— fang marks— that’s where the blood was from—

He pulled Harry into his arms, too thin, and he lay lifelessly, his head falling back unnaturally. Hermione was running and Neville just behind but there was a pulse, there was pulse—

“Was that—“

“A portkey.”

“When will it—?”

“Now.”

Ginny held Harry’s wrist. Hermione reached them just as Ron closed his eyes, and the familiar pull of the portkey was coupled with a horrid emptiness in his gut. 

They arrived at Saint Mungos, right in the middle of the entrance hall, and Ron fell to the floor and Harry wasn’t moving but he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t—

“Don’t die,” He breathed, and Healers pulled the body away, leaving Ron alone and shaking on the floor.

***

He didn’t die.

When he opened his eyes, he saw white. It wasn’t King’s Cross. It was a ceiling, high and sloping. There was a crack in it, and Harry’s eyes traced it, back and forth. Next to the wall, it spilt into three different cracks, and Harry followed each of them until he couldn’t see them anymore without moving his head, which he couldn't move.

He knew he wasn’t dead because his heart was beating too slowly in his ears, and raspy breaths filled and emptied his lungs, painful. But it was a good kind of painful. The kind that cleared your head enough so you could stop tracing cracks.

There were noises. 

He tried to concentrate. Beeping. Buzzing. Footsteps. A door closing. A man talking. A girl laughing. Heart Beat. Raspy Breath.

There were also smells. Harry closed his eyes. Potions, burning, disinfectant. 

Hospital? 

Hospital.

A door opened. The lighting changed— became brighter for a minute, and then darker again when he heard the door shut closed. A chair ground against the floor. Someone was sitting next to him.

A hand in his.

Heart Beat. Heart Beat. Raspy Breath.

He opened his eyes, shut them closed again.The leads were heavy. But whoever was holding his hand didn’t notice. His mouth was dry. 

A snake. There had been a snake.  

He let his eyes close for a second, but when he opened them again the hand was gone.

Cracks.

No, not cracks. 

Move.

He moved his head. His muscles were stiff and his head whirled at the motion. There was a chair, plastic, white, but it was empty. There was also a night stand, and his glasses were on it, but not his wand.

He reached over to take them.

His hand met resistance.

Confused, he tried again. No. He couldn’t move his arm. There was pressure around the wrist— binds. He tried the other one, to similar results. He was tied to the bed. There were cracks on the ceiling, and he was tied to the bed. 

His heart beat faster.

Why was he tied to the bed?

There had been a snake.

He closed his eyes, remembering.

There had been a snake with black contemptuous eyes. And it did not say anything. And it did not do what Harry said.

Heart Beat. Raspy Breath.

He opened his eyes. 

Cracks.

No, not cracks. Bushy brown hair. Big brown eyes. Hermione.

Hermione.

He blinked, and she was gone. No. Wait. He had to tell her something.

She was back. Her eyes were red. 

It didn’t do what I said, he tried to say, but his lips didn’t move and no sound came out. Heart Beat, Heart Beat. Hermione, it didn’t do what I said.

She was gone again.

He was tied to the bed, there were three cracks in the ceiling, the snake didn’t do what he said and Hermione was gone. 

What else?

Horcruxes.

Harry closed his eyes. Swallowed. Searched.

Everything hurt, but something didn’t.

His scar wasn’t hurting.

His scar wasn’t hurting, and there was more light.

No, not so much more light as less dark. As if a shadow has lifted. As if curtains had been pulled open. As if the clouds parted to allow the moon. As if a piece of a soul that had been suffocating him had finally vanished, to leave in its wake a big, throbbing, wonderfully empty hole. No dark presence. No hissing. No pain in his scar.

There had been a snake.

It hadn’t understood him.

He moved his head. There was a window. It was shut, and snow accumulated on the sill. It was morning. 

It was morning.

He was not dead.

Voldemort. Voldemort was dead.

Voices.

Harry was content just listening to the sounds. It was like they were coming from far away, through a vast ocean. He could not make out words, but that was fine. His scar didn’t hurt. Everything was fine.

A hand on his forehead.

No, it’s ok. It doesn’t hurt anymore.

“He’s hot.”

“It’s infected.”

“Did you tell them about the—“

“No Dreamless Sleep Potion. We told them.”

He knew the voices. He tried to remember, fighting the fog. Neville. And Ginny. He opened his eyes.

The hand pulled immediately away from his forehead, its soothing coolness gone.

Come back.

Red hair, brown eyes, freckles. Then cracks.

Harry turned his head to the side, where the voices had come from. When he moved, they fell silent.

They sat on white plastic chairs. Ron was half way out of his sit, his eyes wild. 

There was a snake, Harry tried to tell him. It didn’t do what I said.

But nothing came out.

Heart Beat. Heart Beat. Raspy Breath.

Ron’s face was suddenly very close to his, and it was tired and sad and despairing.

“Don’t die,” He said.

Ok, he wanted to answer.

His eyes were heavy. When he opened them, Ron was gone.

And yet, Harry willed for them to hear him.

Ok.

Chapter Text

Die For Someone:

“Come back here—“

“We’re done talking about this, Harry.”

“We are not— Hey!”

Ron was walking down towards the grounds, trying to tie his robes together. Harry was cursing, rushing after him and speaking at an angry whisper. 

He felt a hand on his shoulder. 

“I don’t want you to come,” Harry said, angrily, cornering Ron and nearly pushing him angrily into the wall.

“No one’s asking you if you want or you don’t,” Ron said, crossing his arms, amused.

“You don’t understand what you’re walking into.”

“Neither do you.”

“It’s not the same! I have to do it. You don’t.”

“Right,” Ron agreed. “But we want to.”

Harry made an annoyed noise and turned away from him, pacing the hallway they had stopped by. The entire school was outside, in the sunshine, enjoying the last school days before summer. Dumbledore’s grave glistened in the sun. It seemed peaceful to Ron, like an omen. But whenever Harry looked at it, his eyes turned dark.

“Look,” He said finally, turning back to Ron, holding his hands up as though in peace. “It’s a big war. Big things to be done. You guys can find something else. Important. To do. Join the Order, now you’re of age. Fly into battle. Spy. Collect information. Recruit. All that glorious stuff. All I’ll be doing is looking for ancient artifacts. It’ll be boring and stupid and you don’t want to go.”

“We’re not going for the adventure, Harry.”

“Than why for the love of God would you want to go?”

“Because you’d be alone without us,” Ron said, shrugging. 

“And what? That’s worth risking your life over, my loneliness? Tell you what. We’ll owl.”

Ron laughed. Harry glared.

“You’re kidding, right?” Ron asked, still chuckling. “We’re in this together.”

“We’re not. You don’t have to be.”

“We can’t let you go by yourself,” Ron rolled his eyes. “What will we do all day, worrying about you?”

“Better than dying.”

“If you die and I’m not there to stop it, I’ll never forgive myself,” Ron said, without thinking, and the words hang between them, surprising and not.

Harry’s eyes were confused.

“Fancy yourself the only person on the planet who’d die for someone?”

“Course not,” Harry blushed, turning his eyes away. Ron stepped forward, until they were a foot apart.

“We’re coming because we want to help the war,” Ron said. “But we’re coming with you because we want to help you, you git.”

He shoved him. Harry stumbled back, still looking confused.

“Listen. You’re stuck with us, ok?” Ron said, more quietly, and watched the confusion leave Harry’s face. “We’re not leaving. It’s a big war. And we’re going to fight it, together. Ok?”

He extended his hand, and Harry grabbed it.

“Ok.”

***

Chapter Twenty-One: Closed Ward

When he woke up he was alone.

He spent a few blurry seconds searching for the crack. It was not there. The ceiling over his head was plain white, a lazy fan magically turning to allow for a soft breeze in the otherwise silent room. He watched it for a minute hovering over him before it moved away, swiftly flapping its tiny wings.

“Mr Potter?”

He thought he should be startled by the sudden voice, but he was not. Instead, he felt strangely calm. When he glanced around for its source, his head felt like it was moving through thick paste, too heavy and too slow.

A woman stood by his bed, short and stout and business-like. She had a clipboard, and she was looking at it while glancing at him.

“Potion wore off,” She told someone else. “Took seven hours and sixteen minutes, woke on his own, pressure at sixteen turns and vision unfocused. Mr Potter, please tell me your birth date.”

He blinked at her slowly, running over the information in his head. Seven hours since when? 

She watched him for a moment and then reached forward unexpectedly, shoving gloved fingers into his neck. Harry tried pulling away at this blatant violation of privacy, but his movements were too slow, and she had extracted her hand already and was speaking once more. 

“Pressure rose to sixteen and three-fifths. Non-responsive. Consider for—“

“Wait,” He croaked. He wasn’t sure the syllables were decipherable. “J-July.”

Her sharp eyes landed on him once more, blinking rapidly. “Mr Potter, hello.”

“Hello,” He said. 

“I am Healer Toren. Do you know where you are?”

“Different… room.”

“Yes. You’ve been transferred.”

His head was spinning. The glue was getting tighter around him, and her voice was deafeningly loud. 

“Where’s…”

“You’ve suffered numerous snake bites in various parts of your body. You’re in St Mungos. Can you tell me how many fingers I’m holding?”

“Four,” He managed, but she was already speaking to, he realized, the quick quote quill on her pad.

“Slow response,” She was saying. “Consider lowering dosage from eight to six. Mr Potter, it was nice meeting you.”

“Wait,” He said, his head whirring. “Where are—“

But she’d gone. He tried to raise and call after her, only to find that once again, his wrists were bound, keeping him in place. 

A bottle floated in his direction, uncorked itself, and poured liquid into a cup on the nightstand, which in turn lowered towards him.

“No,” He told it. “No, I don’t—“

His reactions were sluggish, and it was at his lips too quickly. He coughed it out, turning away. 

“Stop,” He told it. “Finite Incantatem.”

The words left his mouth, and in his mind, he thought of the moves the wand would have made as he always did. But unlike the last few months of wandless magic, this time no warm buzzing filled his chest, and the cup remained adamant as it had been, attempting to reposition itself to his lips.

“No,” He muttered. “Finite Incantatem. Stop, don’t—“

“It’s no use,” A voice said, and Harry looked up unhappily.

Another woman, this one much younger, was looking at him with eager eyes. 

“Hey,” She said, and smiled hugely. “Melory. I mean— Healer Jackson,” She corrected herself, blushed, and giggled. “I’m your nurse.”

She sounded as though she considered this a great accomplishment. 

“Ok,” He said. The cup tapped at him gently. “Tell it… to stop.”

She reached over and pulled the offensive cup out of the air. It submitted quietly. “You have to drink it,” She said. “It’s good for you.”

“What is it?”

“Calming Draught.”

His head was still spinning. “Why’s…” Breathing was difficult. ”…good for me?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

Her eyes were large, purple, and fascinated. When she spoke, her words had nothing whatsoever to do with medicine.

“It must have been… real tough. The war.”

He felt colder, and looked away from her. The room was empty of other patients, the door closed, and everything was painted an offensively cheerful yellow. When he looked down, he was wearing a hospital gown, thin and revealing.

“Can I… have a blanket?”

“Sure,” She said, and went to get one. She spread it over him, her fingers small and feathery. 

Focus. “Why am I bound?”

“You should drink your medicine.”

“I feel… calm enough.”

“It tastes good,” She said kindly, and brought the cup closer again, suggestively. “And it’ll make you feel better.”

“I feel…” Heart Beat. Raspy Breath. “…fine. Why am I bound?” 

“You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

He was growing agitated with her riddling. She giggled again, pulled her hair out of her eyes.

“Healer Toren wants you to drink this.”

“Healer Toren can come back here…. tell me what’s going on. Then… I’ll drink it.”

“It’s only a calming draught. You’ve already had it, we administered it while you were sleeping.”

So that was the fog. He felt queazy, a strange taste in his mouth. “Well that’s… that’s… you’re supposed to get… permission—“

“Your guardian gave permission.”

“I haven’t got a guardian, I’m… of age.“

“Healer Jackson, what are you doing?”

The door had opened and the strict stout woman stood at the entrance, frowning over her pad.

“Trying to get him to drink the potion,” Melory said innocently.

“And what’s the problem?”

“He doesn’t want to, Healer Toren.” She looked down at him again, her eyes sparkling.

“Mr Potter, I wish you would reconsider.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but Melory spoke up over him, her voice childishly excited.

“He won’t,” She said. “Says we need to get his permission. Says he feels calm enough.”

Toren looked tired. Harry tried to raise where he lay, trying to push words through his confusion. “I—“

“Administer it anyway,” Toren said, her voice sharp and quick. “He should have gotten it ten minutes ago. We’ve got other patients.”

Melory’s smile was huge. “Yes, Healer Toren.”

“But… Wait—” 

His objection went on deaf ears. The door closed behind the stout figure, and Melory turned her back to him, pulling something out of a drawer. It was a silvery device, and she brought it towards him expertly, fasting it over his forearm. 

“We’ve done this before,” She told him happily, glancing at his eyes every other second to gauge his reaction. “You were asleep. Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt.”

“Wait,” He breathed. “I don’t… want a calming draught.”

“That’s ok,” She smiled kindly. “Loads of our patients don’t at first, but it’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

The silver device hummed as Harry tried, thoughtlessly, to pull his hand away. He was too weak, too disoriented. He did not want a potion to make him more so.

“Why— stop—don’t—“

“It’s ok,” She said, and placed her hand on his forehead. He pulled away.

“Stop touching me,” He said. “What’re—“

“They said you don’t like touching. Why is that?”

“I just don’t,” He said, angry. “What is… that?” Her hands were like shackles. “Take it… off—“

She pressed something over it, and the thing began to stir. He felt it strapping over his skin tightly, and then a sharp prickle. Melory hummed over him, pulling the bottle into her hands, and uncorking it.

“Wait— don’t—“

“Just a minute,” She muttered. “It’s ok, I’ve got you.”

He didn’t want her to have him. The bottle connected to the humming device, and golden liquid slid through, led by Melory’s guiding wand.

It felt immensely strange. Liquid squeezed magically into vines, a sharp sting spreading down his arm, and he shuddered, trying to pull loose—

“It’s ok. Don’t panic, Harry. Can I call you Harry?”

No, he wanted to say, but his head was swimming. She smiled at him familiarly, as though they were old friends, and turned away. She fiddled out of his line of vision, and returned with a different bottle.

“Might as well,” She said, as way of explanation. “If we’ve already got you open and that.”

The same, disconcerting feel of liquid, this time burning. Then she placed the bottles away, pressed something on the device, and pulled it out.

The prickling feeling was gone. Harry’s arm felt imbalanced. Melory placed her hand on his forehead again, peering into his face with a lit wand.

“S-stop—“

“Hungry?”

“No! What did you give me?”

“Medicine.”

“What medicine? Where are the others?”

“You mean the ones who brought you in?”

“Yes!”

“They went, I guess,” She said. “They were here when you were sleeping, but it’s late now, they might come back during visiting hours.”

His head was becoming more foggy. “You… that wasn’t just a calming draught,” He said, and his voice was marred.

“No,” She said. “It was also a sleeping potion.”

“But I don’t… I don’t want a sleeping potion.”

“That’s ok,” She said kindly, and placed her hand on the side of his face, caressingly. “It’ll be ok.”

“I know,” He said. “I’m not… I don’t need you to tell me that.”

“You’re very brave.”

“I’m not… I don’t…”

“We’ll take care of you,” She said. Her eyes were shinning. “It must have been terrible. Carrying all that responsibility on your shoulders.” She moved her hand to his shoulder. He could feel her hands warm through the thin gown. “Anyone would have had a hard time.”

Hard time. “Stop touching me,” He wanted to say, but the words slurred indecipherably. She smiled wider and squeezed. 

The last thing he saw before falling into darkness were her bright, purple eyes.

All was obscured by a steady, thick cloud of fog.

So thick, that sometimes, he lost track of his thoughts between one inhalation and the other. Each breath lasted an eternity, each movement of his head two. And whenever he grew clearheaded enough to think something through, one of the nurses would come around with another dose to diminish him, once again, into shadows.

“Please don’t,” He told them the last time, wondering if words were actually formed in the everlasting distance between his mind’s command and the movement of his muscles. The nurse smiled, put her hand on his comfortingly, and poured a strange smelling liquid into his vines. 

He woke up confused.

“Seven hours and thirty-two minutes,” Healer Toren said. “Mr Potter. Can you tell me your birthdate?”

“No,” He said, trying to think through the fog. “Where am I?”

“St Mungos.”

“Where in St Mungos?”

“Janus Thickey Ward.”

His next question froze on his lips. 

“Birthdate, Mr Potter?”

“What… why…?”

“You tried to kill yourself,” She said, in the same no nonsense tone.

He gaped at her.

“I… I didn’t,” He said, his head whirling. “I tried… there was a horc— but I never would’ve—“

“It’s alright,” She said. “You’re safe now.”

“I’m not— worried that—“

“Birthdate, Mr Potter.”

“July 31st,” He said, and she muttered something to her quill. “Where are the people who brought me in?”

“It’s unwise for you to see them at this time.”

“What? Why?”

“Are you going to take your medicine, or do I need to get a nurse for the administration?”

“I don’t— I don’t need any medicine.” He was more clear headed than before, and also more angry, more afraid. He didn’t want them touching him, drugging him, having control over him so completely. It felt violating. “I feel fine—“

“I’ll get one, then.“

“Don’t,” He said, somewhat desperately, still trying to fight through the fog. “Please don’t. What are you giving me? Why… why—?”

“A calming draught. Today we’ll start with the next treatment, a stabilizing mind liquor.”

“Stabilizing… what does that mean?”

“It’ll make you happier.”

“Happier,” He repeated, and she nodded curtly, uncorking the bottle. “I don’t… want it.”

“That’s not your decision.”

He felt childish and powerless. “How could it not be my decision?”

“You’ve been deemed unqualified to make such decisions, Mr Potter.”

“Then who makes them?”

“The Ministry.”

“What? Why? Can’t I ask for someone else to do it?”

“The guardianship would have usually passed through to parents or other family member. Given that you have neither—“

“Pass it to the Weasleys,” He said. “No, wait, don’t— why do you need to pass it to anyone? I’m eighteen, I’m not supposed to need a guardian—“

“Drink, please.”

“Wait. I don’t want to fall asleep, I want you to talk to me—“

“We’ll have time to talk once these bites are healed. You need to rest, now.”

“I want to see the ones who brought me in.”

“I told you it’s unwise.”

“But I want to anyway.”

“You’re not qualified to make that decision.”

“Look,” He said, as she brought the cup closer again. “I… you can’t just leave me here with my hands bound and drugged—“

“Please drink the medicine, Mr Potter.”

“No!”

“Very well.”

“No, stop—“

She had the device in her hands and she pressed it over his arm.

“Don’t— Hey—“

A prickle. He felt sick, helpless and bound.

She was quicker than the others, and he was foggy once more. 

But also, he realized, happier. A sick, elated feeling at the pit of his stomach, somewhat reminiscent of…

“Please,” He said, when he could speak again. “I don’t… want it. The second one. I don’t want it, ok?”

“Why not?”

Elation, not his own, filling his stomach.

“I just don’t want it,” He whispered, already sinking into blackness. “Please don’t use it again.”

“That’s not your decision to make, Mr Potter,” She said, watching him scrutinizingly. “I’m sure you’ll grow used to it.”

His eyes were heavy. 

“Fifteen seven,” She told her clipboard. “Pressure at nineteen and a fifth.”

He sunk into darkness.

“Why are you giving it to him if he doesn’t want it?” A voice said through the fog.

“It’s the recommended treatment, Mr. Weasley.”

“But if you keep having to force it down his throat—“

“It’s no problem, sir.”

“I’m sure it’s no problem to you, but I reckon he’s less thrilled over it—“

“It’s the same method we use with patient who are unconscious. It’s the recommended treatment for patients who refuse treatment, including suicide victims.”

“I asked you to stop using that word.”

“There aren’t other words to use, sir.”

“How’s he supposed to get better if he’s always asleep?”

“His body’s weak from the poisoned bites. Once he becomes stronger, we’ll be able to start proper treatment.”

“Why can’t we see him?”

“It’s not the recommended treatment, Mr Weasley.”

“I heard the bloody recommended treatment, already! But why—“

“Please don’t yell at me, Mr Weasley.”

There was a pause. Harry tried to find the arguing voices. He could see flashes of red through the window of the door, but it seemed like his eyes were seeing things not processed in his mind, and images did not fit with the words spoken, as though they existed in two different time frames.

“I just want to know what you’re doing.”

“Our job, Mr Weasley. This isn’t the first case we’ve had.”

“But if he doesn’t want things done— I mean, he’s a reasonable bloke, you know? I don’t understand why you need—“

“Reasonable seems like a strange term to use, Mr Weasley.”

“I— well—“

“We know what we’re doing.”

“I’m not certain you do.”

“I don’t coddle my patients, Mr Weasley. But they do, in fact, get better.”

The voices were gone. He was alone again.

“I can take it myself,” He told Melory when she came again with the potions.

“Great!” She grinned at him. “See? It’s already getting better.”

He smiled at her emptily and allowed her to bring the first cup to his lips.

Fog fog fog fog.

“And the second one,” She said, pouring it. 

“Wait,” He said, trying to keep his voice from quickness. “I… I don’t want it. Ok?”

She shook her finger at him as though he was a child. “No no, Harry. You gotta drink them both.”

“I just… it makes me feel bad. Ok? I don’t… It doesn’t make me feel happy. I don’t want it.”

“You’ll have to talk to Healer Toren, Harry. But meanwhile you have to drink it.”

He felt his stomach dropping. “It… it’s really… I really don’t want it. Ok?”

Didn’t want to feel elation raising in him, as though another’s mind within his was bursting with cheer.

“Is it about the war?”

He swallowed.

“Yes,” He said, trying to shove the image away. “Yes. Ok? So… so let’s try without it?”

“I’m sorry, Harry. But you need to drink this.”

She brought the cup to his lips. He felt his heart hammering.

“Listen,” He said, trying to sound reasonable. “Can you call Healer Toren? So that I can talk to her?”

“She’s out today.”

He looked at her. 

She looked back.

“Alright,” He whispered.

And once again, elation filled him.

Chapter Text

Prophecy:

“I don’t know exactly why he’s going to be giving me lessons, but I think it must be because of the prophecy.”**

Hermione heard her heart stop beating. 

Harry was sitting somewhat haunched on the bed, staring at the utensils on the breakfast tray Fluer gave him as though afraid to raise his eyes up to look at them. Next to her, Ron had gone still. She thought he’d stopped breathing. 

“You know,” Harry continued with difficulty, not taking his eyes off the fork. “The one they were trying to steal at the Ministry.”**

She saw Ron’s hand jerk involuntarily towards the scars around his wrists. 

“Nobody knows what it said, though,” She said, speaking quickly, her heart beating once more only twice as fast as normal. “It got smashed.”**

Ron spoke up next to her. “Although the Prophet says—“**

“Shh!” She hissed, and Harry seemed to shrink into himself and then raise up again, swallowing.

Don’t, She begged.

“The Prophet’s got it right.” He said, and his words sent shoots of electricity down her spine, bristling at the edges of her existence. Harry raised his eyes, and looked right at them, his movements stoic, as though he had to force each nerve end to comply individually. She didn’t dare look at Ron. Harry’s face was utterly empty of emotion, as though letting it through would be too much. His voice was detached. “That glass ball that smashed wasn’t the only record of the prophecy. I heard the whole thing in Dumbledore’s office, he was the one the prophecy was made to, so he could tell me.”

He paused. Her head was calculating a hundred miles a minute. Don’t, she thought. They were just rumors. They had been just rumors…

“From what it said, it looks like I’m the one who’s got to finish Voldemort… At least, it said neither of us could live while the other survives.”

No.

She wanted to lean over and hug him, for suddenly, she saw through his carefully empty features. He waited for them to say something. He’s waiting for us to leave.

Leave?

Leave, because he was doomed to die or kill.

Leave, because he would live his life at the front line of a war.

Leave, because whatever happened, they would lose so much, and be hurt, and be forced to be there, at the front, along with him.

He was waiting for them to leave, so they would not have to suffer through it.

She looked at him waiting, his eyes dropping slowly from hers down to his lap, back to the fork, nearly despairing.

But she could never let him suffer through it alone. He was her best friend. 

She glanced sideways, and saw Ron’s jaw setting decisively.

They’ve made this decision years ago. She was playing with the twins’ telescope in her hand nervously, while her resolve solidified. It’s been decided for years.

But the prophecy…

Doesn’t change anything, she thought stubbornly. 

Harry’s face was paling. She saw him close his eyes.

In her mind, she imagined him with his wand raised, facing an army of masked Death Eaters.

And they were right there, beside him.

Didn’t he know that they always would be?

She glanced nervously up at his scar, still stark red and obvious, ever since the Ministry.

It changes nothing, she thought, raising in her sit. It changes nothing.

The telescope in her hands exploded.

***

Chapter Twenty-Two: Don’t Leave

“So… I’m staying here, then?” He asked, his voice oddly empty in his own ears.

They stood before him, awkwardly, Hermione wide eyed and staring and Ron with his hands crossed across his chest. Outside the window, the sun was up and shinning. The walls of Janus Thickly Ward were cheerfully yellow, and yet Harry felt claustrophobic, bound to his bed.

“…Yes,” Hermione said, her voice slow.

He nodded twice, looking at the bandages around his left elbow.

“You heard what I said about the snake?”

“…We heard.”

The bandage itched. He could hear giggling from outside. 

“Ok,” He said, still nodding. “Right.”

He thought they were exchanging looks over his head. He fisted his palm beneath the bounds, watching the fingers close tightly, turn white, and then pink once more.

When he looked up again, Ron was glaring at the floor, arms still tight over his chest. Hermione was shuffling her feet nervously. 

Outside the windowed door he could see nurses giggling, glancing into the room and whispering excitedly amongst themselves.

Excited, for the new celebrity, bound to a bed, under their care.

He swallowed.

“Who’s going to teach Defense?” His voice came out too high. 

“Should’ve really thought about that before you decided to kill yourself,” Ron said sharply, and Harry flinched.

“Right,” He said, his voice empty. “Yup. Ok. Right.”

They stood silent, and Harry ran the blanket over his fingers over and over and over again.

He could hear the nurses outside, their conversation whispered but obvious. Harry kept glancing over at them with dread and slight nausea. He thought he heard them deciding over a coin toss.

“How long?” Harry asked quickly, his voice hurried, trying to block them out.

Ron continued glaring at the tiles. Hermione shrugged helplessly, and Harry fought to keep his face empty.

“Ok,” He said again. “Right. Ok.”

“Two out of three!” Someone shrieked outside. “No— That’s not fair—“

Harry averted his eyes to look out the window instead. Outside, the sun was peeking through. Inside, florescent lights buzzed.

“No! I get to bring it to him— NO! Breakfast’s when they’re most awake—“

“Merlin,” Ron hissed suddenly, breaking out of Hermione’s hold, and turned wordlessly towards the door, his steps exemplifying his anger. The door slammed behind him. Harry could hear his voice, furious, over the giggling.

“Would you get the bloody hell out of here? It’s not a zoo exhibit, is it!”

Harry’s breath hitched. Hermione was looking through the windowed door. The giggling has stopped abruptly, and they could hear whispered apologies, followed by the arrival of a senior nurse.

When she looked back, to look at him, her eyes grew larger, confused.

Harry realized he was smiling.

He blushed. Glanced back at his fingers. A warmth was growing at the pit of his stomach.

“I dreamed I was in a zoo exhibit,” He said, into his lap, apologetically. “Summer before second year. When they sprung me out of Private Drive.”

She looked at him wordlessly.

“Stupid dream,” He muttered, wishing she’d stop looking at him like he lost his mind. “Door was locked, and I dreamed muggles walked by and pointed. Underage Wizard, Please Don’t Feed.”

He glanced at her, half smiling, and she smiled hesitantly back. 

“On the Ford Angelina?” She asked uncertainly “Ron and…”

She trailed off. He felt the smile painful in the muscles of his jaw, his mind thrown into fogged confusion.

“Yeah,” He said, filled again with empty spaces. 

His friends had come, then, to save him from a locked room.

Now, they were leaving him in one.

Makes sense, he thought. Makes sense. They should. He was, after all, a ticking time bomb…

They’d stayed through the war, because there had been a war to fight. But now the war was over. He should not blame them, for wanting to get on with their lives. 

The door opened, and Ron stood in it, glaring. “We need to leave.”

“What?” Harry asked, too quickly. “You… why?”

“Visitor hour’s over. We gotta go.”

He was looking at Hermione, ignoring Harry pointedly. 

They’ve got a right. To move on. He couldn’t expect them to stay shackled to him. Not after everything. The war had been too much to ask.

“Ok,” Harry said. “Yeah. Ok.”

Hermione looked at him, her eyes still wild. Ron tapped his foot irritatedly outside, and finally, Hermione relented, waving feebly and following him to the corridor.

Makes sense.

It does.

The door locked automatically behind them. She thought she heard giggling coming out of a door marked Staff to their right. 

“We can’t leave him here,” She said, and Ron glared at his boots. “Ron—“

He cursed, bringing his arms to his hair again, running them through it angrily, and stepping away from her toward the other side of the corridor.

“Ron—“

“We can still hear you!” He growled towards the staff room, and a bound of giggling ensued. 

“Ron,” She breathed. “Hey— Ron.“

She’d grabbed hold of his hand and he cursed again and pulled it out, walking away and then back again, pacing.

He paused right before the door, where Harry was still bound to his bed, looking out the window.

Ron cursed, and turned the other way, hands on his hips, breathing hard.

“What do you want to do, then?” He demanded, and she thought she detected a hint of desperation in his voice. “Back to Hogsmeade? And what if he goes again?”

“We’ll… stop him.”

“Like we did this time?” Ron asked, his voice jeering and cruel. “If he’d had a wand—“

“Stop—“

“If he’d had a wand, we’d have found him staring wide eyed into the sky,” Ron finished anyway, and she shuddered. “I’m not taking responsibility for that.”

She had been looking away from him, but now she raised her head slowly, frowning. “You’re not… taking…?”

“I don’t want to see it,” Ron continued, looking straight forward, but not, she realized, at her. “I don’t want to clean blood off my robes. I don’t want to be part of it.”

She gaped at him. His arms were across his chest again. They seemed to be so tight as to obstruct breathing.

“Ron…”

“If he wants to do that,” He said, with difficulty, “then fine. Not… next to us. Just… away from us. And that’s fine.”

The hands tightened further, and she saw his blue eyes large and full of pain.

He swore and pulled his arms apart, running them again over his temples. They were shaking. He turned away from her, looking at the ceiling.

“I’ll think of something,” She breathed. “I’ll… I’ll think of something. We can’t leave him here.”

She moved forward, and got in his line of vision. He shut his eyes, refusing to look at her. He was red, and he was not breathing.

“I’ll think of something,” She said again, her hands on his chest, her voice hardly a whisper. “Ok? I will.”

*** 

“Mr Potter, how are you?”

He looked up, surprised, to find Toren standing next to him.

“Fine,” He said, carefully, watching the quick quote quill next to her scribbling away. She was a large woman, square and serious. Her eyes were big, brown, and ever watchful.

“You got two doses of pain reliever this morning. How were they?”

“Fine,” He said. She raised her eyebrow. “I mean… good. Can’t feel the bites.”

“They’re looking better. Nearly healed. It means proper treatment can began.”

He didn’t know what that meant. He tried to keep his head empty. “Ok.”

“You’re not taking the potion.”

She was holding the bottle he hated.

“I want… to use something else.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not good. It’s… it’s no good.”

“It’s a Cheering Draught.”

“It’s not working.”

“You need to give it a little time to work.”

He swallowed. “No.”

She looked at him strangely, judging his movements.

He averted his eyes.

“A lot of my patients don’t want to take their medication,” She said, speaking slowly. “Usually, it’s just a feeling of loss of control. Especially at the beginning. It’s why we administer it anyway.”

“That’s not it.”

“No,” She agreed thoughtfully. “What is it then?”

He kept silent. 

“Do you feel… as though you don’t deserve to feel happiness?”

He closed his eyes. 

“You do.”

“No. I just don’t want that potion. Just… a different one, maybe. I can feel happier. I don’t mind feeling happier if— if it’s me feeling it.”

She frowned at him.

“What do you feel when you drink it?”

“Sick,” He answered angrily, his fingers balled into fists, as shadows of nausea coursed through him. Sick enough to sit and shiver for as long as it lasted, sometimes keeping food down, usually not. “Please, find something else.”

She looked at him thoughtfully.

He shut his eyes again, knowing she was writing still.

“Alright,” She said.

He opened his eyes. 

“Al…right?”

“Alright. You don’t like it, we won’t use it.”

He gaped at her. She put the notepad away, pocketing the quill. 

“Ok,” He said, for lack of anything better. She smiled at him, somewhat surprised.

“We’re here for you, Mr Potter,” She said, frowning slightly. “To help you. You understand that, right?”

“Course,” He said, reddening. “I… yeah.”

“Alright. So— I’m lowering the pain relievers, since you’re just about healed, physically. I’d like to try a different stabilizer, if it’s alright— not a happiness inducing one, something else.”

“Alright.”

“Great.” She nodded curtly. “You have a visitor.”

“I do?”

“Yes,” He thought she was hiding a laugh. “I’ll call him in, give me a second.”

He blinked at her in stunned silence while she rampaged through the medicine cabinet.

“There we are. Try this.”

She offered a cup. Bound still, he could just wait in embarrassment for her to notice.

“You’ve been here for three days, correct?”

“I don’t know,” He said honestly, but she was already leaning over him, fiddling with the binds.

“That’s the standard. We can take these off now.”

“The standard?”

“We did all live through a war, Mr Potter,” She said softly, while he gratefully rubbed his freed wrists, bringing them closer, childishly thinking they’d be pulled away from him again. “Our ward has been busy for a while. We develop systems to deal with possible problems.”

He looked at her marking things for the quill to scribble. For the first time, her strict demeanor reminded him, absurdly, of Mrs Weasley.

“I didn’t… try to kill myself,” He said, finding it hard to push the words out of his lips. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like?”

“Well,” He started, and found himself lost for words, wondering if horcruxes were common knowledge among professional wizards or if she’d think he lost his mind.

She smiled at him. “We’ll discuss this more,” She said. “Are you up for company?”

“Course,” he said, though he felt suddenly queazy, uncertain what to do with his hands. 

“I’ll get him.”

She was leaving. She was not what he had thought she was. Harry spoke up before he’d change his mind. 

“Healer Toren?”

“Yes?” 

He wet his lips. “The… nurses?”

“What of them?”

“I don’t… they’re…” He was red again. Toren was frowning.

“I know my staff is a bit… over excited,” She said slowly, and Harry blushed deeper, looking down. “You want… someone else?”

He nodded as timidly as he could.

“Something specific?”

“No,” He said. “Just… they’re very nice,” He muttered lamely. “Really… Really really nice.”

“I see.” She was frowning still. “Very well.” She nodded. He felt a weight lift off his chest.

“Thank you,” He breathed.

“Tell me if you need something more, please,” She said, her eyes softening while her demeanor did not. He watched her, guarded. She sighed, and left.

He was alone again, and he rearranged the blanket around him so that the hospital gown was less obvious. When the door opened, Neville was standing awkwardly with the yellow light of the hallway framing him.

“Hey,” He said, his eyes larger than usual, not stepping forward.

“Hey,” Harry answered, surprised.

He had flowers. Harry was not sure what he was supposed to do with them. Neville didn’t seem too sure, either, and he glanced at them as though kicking himself at having brought them at all.

“They’re… supposed… to have healing properties,” he said, his voice reverted back to the Neville Harry remembered from school, always unsure if his presence was wanted. “The smell. To induce. Good dreams.”

“Right,” Harry said, still bewildered.

Neville tore his too large eyes away from him, and carried the flowers with him towards the medicine cabinet, opening it familiarly and reaching for the bottom shelves. From amongst the measuring cups and disused cauldrons he pulled a vase, clearly meant for this purpose, and stationed it on the table by the door. 

He walked around the room as though he knew it, pulling a plastic chair from behind the cabinet and a pair of white pants, folded neatly, which he gave Harry as he sat down next to him on the chair.

“Thanks,” Harry said, getting up quickly to put them on. “How’d you know—?”

His words trailed off. Neville reddened, looking at the foot of the hospital bed with embarrassment.

Obviously, Neville, having grown up in and out of this ward visiting his parents, would know all the little secrets of the standardized rooms.

“Oh,” Harry said quietly, and sat back down.

“You’re looking loads better,” Neville said, still looking down. “The bites all healed?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied, still trying to get his mind to catch up with recent events. “All gone.”

“Good,” Neville said.

They sunk into silence, and Harry shifted uncomfortably in his bed.

A part of him had been hoping for Hermione and Ron.

But they’re gone, he reminded himself. Left, and it’s good that they scourged up the courage to do that before it was too late.

“They haven’t given you a bracelet yet,” Neville said, and Harry looked back at him, guilty, trying to be happy for his presence.

“A bracelet?”

“Yeah,” Neville said. “I suppose once you’re allowed out of the room, they will. So that if you’re found wandering around the hallways, they know where you’re supposed to go. Name and ward and room number, that sort of thing.”

“Oh.”

“Any minute, I’d wager,” Neville continued awkwardly. “Just… printing it, I guess. Don’t think there’s a reason to keep the door locked if they’ve let you out of the bounds. It’s good.”

Harry blinked at him in confusion.

Then he grew very, very cold.

“This is your horcrux,” he said, feeling his stomach emptying. 

“What?”

“No— I mean. It’s your dementor. No wait— your boggart,” He cursed, shaking his head to clear the dense fog. “I’m sorry… I’m… my head’s…”

“It’s alright,” Neville said, raising his eyes for the first time. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

Neville’s boggart, which Harry had seen in his Defense classroom at the start of the school year. The boggart had taken the shape of Harry, dressed in a white hospital gown, his wrist encircled by a plastic bracelet reading the words Janus Thickly Ward.

“Merlin, Neville,” He said, feeling terrible. “I’m—“

Sorry? Words seemed inadequate. Neville smiled uncomfortably.

“Hey,” he said, his eyes gentle on Harry. “Look—“

“It’s Ron’s boggat too,” Harry said, and an invisible force seemed to pummel into his insides. “And… and Ginny’s…”

“And Hermione’s, if you look back a few weeks,” Neville muttered. “And Luna’s, if it was really a… a hor… you know. That made you do it.”

Harry shut his eyes. His head was reeling.

They sat quietly for a while. Neville was playing with the bedspread, and Harry was trying to get the horrible feeling out of his stomach.

Of course Ron and Hermione would give up on him after that. They should have gone weeks before. Months. Years. He should have just stayed at Godric’s Hollow, never gone back to Hogwarts— he had known it would be a mistake, known they were better off without him—

“Wait,” Neville said, and Harry, surprised to find his hands fisted and his eyes shut tight, shaking, looked up at the other boy, who had his hand uncertain on Harry’s knee.

He took it away, blushing.

“It’s… only our worst fears if… if it actually happens.”

Harry blinked at him strangely.

Neville was looking at the railings of the bed. “My worst fear’s that you get… that you stay here forever,” He said quietly. “If this lasts. Ron’s… too. And Hermione’s. If…” He searched for words, and Harry frowned at him, not understanding. Finally, Neville met his eyes, deep brown ones looking straight at Harry. “If you get out of here, then it won’t be my worst fear,” He said, his voice stronger. “It’d just… be a mistake. Something. One thing that happened, once, a few months after the war. Something to reminisce about. Over butterbeer. After we drop our kids at the Hogwarts Express.”

Neville looked at him intently. Harry looked up at the ceiling, his head a fog.

“If you get out of here, then it’ll just be one thing that happened, out of ten billion other things in a life that could be… full and happy and regular,” Neville said. “You don’t have to stay here, ok?”

“Apparently, that’s not my choice,” Harry said emptily back.

“It is your choice,” Neville said, and there was a note of bitterness in his voice. “You’ve got one, don’t you? You could be at Hogwarts in time for our NEWTs.”

“That’s months away,” Harry said.

“Right,” Neville said. “But it’s not years, is it?”

Harry looked back at him, but Neville was looking away from him, out towards the hallway.

“You’ve got choices, alright?” He muttered. “Just make the right ones, won’t you?”

Harry watched him, his head still too foggy, his stomach still full of guilt.

Neville looked at him imploringly. 

“Alright,” Harry said, and Neville glanced away from him uncomfortably, getting to his feet.

“Healer Toren’s a really good person,” He said, straining to raise his eyes to Harry’s. “She’s… she’s great. You can trust her.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked weakly.

“Hermione’s working on something, of course. So… you might be out of here faster than you think.”

Harry nodded mutely, and then shook himself.

“Hermione?” He repeated. “Hermione’s… what?”

“Working on something,” Neville repeated, and suddenly he was smiling. “What did you think? They’re growing crazy without you.”

Harry gaped at him, and Neville laughed.

“I’ll see you soon,” He said, and offered his hand brotherly.

Harry shook it, and for some reason, touching was not as much of a problem.

“Just make the right choices,” Neville said. “Alright? And you’ll be back with us in no time.”

Chapter Text

Pain:

Neville stood up slowly, his head spinning.

He made sure his face was arranged derisively when he finally looked up.

“Well, Longbottom?” Carrow cooed, her eyes shinning sadistically. “Having fun yet?”

“The best,” Neville said, wiping blood off his upper lip. She grinned wider.

“I wasn’t there when your mommy and daddy screamed for Bellatrix,” She said, her voice meant to be low and dangerous, in reality high with hardly contained excitement. “Heard it was quite the show, though.”

He said nothing. He glanced sideways, and the moon was high in the sky. Detentions were never long, though. Just painful.

“Crucio.”

He dropped to the floor, screaming, and by the wall Seamus was stirring, breathing hard, weak from his own punishment but still trying to come to Neville’s rescue. When the spell ended, Neville met his eyes, and Seamus swallowed, his movements quieting. He knew shouldn’t fight them now. It wasn’t the time. Yet.

“You’re more apt at it than they were,” Carrow continued blissfully. “I suppose their going cuckoo has made you more prepared. You should really thank the Dark Lord, for his help in building your character.”

“Next time I see him,” Neville breathed, raising to his feet again shakily, “I’ll make sure to mention it.”

“What potion did you feed my husband?” She asked, turning to him sharply, as though to surprise.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her robe had accidentally caught on a steel spiked ball hanging from the ceiling, and she jumped away from it with a yelp.

“Don’t lie to me!” She said, once she stood straight again. “He’s been… incoherent… for days!”

Neville tried to keep the smile off his face. They had used one of Fred and George’s products— one to induce an endless bout of sniveling sobs, smuggled in over Christmas. “I wouldn’t dream of harming Professor Carrow, Professor Carrow.”

“Crucio!” 

He could see Seamus half grinning through the blood in his mouth as his head hit the floor repetitively. 

“You are the same as they were,” She spat at him when her spell diminished. “And you’ll end like they did.”

“As you say, Professor Carrow.”

“Crucio! Get up, you’re bleeding on my floor.” 

His nose was running, and he stood up again, swaying slightly.

“How many more until you tell me?” She taunted. “An hour’s worth? Two?”

She was bluffing. Her spells were already ending within seconds, and she stood panting in the shadows.

“Answer.”

“However many you like, Professor Carrow.”

“You’ll tell me in the end.”

“Nothing to tell, Professor Carrow.”

“Then you’ll stay here till morning!” 

“It’s only pain, Professor Carrow,” He told her softly. 

“What was that?” She demanded, buying time, still puffing. “Speak up!”

“Your spell. It’s only pain.”

“Well, of course it is!” 

“Only nerve ends. Made to think they’re burning. But they’re not.”

“We’ll see about that—“

“There’s an easy solution for dealing with pain, Professor Carrow.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“Realizing,” He said, “That it’s not real.”

“Not real?” She jeered unconvincingly, confused.

“Physical pain is never real.”

“Crucio!” 

A moment of spasm. He stood without her having to tell him anything, leveling his eyes at hers cooly. 

“You know nothing of real pain,” He said, not sure why he was speaking to her at all. “So to you, it seems like this is painful.”

“It is painful. So painful, your parents were sniveling lunatics by the end of it—“

“My parents’s pain was not this spell on them,” Neville told her. “It was the pain they felt… for each other.”

“That’s the same thing!” 

“You’d think so,” He said, eyes still on her, and she was afraid. “But it’s not even remotely close.”

“Crucio!”

It lasted less than a heartbeat. He remained standing, breath hardly hitched.

“Cruciatus’s simple to handle,” He told her, his voice echoing in the dungeon. “All you have to do is remember: it’s not real. Just a spell, mimicking pain. And that?” 

He was taller than her, and she shrunk beneath him, her weapon useless. 

“It’s nothing,” He whispered, “To the everyday, regular, back-of-your-mind pain that I feel.”

*** 

Chapter Twenty-Three: Choices

They did fasten a bracelet around his right wrist a few days later, and once it was on, he was allowed to leave the room.

“It won’t come off,” He told Toren while she was passing him potions.

“No,” She agreed.

“Does it…?”

“Track your movement, phycological balance, and mood?” She finished. “Yes.”

He nodded, gulping down something green.

Her eyes were sharp on him. “Is it better? No nausea?”

“Yes,” He said. She wrote something down. “Still foggy, though,” He added, watching a quilt he couldn't remember who gave him, dragons flying across its blue stitched sky.

Mrs Weasley?

Probably left here by someone else. 

“That’s normal,” She answered, watching him closely. The largest dragon was red, and it kept its yellow eyed gaze on Harry, smoke coming out of its nostrils. “Adeline said you had a nightmare.”

He reddened instinctively pulling the blankets closer around him, so that the dragon’s eyes were hidden in folds of cloth. “I wish you’d stop tailing me.”

Adeline was the new nurse. Ancient, with frizzled white hair and milky blue eyes, she was still rose cheeked and forever smiling. She was in the room now, arranging a tray of food, too full, which would not be taken away until emptied.

The dragon had moved again, so that it could look at him once more, now perched on a cloud near the rightmost edge of the quilt.

“It’s our job,” Toren said. Adeline passed him a spoon. He took it bitterly. Rearranged the blankets again, so that the dragon was trapped beneath him. “It’s hard for you, relinquishing control.”

His insides seethed with indignation. 

“You’re upset with me?”

“No, I’m not upset with you.”

“You’re upset at being here?”

“I’m not upset.”

“And yet, used to dealing with things on your own. And not needing anyone to change your sheets, prepare your food—”

“I don’t mind.”

“What’s the matter, then?”

“You insistently asking what’s the matter, for a start.”

She smiled. “Because it is hard for you, relinquishing control,” She repeated, come full circle. Harry rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know you,” He told her, trying to keep his voice civil. “And I can take care of myself.”

“Clearly,” She said, marking something on her clipboard.

He reddened again. “I already told you,” He muttered. “When I went to Godric’s Hollow, I thought there was a horcrux in me.”

They had spoken of this before. Adeline ordered his pillows, and he pushed away from them, leaning forward instead. 

“But there wasn’t,” Toren said. “You’d destroyed it eight months ago.”

“Well, yeah, but—“ 

“You’ve known it was destroyed. Last May, you were convinced.”

“I thought I was, but—“

“Albus Dumbledore had made his assessment of the matter clear,” She continued. “Others had been sure, as well. You told your friends you’d felt it dying.”

“Well, that’s not—“

“And it turned out to have been a simple enough test,” She continued. “Finding a snake. Seeing whether or not you still speak Parseltongue. But you never thought about it long enough to find a test, did you? Almost as though you were looking for an—“

“I wasn’t looking for an excuse!”

She fell silent, and Harry’s words hang furious between them. 

He swallowed, and glared at the remerging dragon, which had reclaimed its perch on the cloud. He saw her sitting down on the plastic chair from the corner of his eye, so that they were the same hight. Adeline had left. He wished Toren would, also.

“I think,” She said slowly, watching him still, “That you would have gone even if a mediwitch had told you, unequivocally, that it was gone.” Her eyes were sharp. Harry glared at the quilt, hands fisted. “And if you would have been convinced of its absence, you would have found another reason to go,” She continued. “I don’t think you going to Godric Hollow had anything to do with the horcrux at all.”

“Well, you are mistaken,” he said, mimicking her careful tone.

“Rarely,” She replied. “What did you think would happen after?”

He glanced up at her, surprised at the turn of conversation, and slightly suspicious. “After what?”

“After you’d have died.”

He leaned back on the pillows, arms across his chest. “Nothing,” He said. “I mean— I dunno. Wasn’t planning on becoming an angel or anything, you know.”

“Seeing your loved ones? Parents? Godfather? The people who’d died in the battle?”

“No,” He looked away from her, feeling his stomach empty. “I don’t… want. To meet them.”

Don’t want to hear their anger. To see their disappointment. To feel their loss.

“Then what?”

“Nothing,” He said again.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

She watched him. He cursed, starting to eat. 

“Nothing,” She repeated, as though testing the word, running it over her tongue. “What’s ‘nothing’?”

“Nothing. Oblivion. Blackness, a void.”

She was watching him still. 

“What?” He demanded.

“Like DSP?”

He got to his feet, irritated, and went over to the window.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why,” He repeated to himself. “Why.”

She remained silent.

“Isn’t there supposed to be a professional to do this?” He asked, watching the muggle street outside bustling in the early afternoon. “You’re just the physical healer.”

She still said nothing. He felt naked and alone. Suddenly, something occurred to him.

Neville had know her. 

By name.

He swallowed, manipulated. She could have just told him. Glaring at the wallpaper, arms still crossed over his chest, he said: “I wouldn’t have gone to Godric’s Hollow if there hadn’t been a horcrux.”

“But there hadn’t been.”

He huffed loudly. “You know what I meant.”

“I think I do. Do you?”

“I meant that I wouldn’t have gone if I hadn’t thought there was a horcrux.”

“But you wanted oblivion,” She said. “How would you have gotten nothingness, without going?”

“I wouldn’t have. I would have stayed in the light.”

“The Light?”

There was a button next to the window, and Harry pressed it experimentally. The images changed, now showing what must have been the garden on the fourth floor.

“Can I go there?”

“Not right now.”

“It’s fake,” He said, turning to her, resentful. “This new freedom. I’m still technically bound to the bed.”

“Only you’re not bound to the bed,” She told him, smiling. “Just as you do not have a horcrux in your head, and yet you would have killed yourself to get rid of it. Sometimes, the difference is important.”

He turned back from her, pressed on the button again, and the window showed a tranquil beach and an everlasting ocean.

“Harry?”

“Mr Potter, I thought?”

“If you like.”

“Oh, so that is my choice?”

“A lot of things are your choice,” She said simply. “You could tell me what Light means, and you can choose not to. You could admit you’d lost yourself Christmas morning, or you could continue insisting it had been a decision not made by you, but by a man who’s been dead for nearly two years. You could—“

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know you.”

“So what?”

“I can take care of myself.”

She laughed. “This is a circular conversation.”

“You’re a riddler.”

“I’m just asking simple questions,” She said. “You’re not answering.”

“Ok,” He said.

She sighed, leaning back. Harry kept his eyes stubborn on the yellow wall paper.

“You haven’t asked to leave, yet.”

He crossed his arms. “Can I leave?”

“No.”

He rolled his eyes, and walked over to the cabinet, rummaging through it mindlessly.

“Do you want to?”

This made him pause. He found a towel, and ran his fingers over it, feeling the soft fabric.

“Harry?”

“Not really,” He said, not looking at her. He moved his hand to the next shelf, finding empty bottles and pillows.

“How come?”

“Haven’t got anywhere to go,” He said, pulling out a strange tube made of a thick substance.

She was watching him. He ignored her.

“Hogwarts? Back to your friends? Your students?”

“Don’t want to go there,” He said, pulling the tube, testing its flexibility.

“Why not?”

He shrugged, not thinking about Ron’s face when he closed the door behind them.

She said nothing.

“Did you use this on me while I was sleeping?” he asked, showing her the tube.

She sighed again.

“You sigh a lot.”

“We did not use it,” She said, getting to her feet. “I have one last question.”

“Shoot.”

“What was your nightmare about?”

His fingers continued twisting the tube, but he no longer noticed.

“It was about the Light,” He said, not blinking.

He hated the fog. A lot.

He also hated the room.

He hated it with a passion. Its claustrophobic yellow walls, the false window he had become convinced should have shown earth, the windowed door anyone could peer through. He hated the flimsy bed that creaked and shook whenever he moved on it, and the thin pillows, and the cloth of the gown that hid nothing. He hated the cups floating towards him with liquids he could not recognize, hated the silver instruments that would appear in the cabinet if anyone but him opened it, hated the way the door opened so softly he was so often surprised to find someone standing over his bed. He hated the silence. The lack of shadows under the florescent lights. The size, too small to feel airy, too big to feel not alone.

Nurses were furniture when they came into his room. They said nothing and smiled as little as possible, but he could always see the fascination in their eyes, and hear their whispered giggles outside his door. He never left the room, because eyes followed him down the corridors, always deliberating on whether to approach him or not. It made little difference, since he wasn’t allowed out of the ward anyway. So instead, he sat on the uncreaking plastic chairs and read old text books.

Toren refused to allow Defense books into the room, laughing and claiming that he knew enough defense for the entire floor, including the Auror Sector. Instead, she provided piles of books about Charms, Transfiguration, and Potions, and he read them as carefully as Hermione used to, over and over again until new ones were provided. He couldn’t practice anything, but he could read them through, go over the movements, think of ways they could be made useful in a duel. When Toren heard of this tricky abuse of her ban, she put both her hands on her hips and glared at him irately. 

“So basically, you’re using them as Defense books.”

“It’s called Floater’s Floating Bubble of Foam.”, He told her, waving the book under her nose. “Is it my fault the obvious use is to float an enemy through a window in a bubble?”

He was degraded to fiction after that.

“Tell me about the Light,” She said, one afternoon, at the usual time.

“You’re as stubborn as a Hippogriff,” He said, not looking up from his book.

“The phrase is a griffin, I believe.”

“I’ll get the hang of it.” He dismissed. “I was raised by muggles, I’ve got catching up to do.”

“What for?” She asked, leaning back in her chair, her clipboard clicking. “You’ll never have to use proper phrasing.”

“What do you mean?” He asked, suspicious, used to her riddles.

He’d walked right into it. “You’re not interested in leaving. You’re not trying to. Seem content to stay here, and I promise, once I retire, I’ll tell my replacement to ignore any misphrasing you may speak.”

He rolled his eyes, flapping forward in the story. It was called Maybell the Full Hearted After Her Heart.

“Are you giving me books that are boring so I want to leave?”

“Me? Certainly not.”

“Ah-ha.” He had finished all the others. Maybell was just about to enter the castle of her beloved prince.

“Why do you read so much?”

“Bored.”

“Or avoiding?”

“Option two. Of course,” He replied. “Obviously.”

“You weren’t like this at Hogsmeade,” She said. “Joking. Your friends told me you hardly spoke.”

“Guess you’re really good at your job, then.”

“I don’t think that’s the reason,” She said, and he put the book away and pulled its sequel. “I think it’s easier for you, here.”

“It’s the drugs. They make everything more interesting.”

“You spoke about the battle with Mr Weasley and Ms Granger, but not with me.”

“It’s not really your business,” He said, flipping to his favorite chapter.

“No,” She said. “I guess not. But is was theirs?”

“Whose?”

“Your friends’.”

“No,” He said. “It was not theirs, either.”

“But you spoke about it with them.”

“They were a little more adamant about it.”

“No,” She said. “You spoke about it with them because for them, you wanted to get better.”

“Obviously,” He said again, but too slowly, and she saw that she had caught him unprepared.

“Yes,” She agreed, not pressing it. “They still want you to get better, you know.”

He wished she would leave. “I know.”

“Even if they’re not here.”

“I know.”

“And this isn’t getting better,” She said. “This is more of the same, but only a little bit different.”

“I’m fine with more of the same.”

“But they aren’t.”

“As we’ve said,” He bowed to her. “It’s none of their business.”

“You were able to show them you were hurting,” She said. “But here, you’re pretending to be… jolly.”

“It was Christmas when I came,” He nodded. “Jolly good cheer, and merriment. All that.”

“To get me off your back.”

“You’re the Hippogriff, remember? You get me off your back.”

“So you can shove your nightmares to the background, and pretend they’re not there.”

“You know,” He mused, tapping his finger on the book’s spine, “I think Maybell's growing on me.”

“Pretend they’re not there,” She repeated, unabashed, “So you won’t have to think of things during the day.”

“You are a marvelously accomplished investigator. Splendid job.”

“But when you were with them, you didn’t hide this completely. You let them see your pain.”

“You get drugs for pain in a hospital, ma’am.”

“Because it was their business.”

“Was not their business,” He corrected, giving up on the book and pulling a magazine toward him, one of fashion, since he was not allowed to read the news. “Don’t confuse your facts. You’re ahead.”

“Is this why you won’t see them?”

He closed the magazine and looked out the window.

“They want to come,” She said, her voice soft. “Mr Longbottom is afraid he’s offended you.”

“He hasn’t,” He said lightly. “No use in them coming. If I recall, it is ‘unwise for me to see them at this time’.”

“That was before. It’s recommended now.”

“But it’s my choice.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Then it is better separate,” He said, airly, pulling the magazine open again. “They live their lives, I live mine.”

“You don’t want them to see you in our ward? Is it… shameful?”

“They already saw me,” He waved her off, rolling his eyes. “They brought me.”

“Ah.”

He looked up. She was nodding, as though he’d said something important.

“What?” He asked, frowning. 

“They brought you.”

“Yes. You were here. Bounds and snake bites. Remember?”

“Yes. And then— they left.”

He reddened. “I’m not feeling abandoned, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“No?”

“Nope.”

“I think I would have,” She said, watching him in her irritating way. “They agreed to care for you, and now they’ve stopped.”

“Got a right to stop, just like anyone.”

“They’re… just anyone?”

“No, they’re more than just anyone. But that wasn’t their choice, to be… my… more than anyone.” Harry said, watching pictures of smiling models waving at him with sparkling accessories changing to match their outfits. “It just happened, until they couldn’t back out. And if they want to back out now, and stop… being my more than anyone, they’ve got a right to.”

“But they don’t want to back out. They want to see you. They want you to come back to Hogsmeade, actually.”

His eyes froze on the page. She noticed. He forced his hands to move nonchalantly once more.

“Well, now it’s not their choice at all,” He said. “It’s mine.”

“And you don’t want to see them.”

“No.”

“Because they could get hurt?”

“It’s better separate.”

She watched him flipping pages.

“If they’d given up on you, you could give up, too.”

“Very deep,” He told her, tapping his finger at a commercial, flapping through summer dresses. “You should be a shrink.”

“Don’t you think you should let them decide?”

“Decide what?”

“If they want to get hurt or not.”

He paused on a flowery dress with two front pockets sewn into the fabric. Ginny would’ve liked that, he thought.

“I don’t think you’ll try to go to Godric Hollow’s again, Harry.”

He breathed. “You don’t?”

“No. I think you really want to get better. You did. Before the dementor. You wanted to let them help you.”

He didn’t say anything. When he tapped the dress, it changed to black.

“People slip sometimes. Sink into despair, lose themselves for a while. They can still get back on their feet. You can still get back on your feet.”

“I’m lying down.”

“You can still get better,” She clarified, not succumbing to his sarcasm. “You can still be what you were before. If you want. You slipped once, you were lost, but that’s all it was: a slip. It’s your choice to move forward, now.”

“Hmm.”

The magazine wasn’t long enough. He closed it, and turned back to the first page.

“I want you to go back to Hogsmeade. I think it would be better.”

“You’re the shrink.”

“Would you go?”

He looked up at her.

“Is that my choice?”

“Everything’s your choice, Harry.”

He looked back at the magazine. A woman was pulling a disproportionate amount of accessories out of a small dragon skin purse, and they mounted exaggeratedly behind her. 

He felt Toren’s eyes on him, waiting. 

“They don’t want me there,” He said, not looking up. “They think they do, but they don’t. They want to move on. And I can’t.”

Her voice was even. “Why not?”

He looked at the ceiling.

“I don’t know,” He said, watching the white.

“But do you want to?”

“I don’t know.” He wished there were cracks to follow. “Yes. No. No.”

“No?”

“Someone needs to remember,” He said.

“The dead?” He didn’t answer. “And it needs to be you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It just does.”

“Because of the Light?” She pressed. “Because you’re… a light?”

He looked up at her, surprised.

Her eyes were calm. “Boy Who Lived. Golden Boy. Chosen One. Always you.”

He played with his fingers.

“And when the war’s over, a light to guide the masses.”

He looked out the window. 

“And carry the shadows of the past.”

He got to his feet and walked away from her.

“Albus Dumbledore’s asked too much of you, Harry,” She said, quiet behind him, her words echoing in the large room. “I think he realized that, in the end. He wouldn’t have wanted this.”

“I don’t care what he wanted,” Harry said, his voice weak.

“I think you care a lot.”

“You think too much,” He said, not turning back to her, his eyes on the window, pressing the images and watching their rapid change.

“You have no responsibilities now. You owe no one nothing. You don’t need to be a light. You don’t have to do it alone. If you’re in pain, you’re allowed to let other people help you.”

“They’ll get hurt.”

“They want to,” She said. “They want to get hurt, for you.”

“They shouldn’t.”

“That,” She said, getting up to her feet, “is not your choice.”

Chapter Text

After, Before: 

“So how long’s Auror training, anyway?” 

There was a tree, right by the lake, slightly secluded with a thick root protruding at just the right angle. Harry was leaning on the root. Ginny was leaning on Harry, pretending to be reading for her Transfiguration O.W.L.

“You should be studying, Gin. Hermione’ll kill me if you fail this test.”

“Hermione’s definition of studying is tantamount to Goblin torture mechanisms. I’m only holding this book in case she shows up.”

Harry laughed, and Ginny turned around, so she was on her stomach, bare feet in the air, smiling at him. 

“So?”

“Er… three years, I think.”

“And you start right after you finish Seventh?”

“I guess so.”

“What do you mean, you guess?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“You don’t think about the future?”

Harry pulled her hair behind her ear. “Erm. Not really. A little busy with Malfoy and his plot to kill Dumbledore, you know.”

“Yeah, but after that’s over,” Ginny said, easily sidestepping another one of Harry’s Malfoy Is A Death Eater rants. “Once we’re all done with all of it.”

“With Voldemort?”

“Yes.”

“Well then yeah, I guess I’ll start Auror training.”

“And where would you live?”

“Erm.” He blinked at her. She was watching him curiously. 

And suddenly— 

Blazingly—

Unexpectedly—

He knew. 

He knew what he wanted. He wanted to live in a renovated Godric’s Hollow, clean and beautiful, like it was before his earliest memories, in the pictures his parents left behind. He wanted to have a burning fire and family portraits on the walls, and a shed with broomsticks in the backyard. He wanted to make lavish breakfasts in the kitchen, and he wanted Ginny to sit at the counter next to him, reading the news and making fun of the articles, licking spoons of chocolate and pancake solution, occasionally stopping to mock his apron. 

He wanted…

Wanted. 

(Wanted).

(Before). 

Chapter Twenty-Four: Return

First, was the air. 

He walked out of a tall, wide building made of eternal labyrinths and floor upon floor of potion fumes and disinfectants, crowded with hurried people and waiting people and frightened people and grieving people. He walked out of the standardized grey walls, the standardized white floorboards, the severe portraits of white robed healers and the lengths of old blue chairs in rows along the hallways. 

He walked out. He walked out. 

He walked out, and into the open London street, sleepily empty in the early morning hour, and there was a slight drizzle of rain, caressing almost, and the wind played around him in the chilly January air, biting, so that others pulled their coats closed but he just wanted to pull his open, and let the air in. People in the street were living lives beyond his, rushing to work and to school and to troubles that were as unrelated to him as night and day, foreign enough to seem positively alien. They passed him by quickly, too quickly, and he are bombarded with their very existence, outside the hospital, in the world he’d been kept away from for five weeks.

He was smiling at them, a strange smile, which they returned uncomfortably. From his right hand dangled a silver band, and it grew colder under the sharp wind, foreign. But it didn’t matter. He lifted his face to the rain and let it wash down into his under robes. 

He walked out.

He did. For a minute — maybe longer — he didn’t think he would. 

Second, was the castle. 

Once they apparated into the village, Madam Rosmeretta’s cooking wafted up at him from the chimney of the Three Broomsticks, and he turned immediately away from the inn and looked, almost desperately, to the horizon. It was there, like it always was: the castle he grew up in, its ancient pillars faded by the morning fog. He could see fires lit inside the towers, hues of red through the grey. The forest. The lake. A hut on the grounds, hidden behind the tall gates, its chimney letting off thick grey smoke. You can see Hogwarts castle from every point in the village. He felt like it was the first of September, and his chest filled with warmth. 

It was there. For a minute — maybe longer — he thought it wouldn’t be. 

Third, was home. 

Crookshanks slunk forward immediately, dropping off the window sill by the desk and purring at his feet. He rarely showed this much affection, and Harry was touched, and leaned down to rub his head in the right spot behind the ear. The apartment smelled like firewood and Mrs Weasley’s lentil soup. There was fire in the hearth, and traces of Floo powder on the mental, and his friends had gotten a new carpet and placed it beneath their small, second-hand living room. Hermione’s books were on the table, set at right angles and covered by her small handwriting. Ron’s broom was by the front door, old worn boots caked with mud underneath it but the broom handle pristine. Harry’s things were where he’d left them, the essays he’d set for Christmas break and the Quidditch gloves he’d left on the kitchen counter, and there was a strange knot over his navel, that no one had moved them, had touched them, in all this time. 

He put his bag near the door. It suddenly seemed out of place, a hospital issued bag that belongs somewhere else, a different reality. Crookshanks sniffed it suspiciously, and meowed. The apartment was empty. He realized he had expected to find someone here. 

“Where’s Ron?" He asked.

“He’s in London.”

Hermione was averting her gaze. Neville smiled unconcernedly. Harry dragged the bag over to the room he shared with Ron, and his bed was as unmade as it was when he’d left it. London meant Diagon Alley. Diagon Alley meant Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Otherwise Hermione would have just said. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes meant George. 

The knot grew tighter. 

The knot grew tighter, and the air felt stiff. He reordered the bag on the bed. He made it, pressing the blanket down under the mattress and the pillow back into place. He was wearing the cloths he’d worn when he went to Godric’s Hollow. Suddenly, he wanted to take them off. 

He did not take them off. 

He stepped back into the living room. Neville was making tea, and Hermione was looking away, guilty, as though she had been staring. He walked towards her, and then he stopped. He didn’t know what to say. She was wordless and questionless and her nose was red. He walked instead towards the window, and looked into the street, snowy, people in colorful robes beginning to wake and make their way to their day.

The knot, the knot. 

For a minute — maybe longer — he thought things would just go back. 

Fourth, was Mcgonagall. 

She looked at him with piercing feline eyes and a no-nonsense attitude. She did not avert her gaze, or make tea. She straightened her gaze at him and raised an eyebrow. 

He asked to teach her students. 

And she wondered if that would be best. 

The knot grew tighter and tighter until it was a rock within him, pulling him into the ground. Yes. Yes, it would be. He would like to teach. He had promises to keep, to Sam Lory who wanted to know how to cast blocking charms, to the fifth year Slytherins who made him swear to teach them to duel. He didn’t have anything else to do, anywhere else to go. This would be best. Here. In this castle. He can’t bear to be anywhere else. 

She eyed him narrowly. 

He swallowed and met her gaze. 

"Very well, Mr Potter”, she said, and the rock vanished, and his breath returned. “On one condition." 

“Yes?”

Her eyes on him, and behind her, Dumbledore’s portrait held its long fingers together over the desk.

“Don’t do it again."

The knot was back. 

He returned to the apartment, and Ron was still not there. Not still— again. He could see he had been, that his boots were no longer muddy, that he had moved his broom. Hermione sat at her desk and studied, and she had not looked at him and not spoken to him and had only answered short, nervous answers when he dared ask anything. He knew that when Ron was angry, he was red and loud and explosive. That Hermione was cool and sharp and frizzly. They were not angry. He didn’t know what they were. 

Last, was her. 

She smelled like flowers and broomsticks. She wore her Captain uniform all the time, because she was at practice all the time. But when she was not at practice, she was next to him. 

She was next to him, and she smelled like flowers and broomsticks. 

After he returned from Mcgonagall, she asked questions about the people in the Ward and told stories about the others in her class. She laughed in a rolling, unabashed torrent and her voice was calm and melodic and waited whenever he had to catch up. She held her tea between her hands like a treasure and let her hair fall into her eyes to tempt him to pull it back for her. Her eyes were like dark honey and she looked at him unexpectantly through the vapors, just there, just present. 

He wanted to pull the hair out of her eyes for her. 

He wanted to hold the tea with her and pull her into his lap. He wanted to dig his chin into her shoulder and smell the flowers and the broomsticks and feel her laughter in his bones. He wanted to tell her about the Ward, and to hear her stories about her day. He wanted. He wanted. He wanted. 

But wanting this was like wanting to hold lava in his hand. He could not bear it. He would explode. 

He would explode.

In class, at least, everything was as it had been. 

The students didn’t know what had happened. They thought Harry had been ill over Christmas, and that his replacement — a displeased Auror Shackelbolt had been willing to loan McGongall on short notice — was to be condoned temporarily until their professor returned. This made Harry’s gratitude to his old Head of House even greater. Mcgonagall, at least, had always trusted him to return to teach her students, despite her strict demeanor and her scrutinizing eyes. 

When they found him again in their Defense classroom, he was met with excited exclamations and questions about his absence. The younger students mostly wanted to make sure Professor Gramp was gone for good (they shared numerous nicknames that had been invented to fit his eternal bad mood), but the older students were suspicious, wondering loudly (and in Harry’s hearing) whether he had been ill, or rather injured by a terrible battle with escaping Death Eaters. Harry tried to put these rumors to rest quickly, but his denials only seemed to serve as further proof, and soon he abandoned them in favor of practice. He had finished planning all the remaining lessons for the year at the Ward, leaving the existing curriculum entirely and building it anew. He set the second years to blocking charms, and had the fifth years practicing patronuses. He tried to have them too spent with spell casting to wonder too much, and for the most part, it worked. 

When he got back home from his second day of classes, his head was buzzing with casting techniques and pronunciations. Crookshanks meowed loudly and came over to purr against Harry’s boots, and he lowered, letting the cat rub his face against his fingers, his whiskers tickling the inside of his palm.  

No Ron. No Hermione. Just an empty apartment, still warm from the dying hearth, Hogsmeade village sleepy through the living room windows. 

(Got a right to leave, just like anyone.)

Harry sat on the floor, and Crookshanks climbed happily into his lap. He put his bag next to him, and leaned back on the counter. He could hear Dean and Seamus arguing in the apartment on their left, Seamus swearing, bottles of butter beer clanking over each other. 

They had been happy to see Harry, hesitant and then normal, following Neville’s lead and threading Harry into their everyday life like they had before, trying to pry Defense answers out of him and hinting heavily that the he should try and find out more information about their NEWTs. He had also seen Luna, who had given him an odd, overlong, and somehow wonderful hug, placed a dried Tulip in his hand and told him to keep it in his pocket, which he did. Neville had asked to see Harry’s new potion, and had — for lack of a better word — geeked out over it for three hours, thrilled at the intricate use of some Middle Eastern desert plant Harry’s never heard of. He also asked countless questions about Torren, but not the ones Harry had worried he’d ask — Neville wanted to know how she was, whether she had already told him “doubtlessly” with a knowing smirk or not, and whether she wore the scarf Neville had given her for Christmas. 

Harry had spent all evening at Dean and Seamus’s, with Ginny on the other side of the living room, laughing with Luna. Hermione had stayed at the library, studying. And Ron wasn’t there.

But he felt better.

He felt better. He felt better. He felt present, now, as though the new potion and Torren’s breathing exercises were rooting him into reality, keeping intrusive thoughts at bay. He slept full nights, and if he had nightmares, he couldn’t remember them. The air was fresh and the sky was cloudy and the castle was beautiful. There were the students, and they gave him purpose, something to strive for, something to wake up for in the morning and a reason to plan. And there was the snake, that did not understand him, and the trust that the horcurx was truly gone. 

He wished Ron and Hermione could see that. That things had changed. That Harry had changed. That everything was better. 

Everything. All was well. 

All was well. 

Godric’s Hollow was absurdly beautiful under the moonlight. 

Ron stopped by the gate, looking forward, feeling odd. It seemed like a cottage taken out of some fairytale. The Wizard and the Hopping Pot, or The Maiden’s Dancing Slippers. When he stood outside the gate, the house was a beautiful ruin, the shattered windows glistening like crystals under the moon. If he leaned a fraction forward, it would transform, into the sturdy cottage Harry had rebuilt over the summer, red roofed and pristine. 

Ron stood outside the gate, still an intruder. Last summer he had stood here hoping to find Harry after he had vanished from the Burrow, sure everything would be better if he just brought him back. 

Idiot.

He pulled the latch open, stepping toward the porch. Harry would not be here, he knew, as he walked down the pebbled path. This was all Ron, and the house, and its ghosts. 

The front door was unlocked. He opened it carefully, worried the motion might destabilize the silence. He was still too large and cumbersome in this serene perfection, still a behemoth in a land of unmarred tranquility. His robes were still too long, his hands too powerful, his breath too loud. He closed the door behind him, the silence of the hinges unobtrusive, and looked up into the living room, blinking in the dark. 

(Harry? Are you here?)

Last summer, he had come here hoping to find Harry. On Christmas day, he had come here afraid to. And now…

Lily and James Potter did not leave ghosts in Godric’s Hollow. They believed that death was but the next great adventure, and embarked upon it young and vibrant, leaving not a trace behind. But there was another ghost haunting this beautifully perfected home, his fingerprint on every surface, his labour in every object. Harry’s ghost. Ron’s Harry. 

He had been young and vibrant too. With sharp green eyes, and a constant stream of snarky retorts to every situation. He had laughed and glowered and fought Ron over the best Every Flavor Beans in the dorm. He had badmouthed Snape with vigor, conspired plots against Umbridge, strategized over Quidditch games and shouted Malfoy down. He had lost three thousand chess games, but still wanted to play more. Ron remembered him. Sort of. The aura of him, walking easily down ancient halls, laughing at his and Hermione’s bickering, glancing at Ginny when he thought Ron couldn’t see. He had been. Yes. He remembered. There had been such a person, once, Before. 

Ron sat down on the wooden planks in the middle of the living room, under the sturdy ceiling, remembering looking up through it into a starry sky. His hands were scarred in the shadows, and he played with the clasp of his right boot. The house was chilly. 

“I don’t get it,” He said, into the boot. “I don’t. Why you left. Why you keep leaving. And I wish—“ 

He stopped. Swallowed. Stars shone through the windows, lighting his scarred palms. 

“I wish you’d come back,” He said finally, into the stars. “You. I wish—“

A wind blew in through the door he’d left open, ruffling the pages of an open book on the living room table. 

He felt foolish. 

Harry wasn’t there. There was not ghost here of his friend, because Harry had not died, had only changed so that Ron could no longer recognize him. 

He got to his feet, quickly, disrupting the quiet once more. His robes were wet with  snow, and it sunk into the carpet, leaving a dark stain. When he stood again by the doors, he paused, glancing backwards. 

“At least let me know if you plan on staying or not,” He said, looking at the empty room behind him. 

Nothing. 

Idiot. 

He pulled the door open, and left.

“Good evening, Harry.”

A thin plank of a door closed softly behind him, and he looked sheepishly around the office. Large windows showing a bustling London street. Rows of thick bound textbooks hiding the standardized hospital walls, lit by soft hued lamps hanging over them. An armchair, a sofa, and Torren, sitting behind piles of books and notes on her desk, smiling at him familiarly. 

“Evening,” He said. 

“Go ahead,” She pointed at the couch. It was purple, and covered in patterned quilts and pillows. He sat at its edge, uncomfortable. 

She was scribbling quickly on a notepad, marking notches in a large book. He found the quilt he had used as a patient in the Ward, and started playing with the dragon mindlessly, tapping at it to make it fly between the clouds. 

This was a weekly appointment. He’s sworn to show up to them, religiously she had said, over anything else. That was the deal. He got to return to Hogsmeade, with its tense silences and estranged inhabitants, and she got to see him, for an hour, every Wednesday. 

His brushed his robes of lingering Floo Powder. 

“Alright,” She said, standing and closing the book. “Tea?”

She came over in a her usual brisk manner, and placed a kettle on the table between them, offering him sugar and then settling on the armchair with a pad and a quill. 

“How were the first few days back?”

He put the quilt away, making sure its edges wouldn’t slip over the edge of the sofa, tucking it around the pillow so that the dragon could easily peer through. When he was done, he looked back at Torren, solemn. 

“Fine,” He said. 

Torren laughed, and Harry reddened. Her dark curls jumped with her laughter. “That bad?” 

“No,” Harry objected. “No. It’s been… It’s been great." 

He told her about the students, and the sun, tea at Hagrid’s and dinners at Dean and Seamus’— raucous dinners, filled with butterbeer, shouting matches, and Ginny’s hand in his lap. 

“Good,” Torren said, her face fit into a careful smile, her quill untouched and the notepad empty. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, Harry.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Yeah, I am.”

She watched. The dragon breathed knit fire over Harry’s fingertips, and Harry rubbed the cloth between his fingers, the fibers soft on his skin. 

“The potion’s good, too,” He said, into the silence. “Like it was here. I hadn’t had any… anything happen.” The thought cycles, the nightmares, the waking dreams. “It’s really good at stopping it.”

“Good.”

“Oh— and Neville wanted to know if you liked his Christmas present.”

“I did. Thank him for me?”

“Sure.”

The dragon flew between the clouds, heavy torso between thin red wings, and Harry turned the quilt to follow it.

“So… are we done?”

He looked up hopefully. She blinked at him, surprised. 

“What about the others?”

“What others?”

“Mr Weasley, and Ms Granger.”

“Oh,” Harry said, and then he paused. Torren was watching him expressionlessly, and she had taken her quill into her hand. 

“Erm. Hermione’s… quiet. And I don’t know how Ron is, I haven’t seen him yet.”

“I thought you slept in the same room?”

“Yeah. So did I.”

“So where is he?”

“I don’t know. With his family, I think.”

“With his family,” She repeated, slowly, and Harry blinked away from her, into the quilt again. 

“Yeah,” He said, easily. “His brother’s. It’s fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes. I understand.”

“Understand what?”

Harry leaned back in the sofa, pulling the quilt off the pillow and into his lap. “He doesn’t want to stay at the apartment anymore. I might just move out, and then he and Hermione could live together like they planned.”

“And you?”

Harry shrugged. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea at all,” Torren said, still calm, yet clear. “I am not at all comfortable with the idea of you moving out.”

“Eventually, I’ll have to move out,” Harry said, poking the dragon. "The school year will finish in a few months.”

“The apartment is unimportant. I’m concerned with the people inside it.”

“I can just live with someone else.”

“Could you?”

“Of course.”

She watched him for a moment, and then lowered, writing something down. Harry rubbed his hands together. She was shaking her head ever so slightly, her lips perched with disapproval. 

“What?” He asked, trying to read her handwriting upside down. 

She straightened back to him. “I did not get the impression that Ms Granger or Mr Weasley would be so easily replaceable to you.”

“They’re not replaceable. But they’re—“

He stopped, annoyed. She was making it into more than it was. They wanted space from him. People wanted space sometimes, it was nothing to discuss with a professional. 

“Everything else is fine,” He said, instead of answering. “The students, and the assignments, and Neville and—“

“And Ms Weasley?”

“I— what?”

“Ms Weasley. Ginny Weasley.”

His heart beat faster, two beasts, shoving each other down. 

(He would explode.) 

“Fine,” He said, and Torren’s lips thinned unhappily. Harry hated her silences. “What?” He demanded, trapping the dragon between the folds.

“I know leaving the Ward can be difficult. It’s always difficult, in the beginning.”

“It’s not. I just told you."

“Things have changed.”

“What things?”

“Between you, Ms Granger, and Mr Weasley.”

“Nothing’s changed,” He said, releasing the dragon. “They want more space. I get that.”

“You… get that.”

“Yes.”

She was frowning now. “And everything else, it’s the same?”

Harry looked at the dragon stubbornly. “Yes.” 

“Just them, then? Woke up randomly one morning, and decided they wanted space?”

“I don’t— Well, obviously—“ He pulled the quilt in his hands, the fabric stretching under his fingers. “I… I can’t speak for them. They do what they want.”

“And you have nothing to do with it?”

He glared at his lap. The heartbeats were making his breath heavier, as though he’d just come down from a dive.

“Harry?”

“I— Obviously I do.”

She watched silently. 

“I know I do. I’m not avoiding that. I went and they’re upset, and now they need space. I get that.”

“You went.”

“Yes, I went.” 

“Went were?”

“Went… to Godric’s Hollow.”

“And did what there?”

He looked away from her, seething. 

“We’ve already discussed—“

“Did what there?”

“Everything else is fine,” Harry said, heatedly, his hands wrapping around the quilt, the dragon flapping helplessly away from his fingers. “Ron and Hermione— If they don’t want me there, I understand, and I can just give them space if they need it and everything would still be fine.”

“Harry.”

“What?”

“Please. Your tea.”

He was panting. She had poured the tea in tiny cups, delicate. When he put the quilt away to pick one up, it tingled softly, the spoon shaking along with his hands. 

He seeped. 

The spoon quieted.

“So it’s Mr Weasley and Ms Granger, who’re upset.”

Harry swallowed. 

“Yes.”

“Because you went to Godric’s Hollow.”

“Yes.”

“Why are they upset about that?”

“I imagine the blood had something to do with it.”

“Harry.”

“What do you want me to say?”

She straightened her eyes at him calmly. “I want you to say: they’re upset with me, because I tried to kill myself.”

He put the cup down too hard, and the spoon flew out, spluttering the table cloth with cold tea.

He cursed, padding the spill down. Torren was watching, motionless.

“Ok, fine,” He said, still padding, not looking at her. “I know that.”

“I know you know that. So why aren’t you saying it?”

“Because— Fine. They’re upset with me because I tried to kill myself.”

The words hang between them. He thought he saw her nodding over him. Harry put the wet cloth away and sat back against the sofa.

The dragon stretched on a cloud. 

“Is that it? Can I go?”

“I don’t know. Is that it?”

“I told you. Everything else is — it’s great. So. They’re upset. And they’ve got a right to be. So. That’s it.”

“So what now?”

“Now I teach the Hufflepuff second years the basics of dueling and grade the O.W.L. class papers.”

“What now, with Mr Weasley and Ms Granger?”

He glanced up at her. She was stoic as ever, and he looked at the dragon again. 

“I don’t know. They have to decide.”

“It has nothing to do with you, then.”

“Of course it has— something — but I’ve already done my part,” Harry said, his hands crossed over his chest, which was heaving again. “I… I was here, I took the medicine, I talked to you — I met the snake and now I know that the horcrux is gone, so—“ He stopped, shaking his head. “So now they have to decide. What they want to do.”

Torren studied him. 

“I haven’t met Ms Granger and Mr Weasley very much,” she said, slowly. “Do you think they’re upset because of what you’ve already done, or because of what you might do?”

“What I might… But I won’t.”

“Won’t what?”

“Won’t — go again.”

“Harry.”

He swore. “Won’t try to kill myself again.”

“How come?”

He felt a pang of panic. “Because— you said—“

“I’ve made an assessment of a situation as it stood at the time.”

“I— I wouldn’t go. There’d be no point, the snake couldn’t understand me, so —  

“So what?”

“So the horcrux is gone, isn’t it?” He said, pulling the quilt again. “If I can’t speak Parseltongue, then the horcrux is gone. I get it, alright? You have nothing to worry about. Ron and Hermione have nothing to worry about. We can all stop talking about this.”

She was watching him. He tried to get himself to breathe normally. 

“Alright,” She said, as though she was picking her words very carefully. “I’m glad you feel that way, Harry.” He muttered noncommittally, looking at the dragon. “But even if you feel that way — are you sure Mr Weasley and Ms Granger feel as convinced?”

“I’ve tried explaining it to them. Well — to Hermione. When she’s not studying. She just looks nervous and nods.”

“She doesn’t believe you.”

“No.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know, it seems pretty straight forward.”

“What seems straight—“

“I could speak Parseltongue, and now I can’t," Harry said, irritably. “It’s easy as that. If I can’t speak Parseltongue, the horcrux is gone.”

She frowned at him, deliberating.

“Are we… are we almost done?” He asked, and she shook her head, coming to a decision.

He swallowed. 

“Why does the snake matter so much?” She asked, very slowly. “Didn’t Albus Dumbledore tell you the horcrux was gone, a year ago? Wasn’t that enough?”

“A figment of my imagination in the shape of Dumbledore did, yes.”

She was watching him.

“What?”

“Dumbledore was imagined?”

“Of course he was imagined.”

“You weren’t always so certain.”

“I was dying. I found myself in a white King’s Cross. Of course he was imagined.”

She wrote something down. 

He could have strangled her. “What?” 

“Well,” She said, looking at him over her thin glasses, “Couldn’t the snake also have been imagined?”

Harry’s head snapped up to look at her.

“I— no.” His heart was a bomb, ticking. “Of course not.”

“You have to consider—“

“The snake wasn’t imagined,” He said, forcefully, and Torren raised her hands in a calming gesture. 

“I’m only asking you to consider the possibility that —“

“There were bites,” He said, remembering, and pulled his sleeves back, uncovering the disappearing marks on his upper arms. “I was treated for snake bites.”

“Yes. I remember.”

“Of course there was a snake.” Of course there was.

Torren straightened her glasses.

“Alright. But maybe it did understand you, and you just didn’t notice. You were upset, and you only thought it couldn’t hear you.”

“I— no. No.”

“Maybe that snake didn’t understand you, but another snake would.”

“That’s ridiculous—“

“Maybe you don’t speak Parseltongue, but the horcrux is still there, diminished but alive.”

“Stop,” He said, getting to his feet. “What are you—“

“Please, sit down.”

“No,” He said, furious, backing away, and slipping on the edge of the quilt. He steadied himself. “That’s— you’re—“

“You’re a very resourceful young man, Harry,” Torren said calmly. “If you want to find an excuse for something, you will.”

“I— it wasn’t an excuse—“

“Yes. You’ve said. But this isn’t a matter of logic. This is about more than proof. This is about you.”

He stood half way to the window, cars outside flashing orange light into the dimly lit study.

“It’s not about me,” He said, and his voice was shaking, and he made it stop. “It’s… it’s about Ron and Hermione.”

“No.”

“Yes. They’re the ones who’re… who’re acting different, so—“

“You’re changing the subject.”

“You— You’ve changed the subject! You said—“

“The snake isn’t a solution to this problem, Harry. Your trust that the horcrux is gone can’t be placed on the question of your ability to speak to snakes.”

“But I can’t,” Harry said, too quickly, too loudly, but Torren remained seated, calm. “I can’t— talk to snakes— I could and now I can’t and that means —“

He stopped. His hands were shaking. 

Not there not there it’s gone he’s gone —

“Why— Why would you say that?” He turned away from her, towards the door, fury and fear and an odd tingling in his scar. “Why would you—“

“This is something you need to trust within yourself.”

“But—“

“I don’t want you to misunderstand me, Harry. I’ve not suggested you leave the Ward because everything’s been resolved. You tried to kill yourself, five weeks ago. We are not done talking about that.”

It’s gone it’s gone he’s gone he’s gone—

“I tried… I wanted to get rid of the horcrux.”

“No. You wanted oblivion. You told me that.”

“I wanted—“

“I know you want to put this behind you. I know you’re relieved to find your friends and your students willing to put this behind them, as well. But it’s not behind you. Not yet. We’re not done.”

People who speak Parseltongue do not get bitten by snakes. It is impossible. The snake wouldn’t be able to bite. The snake didn’t understand him. The snake didn’t understand him, and that meant that Harry was not longer a Parseltongue, an if that’s true then the horcrux must — must — be gone, it wouldn’t make any other sense—

“Is it Mr Weasley and Ms Granger who are angry, Harry? Or are you angry, at them?”

“I wanted it gone. That’s why I went.”

“Are you angry with them, because they don’t simply put this behind them?”

“That’s what you said. That’s what you said. You said it was a test, if I can still speak Parseltongue or not, you said that—“

He was shaking. He hated it, the shaking. His body, doing what it wanted, heedless of any contrary command. 

“Harry. Please. Try to stay with me.” 

He backed up until he was sitting on the back of the sofa, his back to Torren, forcing the shaking to diminish, looking at her overburdened bookcases and thinking about how Hermione would have loved them. 

"Harry.”

They don’t simply put it behind them.

“I’m… I’m not pretending it’s behind me,” He managed, and she shifted behind him, silent. “I’m trying… I’m trying to make things what they were.”

“I think that’s a good strategy,” She said, softly. “As long as you’re also keeping in mind that things did, in fact, change.”

He swallowed, closing his eyes. “Ok.”

“And if you do want things to get back to the way they were, you can’t cut people out of your life.”

“I don’t know how to make them talk to me.”

“I don’t, either. But I expect, eventually, they will.”

“Ok.”

“Harry.”

“What.”

“Please sit down.”

He swallowed, still shivering. 

“Wait,” He said. “Just… just a minute.”

She made no objection. He could feel her gaze at the back of his neck. 

The snake did not understand. 

He knew that. He knew.

What if—

No. No. He knew. 

The horcrux. Is gone. 

Voldemort’s gone.

He can’t come back, because they’ve destroyed all his horcruxes. 

“Harry?”

“Wait.”

It’s gone. It’s gone. The snake didn’t understand, so—

“Harry.”

It was there. There were bites. Snakes don’t bite people who speak Parseltongue, they can’t, and Harry’s upper body was dotted with fang marks, he could feel the soft bumps…

But if—

It’s gone. He’s gone. He’s—

“Harry.”

He jumped, backing away, and Torren was standing next to him, two heads shorter than him, without her notepad. 

“Please, sit down.”

“It’s gone,” Harry said, blinking. “It’s…”

“It’s gone.”

“I know it’s gone.”

“Yes.”

“Because of the snake.”

“Because of the snake, because of Dumbledore, and because I’ve told you that there’s nothing lodged in your head.”

“You don’t know that,” He said, shaking his head. “You don’t know that. There’s no other documented cases like this, you won’t be able to see if there was something wrong because you don’t know what to look for—“

“I do. We know what a horcrux looks like. We know what a human looks like. We know what an animal with a horcrux in it looks like. We know that there’s nothing inside of you, but yourself.”

He looked down at her, his breath shaking. 

“It’s gone. Please sit down. I’m sorry I frightened you. I was trying to show you something.”

He hated this feeling. He hated it. He hated it. His body was not his. And his mind was not his. He could hear her talking, he could tell himself that she was calm and certain and she knew better than he did, and yet, in his head, doubt was blossoming and multiplying and overpowering everything else, so logic was moot, and her words were moot, and his scar was searing —

How could it be hurting, unless it’s still there?

It’s not there. It’s gone, it’s gone, it’s gone, he’s gone—

“Harry. Please sit down.”

He swallowed and looked away from her, stumbling back onto the sofa. She poured more tea. 

“It’s gone,” He said, into the fumes.

“Yes.”

“It’s gone.”

“It is.”

“He’s gone.”

Harry was at Torren’s, Ron was at George’s, and Hermione was sitting in the living room, by the lit fire surrounded by two mugs of tea, one cat, five books, three notebooks, and no ability to read. 

They scattered. The words, the sentences. Into each other, over the diagrams, out of the page. She would start, adamant, blinking at the head of a paragraph, but it would disintegrate before she reached its end. What had it said? She couldn’t remember. It seemed so meaningless. Books. Lessons. N.E.W.T.s. 

It had taken her nearly two weeks at George’s workshop to make the band that allowed Harry to leave the Ward. Thin, flexible, silver. It had felt meaningful. Important. Something they could use, something to help them. If he went, if he went. When he went. So they could find him. 

Ron had the other piece. The band would change color, to fit with distress. It worked like Mrs. Weasley’s clock, really, only Hermione had to change some of the runes. Mrs. Weasley’s clock was objective. She needed a device to reflect subjective distress, caused by acute mental fallacy. 

If he went, if he went, when he went. 

It would turn darker. Upon distress. And when it did, Ron’s would also, and then Ron could find him, and get him, and —

And. 

So. 

But Herbology homework? That seemed less meaningful.

Ron was right. School had stopped meaning as much as it once did. Even during the war, school had always been with her. She knew she’d be back. She knew she had books as refuge, for help, against harm, to seek comfort. She could sink into a history book and be lost in the Goblin Wars, or spend hours searching for runes and arithmetic patterns. It would clear her head, give her focus, make her stronger. Make their problems seem surmountable. Make anything fit into a neat page she could memorize and then analyze and then understand. 

Harry she could not understand. The dots did not connect. She understood the terms. She even understood where they manifested in a human brain, which hormones were released, how they effected the psyche. What she didn’t understand was how Harry — her Harry — could fit into all that. 

Seamus and Dean invited people to their apartments almost every evening. Usually, they ordered food from The Three Broomsticks, and sat around the living room with music blaring, drinking butter beer and eating to their hearts’ content. Today, Harry had volunteered to cook, and the living room was filled with satisfied people gashing over his skills. 

“Merlin, Harry, we didn’t make any use of you in the dorm, did we?”

“I couldn’t compete with the Hogwarts house elves,” Harry objected, but Dean ignored him, licking his fingers.

He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone. 

“Hermione’s studying again?” Ginny asked, sitting next to him. She put her hand on his, and his heart jumped. She was smiling. He wanted to watch her smile forever.

(He would explode). 

Stop it.

He looked at her, shrugging. 

“Don't worry about them,” She told him, quietly, and Harry didn’t ask who she meant. “They’ll come around.”

“Yeah.”

“For the last time, there is no flying in football!” Dean threw a potato chunk at Seamus’s head, and the latter caught it mindlessly and threw it into his mouth.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said, chewing. “If muggles can fly on those air thingies, and they can play sports with balls and goals — why would they not have flying sports?”

“BECAUSE THAT’S NOT THE POINT OF FOOTBALL! And a sport doesn’t have to have flying in it to count as a sport—“

“Of course it does, just read any Quidditch history book—“

“Harry, pass the salad?”

He did, and Neville poured himself a generous amount. “How was your meeting with Torren?”

“Err. Alright. Her office is very nice.“

“I went to see her for a while,” Neville said, and Harry looked up from Ginny’s hand in his, surprised. “When I was younger, but then also during school. Every once in a while, when things were hard.”

Dean and Seamus were arguing louder. Ginny was chatting with Luna. She would not be angry with Harry for turning away from her. He and Neville were sitting slightly to the side, secluded. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Professor Mcgonagall helped me with a time turner so I could go without anyone noticing. Seamus caught me once, but he didn’t tell. And once we destroyed the time room in the Ministry I couldn’t go anymore, but by then… I really didn’t need to as much.”

Neville was awkwardly playing with the lettuce on his plate. 

“She’s a piece of work,” Harry said. “But… I like her.”

Neville laughed, glancing up at him. 

Harry played with the food on his plate. “I'd wondered how you knew her so well.”

“Yeah. She’s great. And you— you seem a lot better, honest.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, feeling slightly naked. He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone. “I feel better.”

“MY FOOTBALL POSTERS WERE TOO AN IMPROVEMENT TO THE DORM—“

“Tell me next time you go. I could go visit my parents.”

“Definitely,” Harry said. 

“You could meet them after, if you want.”

“Yeah,” He said, touched. “That… I’d really like that, Nev.”

Neville beamed at him. On Harry’s other side, Dean and Seamus’s alcohol infused conversation was becoming more heated. 

“BECAUSE THEY WERE TAKEN BY FLINT ANDREWS, AND HE WAS A BLOODY AMAZING PHOTOGRAPHER, WASN’T HE?”

“There’s no such thing as muggle photographers.”

“Of course— what are you— ARE YOU INSANE!”

“The photo wasn’t even moving!” 

“BUT IT WAS STILL GREAT!”

“I liked the football posters,” Neville interjected, still chewing.

“Thank you!” Dean said, panting, and pointed victoriously at Neville. “Neville liked them! See?”

Seamus snorted loudly. “He’s just saying that. You can’t honestly compare muggle photos to magical photos, that’s ridiculous—“ 

Ginny leaned towards Harry, and her hair smelled like broom handle polish, falling over her eyes.

Stop it, stop it. 

“Were the posters good?”

He wanted to pull her hair back, to see her face, but his insides squirmed at the thought, twisting. 

“The posters? Erm…”

“No, I did,” Neville objected, waving his fork in the air. “They were great. The angle always made me feel like the ball was just about to hit my head.”

“HUH!”

Seamus was shaking his head, red faced now. “Magical photos would ALWAYS be better than—“

“You couldn’t get that angle, though, could you, with the photo moving constantly, you couldn’t make that into art! The frozen shoot makes the photo!” Dean’s bottle sloshed loudly with his gesticulation. 

“Yeah,” Neville nodded. “I thought it was paused at the exact moment—“

“HUH!”

“You know who takes amazing, magical photographers, though?” Seamus said, ignoring Dean’s laughter, and looking at Harry pointedly. “That blonde kid, who always followed Harry around. What was his name? One year bellow us?”

All eyes turned to Harry. Ginny’s hand grew rigid in his, as Seamus’s words sunk in. Harry blinked at him, still thinking about Torren, and the snake, and Voldemort.

The blonde kid, who always followed Harry around. 

And suddenly—

Blazingly—

Unexpectedly—

Harry’s scar seared. 

“Collin something,” Seamus continued, musingly picking another bottle of butter beer. “He showed me once, in the Common Room. He had a huge binder, full of them — Professors and ghosts AND great shots from Quidditch matches. He had a real knack for it, said he wanted to take them to the Prophet—“

Seared. Seared, seared. Collin Creevy, Daily Prophet correspondent. 

“Bet he could beat that muggle guy any day—“

“He died, though,” Luna said. “Collin Creevey. He died in the Battle.” She was watching Seamus unblinkingly, her eyes serene. 

“Nah, he couldn’t have, he was a sixth year, and he was muggle born, he wasn't at the school all year.” 

“We were sixth years, too,” Ginny said. Seamus smiled, confused, and looked over at Dean, who glared at him and gestured wildly for him to shut up. 

“Oh,” Seamus said, the smile slipping off his face. “Merlin. Sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“He would have beat that muggle guy, though,” Ginny said, her hand tightening in Harry’s, tightening, pulling him into the couch. “Collin was an artist, his parents have all his photographs and they want to open an exhibit to showcase them.”

Collin Creevey, art gallery phenomenon. 

He wouldn’t even know. That he was. He could become world renowned, and he would never know. He would never know, because he was dead. And he was dead, because —

Ginny’s hand was tightening, tightening, and it was hot, like lava, like lava, burning, Harry’s skin bristling with it, boiling, broiling —

He pulled his hand out, and she looked up, surprised. 

“I gotta go,” He said, mumbled, getting up. “I gotta… use the bathroom.”

“Harry?”

“Sorry. Be right back.”

He was out the door and walking across the hall, walking, walking, running, running, the door was locked locked why was it locked —

Password. Frogget. Frogget. It clicked and he shut it behind him, and Crookshanks rushed over but Harry ignored him, his hand held before him, poisoned, contaminated, and it burned burned burned and it was— Something— on it, something on it, sticking to it, like ink, like glue, get it off get it off get it—

He stumbled to the kitchen sink, opening the tap with his other hand. The soap was almost out, and he poured it on his hand, scrubbing, scrubbing, but it only stuck tighter, it-her-she-it, sticking, gluing, inking, get it off—

There was more soap under the sink, and he dropped to his knees, fumbling for it, the water filling the sink, it would overflow and if it did the water had it inside of it it would fill the whole apartment but he had to get it off of him he had—

Collin Creevey, couldn’t have died, he’s only a sixth year—

He was standing again, the soap half empty, his robes drenched in water but it was still there, Ginny’s handprint, etched, embedded, if he scrubbed enough he could—

Get it off get it off off get it off GET IT OFF—

A hand on his shoulder, and he was pulled backward, the water still rushing behind him, someone grasping his hands and holding them down—

It was still there it-she-it-her get it off get it off get it off—

Collin Creevey, is dead, but his photographs are exhibited —

Harry. Harry. 

It’s still there. Her. It. IT—

Harry.

Get it off get off get it out get it out get him out—

Harry.

He would never know, he would be a famous artist but he would never know, because he’s dead, and he’s dead because—

“Harry. Harry? Look at me. Harry?”

Get it out get it off—

“Harry. It’s me. Yeah? Harry.”

Scarred hands on his scarred hands, pulling them down, forcing them into his stomach. 

Get it off…

“Harry. It’s Ron, yeah? Harry.”

A hand on his nape, forcing his head forward, so he was looking into familiar blue eyes. 

Someone’s panting. 

(It’s you). 

Get him out.

Collin Creevey, Collin Creevey, Collin Creevey would never become a famous photographer. 

Ron watching him, holding him, calm and steady, and on his wrist Hermione’s band dangled, black. 

(Get him out.)