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Harry was once again sitting on the floor of a shower. The only difference was that the water was actually hot. He wasn’t at the Dursleys. He was in the boys’ shared bathroom. Normally Harry would be overjoyed at this, finally being away from his horrible relatives was like a blessing from Merlin himself. But at his current stage of life Harry would be content to live with the Dursleys and live a normal life for the rest of his pitiful existence. Anything would be better than this.
It was the beginning of the school year for eight year and he was already feeling shitty. Hermione had forced Ron and him to retake seventh year, something Harry was secretly thankful for as he wasn’t ready to say goodbye to his home just yet. But the reason for his overall shitiness was the amount of stress and expectations he was buried under. Auror this, Minister of Magic that, high grades, beacon of hope, always happy, always brave. It was enough to make him crack.
And so that is where Harry currently is, sitting on the shower floor, probably getting all kinds of fungus on his ass, staring blankly at a wall and wishing he were dead. On his way to shifting his gaze from one shower tile to the next, he sees something in the corner of his eye that makes him stop. The scar from the basilisk. Yes, Harry was quite surprised that Fawkes wasn’t able to completely heal the wound so that there was no trace of it, but oh well. More nightmare fuel for Harry.
To be honest, Harry can’t even quite remember how he had gotten the scar in the first place. He knows how he got it, of course, but everything was a blur during that whole thing, and there was no chance Harry was going to remember anything under the influence of basilisk poison. It’s a wonder how he was even able to stab that diary through the haze. And even if this scar isn’t the main attraction, he hates how it contributes to his collection, hates how people’s eyes are automatically drawn to his arm when he rolls his sleeves up, hates being looked at like a piece of artwork on display at a museum. If he’s an artwork, the artist must’ve been in an ugly-abstract mood.
All that thinking about the basilisk has got him thinking about another beast that has managed to scar him, in both a physical and mental way. The acromantula he fought with Ced- him. Honestly, what a way to go. Being killed by an animal when even the most powerful Dark Lord to exist couldn’t. He wouldn’t have minded actually. Which is why the gruesome scar on his calf doesn’t make him want to burn his skin away, as most things on his body do. He’d rather let rats eat him alive than be killed by Tom Riddle.
He reaches out to scratch the grisly sight and freezes. There, right on his arm, is a thick pink-ish scar, reaching from the crease from his elbow, down to the middle of his forearm. He battles to not get stuck in another flashback, willing himself to think of other things. After a while he hesitantly chances a glance back at the offending sight. With a sigh he let himself ease into the flashback rather than forcefully pushed onto it. If he had just reacted a little quicker, just a millisecond earlier, then Voldemort wouldn’t have risen, he wouldn’t have killed his family, he wouldn’t have-
He cuts himself off. No use thinking about things that could have been. He glares at the thick stripe for another minute before sighing in defeat and sagging against the wet tile behind him. It was like the writing on his hand. He shall not tell lies. He huffs out a bitter laugh. ‘Shall not tell lies’ his ass, he’s managed to lie to himself thus far. Lying to himself that he’s content, that he’s happy, that he’s… living.
He’s pretty sure he stopped living, like, three years ago. C- his death had been the catalyst, and since then it had just gone downhill. There is a difference from being alive, and living. It had taken him scar after scar, death after death, and actually dying himself to get it. Maybe Harry knew all along. Maybe he just ignored it until he couldn’t anymore. Until it had slapped him across the face and told him he could go back or board the train.
Maybe he should have boarded the train. He was sure that with Voldemort’s new mortality, the others would be able to fend him off, killing him themselves. So why had he decided to come back? A twisted sense of in-completion? The want to make that blasted prophecy actually mean something? No… he thinks it might have just been the people still living. His obligation to clean the mess he had caused, help those affected by the war back up, lift everyone’s spirits. Without that driving force… Harry isn’t so sure he would have been so eager to go back.
And maybe he’s just loopy from the amount of steam in this room, Harry thinks. He gets up slowly, his ass, back, and neck reminding him that sitting buck naked on the floor for hours isn’t such a good idea. He shuts off the water and gets out of the shower, standing there. Then he blinks and reaches for a towel.