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Chapter Text

Harry is fine. He is doing alright. He is tired of the worried looks Hermione and Ron have started sending his way. He has told them that he is doing absolutely fucking spectacular, so why can't they bloody leave him alone? He wears hoodies in the summers despite the Sun blaring in his goddamn eyes because he is cold. There is no other probable reason for him flinching whenever anyone tries to touch his arms. It bloody hurts when they try holding him, but he cannot tell them why.

He doesn't want to tell them and risk being called an "attention-seeker." Draco and his peers do that just enough, and he cannot handle more people calling him that.

Harry would have never resorted to slicing open his arms if his legs weren't already full of scars. (But in truth, he would be lying, really. Arms or legs— it's all the same. It's the pain he craves. It's the blood that matters.) The canvas of his legs had no more space for him to cut open his skin and cry tears of blood, pain and relief. He liked the way blood trickled down his cuts. He was not able to cry anymore. His wounds, however, could. The inside now shows on the outside. His mental pain is now physical too.

Harry didn't know when the thought became comforting.

And then people started noticing. Of course they did.

Harry was on his way to the changing room after Quidditch practice when Ron stopped him. "Harry," he said, his mouth open, as if, he had seen the Dark Lord himself. Which was ironic in itself. "What have you.. Done?" Harry, being confused at first, followed Ron's eyes to look at his own arms. Fuck. His sleeves must have rolled over during practice. Harry looked up at Ron again, trying to form words in his head, but none came out from his mouth. 

Then, Ron, almost expressionless, said, "You're so.. Bloody selfish. Did you ever stop to think about us— Hermione, me, and everyone else, before doing.. This?"

And then Harry laughed. Harry bloody laughed. An attention-seeker for self-harming, and selfish for not telling anyone about it?

Over the next few days, his friends, the Professors, and naturally, the whole school, found out about Harry's little problem.

"The Boy who Lived? Not for long, it seems."

"How exactly is he the Chosen One?"

"What was the point of his parents dying for him if he is going to kill himself after all?"

"Attention-seeker."

But it wasn't long before the Professors, and Dumbledore, made the mutterings of the students come to a stop. Were the adults on his side, after all?

Harry walked into Potions class, arms and legs long healed because of all the stupid healing charms and Madam Sprout's "exceptional magic remedy." His inside wasn't showing on the outside anymore.

No one was spewing, in hushed whispers, ghastly things about Harry anymore, and he reckoned Professor Snape's death stare to his students was responsible for it.

Harry quietly sat on his seat, acknowledging the smile from Hermione and the squeezing of his shoulder by Ron, as if, he wanted to say, everything will be okay, mate. Who was he to tell his best mate that everything was, in fact, not going to be okay?

"Harry," Snape had said one day when Harry had come to submit his assignment to him in his office, "Do sit down. I need to talk to you."

The use of 'Harry' and not 'Potter' was not unnoticed by him, but he sat down anyway, because it's not as if anything fucking mattered anymore anyway.

"Yes, Sir?" He said, his voice coming out weaker and more fragile than he had intended. He cursed at himself, cringing at his own voice. Why was he so bloody pathetic?

Snape stood up, walked towards Harry, and towered over his desk, continuing, "I would rather you not do such peccable and unnecessary things to yourself again. You are, as much as it pains to admit, a brilliant wizard, Harry. Do not let your... Inner demons... Win."

But Harry's inner demons had already won, because why else was he standing on the railing of the Clock Tower, looking down at everything and everyone, with a sick smile on his face, as if he wanted to tell Voldemort to fuck off, and to Hell with it, to Hell with all of it?

So, Harry jumped.

But he didn't die.

He must have died for a minute there, because he swore he saw his parents in some white room, and they had told him how proud they were of him for being such a strong boy, and how he needed to continue, now that..

Voldemort's Horcrux inside Harry died.

Did Voldemort, out of literally anyone else in the world, just give Harry another chance at life?

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Harry walked the corridors like a ghost— pale, numb and defeated. I failed at this too. He had his head down, avoiding confrontation, even though not a soul was roaming around the castle like he was. "You will not get any special privileges after your little... stunt," Snape had said the other day, and Harry hadn't glared at him like he usually did. He didn't care anymore. I failed at killing myself as well. He bit his lip, his head still down, and stopped walking. 

It wasn't before he heard, in muffled voiced, people arguing, that Harry realized he was standing in front of Dumbledore's office. The door was closed, and Harry leaned in just enough to eavesdrop. 

"How could you let this happen, Dumbledore?! Why was I never informed of any of this? Why did you hide this from bloody Remus too?"

Harry's heart stopped the moment he heard the familiar, warm and safe voice. 

Sirius.

All of a sudden, the door flung open and Sirius looked at Harry and didn't spare a second to embrace his godson in his arms. Sirius didn't pull back, even after minutes had passed. Sirius is safe. Sirius can help me—

Sirius pulled back and looked straight at Harry, his eyes losing all the warmth and safety Harry was so used to seeing. His godfather was now looking at him with... Fury? A certain... Coldness? Indifference? 

Was Sirius not safe?

"What were you thinking, Harry?" Sirius put his arms around Harry's shoulder, shaking him a little, trying to pour sense into the boy, trying to understand why. His eyes were dead set on his godson, who was neither speaking, nor feeling. Sirius stepped back and shook his head a little, in disbelief. "And just why is he out of his dormitory at this time of the night, Albus? Are you setting him up to kill himself again?" Harry's eyes widened at this, but he didn't speak anything, lest he should add to the.. fury.. of his godfather. 

It was a new emotion he had discovered about Sirius. Fury. He was never furious with him. Not with Harry. Never with Harry.

Harry was nothing special to Sirius either, was he? He was just a reminder of James. Harry chuckled at the thought. James Potter would have never tried to kill himself. He was too brave to. If Sirius was still giving a shit about Harry because he was his best friend's son, he might as well just give up. Harry was nothing like his father— strong and confident— and people really needed to stop comparing him to James. That's not even how genetics work, goddamnit!

"Sirius, you are scaring the boy. You must act with care, you must act with love."

"He's my boy, Albus. Do you have any idea what would become of me if anything happened to him? I can't lose him too..."

And Harry would have listened in for more, if he could, but he was already led out of the room by Minerva. 

While laying in his bed that night, he thought. He thought about everything and nothing. He thought too much, and his head had started to ache, and then he got up. He got up and skimmed through his bookbag to find the last of his blades. There were none. Harry sighed. They were all confiscated from him. They didn't take the pain away by snatching his blades from him, they only gave him more. Harry groaned internally (because showing outward emotions was a sin, right?) and got up from his bed, quietly, though, because he didn't want to wake anyone up— especially Ron. He looked at a sleeping Ron and all his memories about the recent events that took place with him resurfaced.

Ron was sobbing. He was sobbing uncontrollably. He was sobbing hysterically. Harry had never seen his best friend in such a fragile state before. (But really, Ron wasn't the fragile one. Harry was. At least Ron had the strength to let himself cry. To let himself feel.) 

"Ron," Harry had simply said, while laying on the bed of the Hospital Wing, feeling pathetic with himself.

"Why— How— You didn't.. Tell...? Why...." Ron had said, in between sobs and anger, "You should have told me! I am your bloody best friend!" 

Hermione had tried calming Ron down, even though uncontrollable tears were dripping down her own cheeks too. "It's not Harry's fault, Ron." 

But it was Harry's fault, wasn't it? His friends were crying because of him. Everything was his fault. Every little mistake that he made always turned into something big and bit him in the ass. So of course Harry tried to kill himself. He wanted the mistakes to stop happening.

The need to cut his skin was strong. The need to cry out and scream was also strong, but he could never do the latter, so he settled on the former. He always settled on the former. The former helped. 

But his help was taken away by his superiors, so all he could do was lay back down on his bed and think.

And think, he did, until sleep finally took over his thoughts.

Voldemort came into his dream that night. He had looked scarier than all of the other times he had nightmares about him. He had that same, mocking smile plastered on his face, that was enough to send chills down a person's spine. But with everything different happening around him, this was the only thing that felt the same... That felt familiar enough.

Harry didn't wake up in sweats the next morning.

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The library was cold and gloomy, and lonely, and Harry liked it that way, because it resonated with him. It did not try to cheer him up with fake positivity of any sort, and he was grateful for it. He sat in the library and did his homework. He found himself doing that a lot recently, after, you know, jumping off the highest tower in his school and still surviving. The whole "Boy Who Lived" thing was becoming a little too much. Once, he lived. That's cool. But twice? He flipped through his Alchemy textbook, rather focused on solving each question as correctly as he could. Never in a million years did he think he would make doing homework his bloody coping mechanism— a way to stop himself from thinking and rethinking the same things over and over again. He couldn't cut, he couldn't kill himself again, and he certainly couldn't scream or cry, so he turned to something he despised since his first year at Hogwarts: homework.

Harry really had gone completely insane.

He stayed, skimming over the lines of his book, taking in knowledge he should have been more interested in since the start, instead of finding himself at the core of every problem that ever haunted Hogwarts. He was lost in his homework until the creaking noise of the door opening pulled him back from the question of transmutation of substances, but his eyes were still on his book.

The door opened to reveal Malfoy, along with Pansy and Blaise, and Harry could feel their eyes slowly darting towards him. His eyes remained on his book.

"Look who we have here!" Draco snickered, and walked towards The Broken One, his right hand on his own waist, and his left hand slammed on Harry's desk, towering over him, letting his presence be known. "Potter. Hogwart's prodigy. The Chosen One." Then, he turned to look at his friends, showing them a perplexed look, not short of sarcasm, "Or is it... The Suicidal One?" In the past, Harry would have strangled the silver git with his own bare hands, but this was not in the past. The past was gone. The past was never going to come back. There was no point living in the past, even if it was one beautiful ride to be on. Harry now stared at his book blankly, his focus on his solutions all gone. He wasn't feeling anything once again.

Draco looked a little shocked at this. The boy who he had come to know, over the years, as stubborn, fame-hungry and always with that look of 'I-will-punch-you-in-the-face-Malfoy' just... Didn't react. At all.

But Malfoy was far from giving up. He would admit, he rather missed the brave idiot with emotions pouring out of him all the damn time. It made his own pathetic life more fun. He stared right at Harry, the amusement in his eyes all lost, the smirk on his lips wiped off, and said, in the coldest tone he could muster, "You have nothing to be depressed about, Potter. You have it easy in life. There are millions out there who would do anything to switch places with you. You're just hungry for more attention, Potter. You really are... Pathetic." And he looked at Harry in pure disgust, and the true contempt he held for The Suicidal One really did show on his face that day.

Harry simply stood up, picked up his books, nodded at Malfoy, and left the library.

"He just bloody left like that?" Blaise.

"He's really lost it, hasn't he..." Pansy.

And Draco must have said something, too, but Harry couldn't hear him because he had already left the library in hurried steps and was walking down the corridor, not really knowing what his next destination was going to be, or if he had any purpose in going anywhere, really. I was just minding my own business. I was just studying. Alone. I wasn't bothering anyone. I was diverting my attention from the fact that I really need to cut and let the blood pour out of me like a bloody waterfall, but it seems what I want will never really happen, will it? What is the point of being hopeful and filled with mirth and full of life if at the end of the day, nothing really matters and I will go to sleep knowing my pain will forever remain deep inside me, unlocked, untouched by anyone, despite the fact that we are all human beings bound to each other through blood, and without blood, and we should be looking out for one another, not tear each other down? 

Harry's breath quickened. He was feeling. He was feeling too much now.

Blood. Cuts. Tears. Blades. Glass shards. Glass shards?

Harry stopped walking when he locked eyes with a broken mirror on the floor, its shards spread all across the floor, as if, waiting for someone to pick up just one of them, one of them with the sharpest edges, and slice his skin open with it, and let blood spill like tears do, and Harry locked himself up in the boy's bathroom and did just that. He watched as the blood pooled out of his skin— red, shiny and glowing with desperation. Harry smiled. Harry smiled. God, he had missed this feeling. This feeling of being in control again.. The feeling of helplessness going away.. He cut and he cut and he cut until tears from his own eyes started spilling down his cheeks. 

What had he done to deserve this?

After an hour or two, Harry got out of the bathroom, smiling at anyone who looked his way. He needed to act fine, even though there was no need for it. It was an automatic reaction, Harry thought. Years and years of pretending to be the happiest soul on planet Earth did that, it seems. He even talked normally to Ron and Hermione that day. They were happy with, or worried about, the sudden change in his behaviour— Harry could not tell.

All Harry could tell, however, was that he hated Voldemort for taking away the life he could have had, and giving him a life he didn't even want.

Harry visited Remus and Sirius in Hogsmeade that evening, as requested by them. The two ordered butterbeer and other food for their godson, despite Harry's polite but incessant refusal. He had finally given them a sad smile and gave in. As the three enjoyed the victuals, (with Harry trying his best to) Remus spoke up. He had the same, warm smile that he always did, but Harry learnt not to trust warm smiles anymore. They are not true at most, and deceiving at best.

"Harry," Remus started, and Harry's heart almost warmed up at hearing his voice. Almost. "What I am about to say to you, I say not because I... Sirius and I, are against you, but because we love you, and we don't want to lose you." Remus waited, looking intently at his godson, as if, waiting for Harry to acknowledge what he is and is about to say. Harry, with little to no emotion showing on his face, nodded. Sirius sat up straight, and he exchanged a look with Remus.

Remus looked back at Harry, his face softening still, "You are required to show your arms and legs to Madam Pomfrey every single day so that we would know that you are not harming yourself anymore. She will also know if you try to hide the scars with magic, so you need not bother with that. Your sessions with the assigned Mind Healer will take place daily, not weekly, not once every three days, but daily. Are we clear, Harry?" And then he gave him the same look he had done before, wanting acknowledgement from the boy.

"Isn't that a little fucked up?" Harry had whispered softly, and he wished he hadn't said anything at all.

"Harry?" Sirius. His voice was laced with confusion and worry.

"I'm sorry... I..." Harry started, croaking a little. "What will happen if I refuse?"

Sirius and Remus shared a look again, and Harry really wished they would stop doing that. What did that look signify? Convey? And why did Harry feel so bothered by it? Why did he feel so alienated by it?

Sirius held Harry's hands and looked at his boy lovingly. "Why would you refuse, Harry?"

"Because I think I'm doing alright."

"But you're not, Harry. You're not doing alright." And Remus held his hands too.

But Harry did not get any warm, fuzzy feelings that came to a person who was loved and cared for by his guardians. He just felt emotionless, like he always did. How long had it been since he had felt happy? He should have felt happy, knowing people give a fuck about him, but he didn't. He didn't. It's not as if he deserved all this love and care, right? This is not teenage angst. This is not a phase. If it were, it would not have continued for six years. 

Sirius looked at Harry, making him lock eyes with his godfather. He never let Harry's hands go. "Talk to us, son."

There was no one in the cafe aside from the three of them, and then Harry realised why. They had been meaning to talk to him alone... About his feelings... Or something like that. Harry looked at his godfathers. To say they were worried would be an understatement. They had fear in their eyes. They were fearing for Harry. They felt as if Harry could run away from everyone and everything any moment. 

Remus and Sirius never let go of Harry's hands.

"Tell us what it is that ails you, Harry." Harry swore Remus could cry any second, but he didn't, couldn't. He needed to be strong for Harry. "Please."

And Harry sat there. Frozen. What had he done? 

Harry reached his school and bid his godfathers goodbye, but not before Sirius telling him that the three would enjoy a 'refreshing vacation in France, or Australia, in the summers.' Sirius had ruffled his hair, remarking how messy they always were, just like James. Just like James. Remus and Sirius hugged Harry, not wanting to let go, really, and they both planted a kiss on their godson's forehead.

When they had left and Harry was back in the castle, Harry started crying. He started crying because he didn't deserve all that love. He cried and cried and wished he weren't a Horcrux so that he would have died, and not the Horcrux inside him, and his godfathers would be spared from loving a boy who didn't deserve even a bit of the love they gave him.

And then Harry stopped crying while he was on his way to his dormitory.

He became numb again. He became unfeeling again.

And in that moment, Harry wished he hadn't stopped crying.

Chapter Text

Dear Luna, 

    It's funny, isn't it? Being told people are there for you, when in reality, nobody is? That my pain will recede, and I will soon be over the Moon, laughing and crying and screaming with my best buddies? It is all bullshit, isn't it, Luna? I know you understand where I am coming from. 

    I hope your stay at St Mungo's isn't as terrible as I imagined it would be. You wanted to sound pretty cheerful in the last letter, but I know you fake it most of the time. I am sorry, Luna, but you don't need to fake it with me. I hope that one day, our bond will be deep enough for you to tell me if you really think all of this is worth it, after all. 

    And I am sorry if I am making assumptions. Maybe you really are happy, and I just ruined your happiness with this sappy letter. I am sorry. 

    On a further note, something big is happening at Hogwarts. Professor Umbridge, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, is now the school's Headmaste Headmistress. She is a fierce lady, for sure. She likes to inflict pain on her students in detention, and when I found out about it, I couldn't help but deliberately get myself in detention with her. I am the most real masochist out there, aren't I? I can already imagine you rolling your eyes at my boasting. I am quite modest that way. 

    "How will we defend ourselves, then?" I had spoken up in her class the other day, and I swear, I felt a billion eyes on me. I don't speak much. Not anymore. I don't blame them for being surprised. I was surprised at hearing my own voice after so long, too. 

    "Who would you need defending from, hm?" Professor Umbridge had said in return, putting on the 'I-know-better' smile on her face. 

     "Oh, I don't know," I started, letting my old sarcasm show all the way, "how about Lord Voldemort?" I made sure to put special emphasis on his name. 

     "Detention, Mr Potter!" The Pink Lady had croaked out, and I internally cheered at my victory. 

      Anyway, long story short, I am now sitting here, writing this letter to you, with my right hand burning as the words 'I must not tell lies' sit ingrained on my wrist. It's written in blood, and everything. 

      I don't think I hate Professor Umbridge. She gave me back what the others took from me. She let my inside show on the outside again. How can I possibly ever hate a person like her? 

      I hope this letter finds you in good health. I hope— pray— that you recover from your Anorexia.

      I am sorry that the voice tells you that you are ugly. Luna, you are the most beautiful girl I have set my eyes upon. You are so, so beautiful, Luna. I say, fuck that voice. Listen to my words instead. You are beautiful, Luna. You are beautiful. 

                                                              Yours loving,

                                                                   Harry

. . . 

Dear Luna, 

       I am glad you like the gift I sent you. I know it is not much, but you speak quite fondly of the theory that there exist parallel universes, and that, in one of the universes, you and I are happy people. I just had to turn that theory into reality in the best way I could— through art. But art can never truly capture the essence of your being. In fact, there is nothing in the world that can. 

       You cannot be written through stories or poems or artwork.

       You cannot be trapped into little boxes that define what one is. 

       You are infinite. 

                                                            Yours loving, 

                                                                   Harry

. . . 

Dear Luna, 

        Last month, I was given the green light to no longer show my skin to my Mind Healer as proof of me not self-harming. This month— in fact, today— I realised that I haven't cut my skin for a month now. Can you believe it? I, for sure, cannot. I never thought it was possible. 

         But that is not to say that things are looking up. I got into a huge argument with my godfathers last week. Well, I don't think you can even call it an argument, because the minute I tried to voice my opinions, I.. Broke down. I am bad at things like standing up for myself and letting my voice be heard. I just don't see the point. If the other person chooses to scream at me and yell at me instead of having a calm, civil conversation, I will not waste my time engaging with them at all. 

                                                         Yours loving, 

                                                               Harry

. . . 

Dear Luna, 

      Did it feel nice? Starving yourself, I mean. I am sure it did, because I am currently starving myself, and I feel. That is right, I feel. The hunger feels pretty fucking amazing. I also slid two fingers down my throat the other day and puked all over the damn floor! Can you believe it?! I have been walking quite a bit too. 13,000 steps, 20,000 steps, and so on— and all in one day! Walking feels nice. Walking feels great. Starving feels nice. Starving feels great.

       Well, I don't really know what else to write on here. I mean, what is the point now, you know?

        You killed yourself last week, you know? Who do I send this letter to now? 

         But I haven't shed a single tear for you! I don't know why, Luna. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I guess it hasn't hit yet. But when does it hit? It has been a week already, and I spend my days as if you didn't off yourself from the face of Planet Earth. I am sorry for sounding bitter, but there is no way you will ever read this, anyway. 

          I guess I just want to feel. I want to feel, Luna! That is why the starving helps. That is why the purging helps. That is why the walking helps. That is why the working out helps.

          The pain helps.

                                                             Yours nothing, 

                                                               Harry Potter

. . . 

And in the midst of the many letters exchanged between Harry and Luna, one letter stood out, as Harry never sent it to her. 

Dear Luna, 

        I am in love with you. 

                                                             Yours loving, 

                                                                   Harry

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Harry was sitting in a pool of his own blood. 

Harry was sitting. In a pool of his own blood. 

It started as a normal day— as normal as days go for Harry. He got out of bed early, (he hadn't slept the night before) took a relaxing, long shower, put on a comfortable hoodie and stayed in the common room until breakfast in the Great Hall had ended. He looked out through the window, and he looked at the birds, the trees, the dark clouds in the sky, and wondered about the.. point of it all. Hadn't he done the same thing yesterday? And the day before that? He was living the same new day everyday. 

His head had suddenly started to ache, so he brewed some black coffee to make up for the lack of sleep. As he sipped on his coffee, Neville entered the common room. Harry was staring at the black coffee in his hand, lost in his own world, until Neville put him out of his trance. 

"Harry," He said, and sat down next to Harry. 

"Neville," Harry nodded, and took another sip of his coffee. 

"Didn't see you at breakfast today."

Yeah. Just like yesterday. And the day before it. But it doesn't look like I haven't been eating breakfast everyday, does it, Neville? 

Harry simply hummed in response, not really knowing what to say. Neville's comment didn't seem threatening, so Harry didn't feel the need to correct him, or something. It's not as if he cared, anyway. If Neville wanted to think that he was purposely starving himself, well, so be it. But I don't look like I starve myself, a small voice inside Harry spoke, Just look at me. Just fucking look at me. 

After a while of surprisingly comfortable silence, with Neville working on his Herbology homework and Harry just staring at his empty cup, Ron, Hermione, Seamus and Dean walked into the common room, chatting excitedly, their laughs echoing in the whole room. 

"Harry," Hermione started, and plopped down right next to Harry, Ron doing the same. "We just came up with an incredible idea." Ron smiled. Harry turned to look at his best friends. They looked.. Happy.. In a way that wasn't really happy. But it didn't look like they were experiencing unhappiness in the way Harry was, either. 

"Go on," Harry said, no emotion whatsoever showing on his face. He should have felt incredibly guilty about not at least faking enthusiasm for whatever Hermione was planning, but then he remembered the fucked-up things that happened to him throughout the years, and then he remembered that he didn't need to give a fuck about petty things like feeling guilty for not faking it well enough. 

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look. My God, why does everyone do that around Harry? Harry then wished he had someone to exchange looks with too. 

"Dumbledore's Army," started Ron, "doing a sort of party together in Hogsmeade."

"You know," Hermione interjected, "Celebrating, because of all the spells that we have been able to learn in such little time— because of you, Harry!"

Because of me. This phrase was like a slap to his face now. 

"Uh," Harry gave them a half-smile, "Sure," He could have said no, but everyone looked too eager for some partying and Harry just didn't want to quash their happiness all because he was a little suicidal. The people in the room cheered, and everyone started giving a pat, or a side-hug, or any sort of a thanks, mate touch to Harry. Neville was the only one who neither looked joyful at the prospect of a party nor put his hands all over the sad, raven-haired boy. 

"A party won't be a good idea, though, would it?" Neville said slowly, trying to get the point across to each person present in the room, "I mean.. With everything going on.. The Dementors, Dumbledore, Umbridge—"

"Longbottom's being a party-pooper yet again!" Someone cut in. The others shouted in support. 

"I'm just saying— I mean— Besides, Harry's godfathers won't appreciate him out partying with the Death Eaters on the loose, and with everything that happened to him—"

"I can take care of myself just fine, Neville," Harry snapped. The room fell silent. "Thank you for the concern, though, Neville," Harry added, hoping to minimize the damage. 

But the damage was already done, and Neville stormed out of the room, possibly with tears in his eyes. He is too sensitive for his own good, Harry thought. 

The others kept hyping Harry up. 

Harry smiled a little. 

Was being the Chosen One so bad after all?

Yes. Oh yes, it was bad. All of a sudden, Umbridge, along with her cronies, barged into the Gryffindor common room, her eyes wide and gleaming with fury. "Harry Potter!" She shouted, walking, in quick, toad-like steps towards Harry, "How dare you defy my orders?! How dare you practice magic after my strict orders of practical magic to not be used at Hogwarts in any way, shape or form? And what is this— this— Dumbledore's Army? You dare build an army against the Ministry?!" Umbridge was practically spitting on Harry's face now. 

One thing led to another, and soon Harry found himself being interrogated by the Pink Lady in front of the rest of the Dumbledore's Army. Eventually, Aurors came to send Dumbledore to Azkaban, because the Army went by the name Dumbledore's Army, and not Potter's Army, as if names really mean much at the end of the day. The Boy who Lived, the Chosen One— these are all just names given to Harry that are meaningless. If Harry really was the Boy who Lived, why the fuck didn't he ever feel like he had lived? Isn't living the absence of death? Then why does Harry feel like death all the time? 

And then Harry walked. 

He walked, and he walked, and he walked. He felt as if he stopped, the world would fall apart. His world would fall apart, because everyone else would live their lives like they always did. But Harry was not other people. Harry could not live like other people. Other people die after jumping off places like the Clock Tower, anyway. 

Harry continued walking until he found himself in the boy's toilet. He punched one of the mirrors right above the sink, pulled apart the sharpest glass shard he could find, and began to slice his skin open. 

Soon, he found himself sitting in a pool of his own blood. 

Harry Potter was sitting in a pool of his own blood. 

Harry Potter— the Boy who Lived— was dying. 

Chapter Text

It's not new for Harry— the jarring, empty feeling that compels a person to either go insane or take it like a lion. Harry chose the latter. Harry always chose the latter, because accepting what he had become was better than admitting he had thoughts that never fucking stopped racing, and that if he was pushed just a little further, he was going to approach a Dementor and voluntarily ask his soul to be sucked out. He didn't have much emotions left inside him— not anymore— but he would be glad to part with the ones remaining, for anything— anything— was better than the bitter agony sitting deep in his broken heart. 

Harry Potter was not good with food. 

He had eaten more than he would have liked the past two days. He didn't starve himself. He ate, and not just healthy food, but food that was meant for recreation; food that wasn't allowed to go inside his body— foods like Treacle Tart and Pumpkin Pie and Chocolate Frogs and Butterbeer. Harry Potter hadn't starved himself the last two days (he was more focused on letting blood spill out of his open skin) and he was craving. He was craving the old, comforting feeling of a beautiful, empty stomach. He was craving control.

And so, as he sat down in the Great Hall, with all sorts of food placed beautifully in front of him, he seethed with pain. It all looked so appetizing, yet so unappealing. The feeling of starvation had finally come upon him, and there was no way in Hell he was going to eat and ruin it all. He drank water, slowly, enjoying the slow feeling of hunger coming up in his stomach. He would be starving by the time night would arrive, and he would be glad he didn't spend his day being a gluttonous monster. 

"Harry, why aren't you eating?" Hermione asked, her eyes darting towards Harry in worry, "Are you unwell?"

Unwell. That's putting it lightly. 

"Not hungry," Harry said slowly, and kept his gaze focused on his glass of water. Starvation. Starvation. Starvation. Starvation. 

"You can try eating a little bit, mate," Ron spoke up, in between his bites of mashed potatoes. 

Harry gave him a small smile. "I'm good, thanks."

Ron shrugged and continued eating, but Hermione didn't look convinced. Still, she didn't push it, and focused on her own plate of runny eggs and bread. 

Harry then looked in the direction where the Professors were seated, and more specifically, at the person who now sat in place of Dumbledore. Dolores Umbridge. Harry internally winced, knowing that ultimately, it was his fault all over again. That is why he tried killing himself in the first place, didn't he? To stop the small mistakes from turning into big mistakes that were always, always Harry's fault, somehow? 

Harry's small mistake of training a bunch of newbies in the darkest field of Magic turned into the big mistake of Dumbledore being sent to Azkaban. It was his fault, all over again. 

"I hate Umbridge," Seamus spoke up, pure disgust showing on his face for the Pink Lady, "I wish Dumbledore returned. I am tired of seeing that smug look on her face all day."

"Things really have gone downhill at Hogwarts, haven't they..." Parvati said, in a tone that conveyed her true dissatisfaction and concern about the recent upheavals in her school. 

Harry's fault. 

His. Fault. 

Harry immediately stood up from his chair and walked outside. He needed some fresh air, goddammit. How could he fix this?

As he paced around in the garden, thinking, burning calories, but mostly, thinking, he came up with a brilliant idea. But this idea was actually brilliant, unlike Hermione's idea of the Defence classes, or Ron's idea of a Hogsmeade Party. This idea could actually fix problems, rather than creating new ones. He couldn't just blame himself anymore, he needed to act.

Dumbledore's Army was going to break into Azkaban, and they were going to free him. Yes. That could fix things. That could fix everything. Dumbledore was wrongly sentenced to Azkaban, and Harry and his Army were going to free Dumbledore, and he would become the Headmaster again, as was his right, and everything would go back to the way it was. 

Besides, what good was all that training if it didn't help in actual situations that needed helping?

As Harry was rushing back to the common room to let everyone know of his brilliant plan, he cursed at his terrible fate upon crossing paths with Malfoy. 

"In a rush, Potter?" Draco smirked. 

"Yes," Harry said, and didn't spare a second trying to get away from the silver-haired prick. 

"Not so fast," Draco said, as he put his arm around Harry's shoulder to stop him from running away, like he always did, these days, "Not so fast."

The hell was Malfoy's problem?

Draco's grey eyes fixated on Harry's green, and he took a deep breath before speaking. "Potter, I was the one who told Professor Umbridge about your secret, little.. Cult, you know?" Draco's face had lost all mirth and smugness that he displayed a minute ago. He looked serious. 

"Of course you did," Harry said, trying to free himself from Draco's rather strong hold on him, "Who else would?" 

Draco stared at Harry. "You have changed."

At this, Harry snorted. Yeah? What gave it away? Why did Malfoy give a fuck anyway?

Draco let go of Harry's shoulder and stepped back. "I did what I did for your own good, you know? I told Umbridge what I told her... For your own good, Potter."

Harry's eyes furrowed. "What the fuck do you mean by that?"

Draco kept stepping back coolly. "You give into other people's whims too easily."

With that, he turned to walk away. 

Harry was left dumbfounded, staring at his nemesis as he walked away. 

That night, he wrote a letter to Luna. He hadn't done that in a while. You know, after her being dead and everything. 

Dear Luna, 

      I am alone. I am alone, aren't I? And there are so many things to do. So. Many. Things. There isn't much time. Do you know my N. E. W. T. s. are starting soon? It's wild, because these exams will decide whether I would get to be an Auror in the future or not. It is unfair, is it not? But I must keep going. I have no other choice. The world doesn't care about one person's mental illness. The mentally ill have to succumb to the world, not the other way around. That is how it has always been. That is how it always will be. 

       But my upcoming N. E. W. T. s are nothing compared to what I am about to tell you now. For the next two days, Dumbledore's Army will train the hardest we ever have. We have a plan, you know. We are going to free Dumbledore from Azkaban in exactly two days. I feel like this is what we were destined to do. 

         While I will be training the hardest I could, I won't let food enter my body. Coffee is fine. Water is great. But food is agony. Food is agony, and the abstaining from food will make me stronger in my training. I am sure of it. You were sure of it when you starved yourself before your O. W. L. s, didn't you? We are sure in this together. 

          Luna, you are gone now, but I know that you and I— we are still infinite. We are miles, miles apart— with you being on the other side, and me being in this Hell, but we are infinite. The world cannot keep us apart for long, for I believe I will join you on the other side soon. 

            I didn't tell you this when I should have, but I will now. I love you, Luna. I love you. I love you so, so much. I imagined the remnant of my life on Earth with you, Luna. You were the one who kept me sane while the whole world around me was going insane. You healed me when I came to you with bleeding wounds all over my body and in my heart. You were the Light to my Dark, a reason to be alive. 

           I love you, Luna Lovegood. 

           We are infinite. 

                                                             Yours truly, 

                                                                  Harry, 

                                                       The Boy who Loved

Chapter Text

Harry Potter was mentally ill, not incompetent.

Harry Potter was mentally ill, not incompetent.

Harry Potter was mentally ill, not incompetent.

HARRY POTTER WAS MENTALLY ILL, NOT INCOMPETENT.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" Harry shouted, and as a bright light emanated through the end of his wand, an animal the shape of a stag waltzed around the room. Harry looked at his creation in awe, even if he had done it loads of times. It's just, he was often taken aback by his own abilities these days, being a man of great self-doubt and low self-esteem. Nevertheless, he took in the small, but beautiful moment. And so did everyone else— they cheered and clapped their hands for the Chosen One, and Harry couldn't help but let small butterflies dance in his stomach.

Oh, wait, that was from the starvation.

He was hungry, but he was not going to let himself eat. Hunger was momentary, but being full was misery. He was not going to choose misery— not again.

As he walked towards each person, pointing out their mistakes, teaching them exactly where they went wrong, and helping them perfect their spells, he couldn't help but feel dread coming onto him. What if they couldn't free Dumbledore from Azkaban? What then? What would become of Harry, then? If he failed at this one thing he had to succeed in, at all costs, what would he do? He shook the thoughts away and instead focused on Cho performing the Patronus Charm. She was miserably terrible at it, but also looked extremely beautiful doing it. Harry wondered if Cho still looked at Harry that way after his little incident in the boy's bathroom.

Oh, right, the little incident in the boy's bathroom.

Harry was sitting in a pool of his own blood.

That is good, right? Blood means life. Blood means you are still alive. Blood means you are not a lifeless ghost roaming around the castle, purposeless. Blood was pain. Blood was agony. Blood was the reason Harry was alive. Blood was the reason Harry was going to die.

He was losing too much blood. He could feel it. He could feel himself falling on the floor. He could look at the ceiling, and how blurry it all looked. He was getting dizzy. He could feel the blood of his life spilling out of him. He could feel death coming upon him, once again. This time, Harry wished he could meet his parents in Heaven, or something, and not in that painfully white room he saw them in the last time he died.

Harry closed his eyes, letting death consume him whole.

"Potter?"

Harry didn't open his eyes. He could make out that familiar, raspy voice, and he knew it belonged to one particular piece-of-shit, so he didn't open his eyes. He did not want the last person he saw before he died for good to be Draco fucking Malfoy. His ears were already tainted with his voice— he didn't want his eyes to suffer the same fate.

Harry could feel a wand being traced over his skin. "Cauterizo," said Malfoy in a small whisper, as he continued to trace Harry's open wounds with his wand.

Harry gasped as he felt pain coursing through his veins with each of his wound slowly being closed up. He needed it to stop. He needed all of it to stop. He kept his eyes shut, taking in the pain like a lion, like he always did— but this time, Harry knew, he had no choice but to.

Soon, he felt himself being pulled up and led out of the bathroom, his hands wrapped around Malfoy's shoulder for support.

He opened his eyes slowly, and wished he hadn't.

There Cho stood— shocked— and standing still. Draco muttered a few words to Cho; Harry couldn't figure out what.

All Harry remembered when he woke up in the Hospital Bed was blood, and Cho's shocked face. The rest, it seemed to Harry, was history. 'A small fever, nothing more'— were Madam Pomfrey's words.

A small part of him did, however, feel as if certain memories from that day were deliberately removed from his mind. He should have remembered more. He should have.

But he didn't.

"Harry," it was Hermione who put Harry out of his daze, "Everyone looks tired. They all need a rest. Do you think we should call it a day?"

Yes, Harry wanted to say.

"But we don't have time to rest, Hermione," Harry said instead, his eyes focused on Cho still, "Besides, I thought you were the one who suggested that we 'practice day and night'?" Harry's focus came back on Hermione.

"Well," Hermione said, "I didn't think you would actually do it."

Okay. Ouch.

"Come on, mate," It was Ron's turn to be insufferable concerned, "We've been at this for hours. Let's continue this tomorrow."

Uh, Harry thought, Why are they acting as if I wouldn't listen to them? As if I would keep making everyone train for two days straight? I thought they wanted me to do this, but now that I am, they have a problem with it? What the fuck do they want from me? If I do it, it's a problem, and if I don't, it's a problem?

"Okay, guys," Harry spoke up, getting everyone's attention, "Let's call it a day. Great work, everyone!" He heard mixed reactions at this— some groaned, and some heaved sighs of relief. Everyone, however, gave Harry a high-five, or a pat on the back, or said 'good day, Harry' before they left.

Harry sighed.

No one was prepared enough. There wasn't much time left.

Harry put his face in his palms.

He was fucked, and not in the way he would have liked.

He walked out of their new training place— a place called Alohomora, placed carefully in the woods— and began walking back to the castle. The Sun was setting and Harry's stomach stopped giving him any signs of hunger, probably knowing it wasn't going to get any nourishment anytime soon. He should have felt relieved about it, but all he felt was emptiness. The Sun was setting, and Harry didn't know what the fuck he was doing. Was his training enough? Would this be enough to get Dumbledore out of Azkaban? Was he good enough? Was Harry Potter good enough? Was Harry Potter fucking good enough?

As he reached the castle, the sinking feeling of dread kept increasing. He then started to miss the feelings of numbness and purposelessness, because they commanded no real reason to be alive. Nothing had to mean anything when he was numb. If he wanted to smash his head against the wall a million times over, he could, and nothing would matter. But now, too much was at stakes, and if he couldn't reinstate Dumbledore back to his previous position at Hogwarts, Harry was naturally fucked, and everything mattered too much now, and the thoughts were fucking killing him, and—

And, oh God, a sharp blade slashing against his open skin sounded wonderful right now.

Blood sounded wonderful right now.

And so, Harry walked towards the castle with a purpose befitting him, and not Dumbledore, not the world, but him, even if it was just for a night, even if he had to go back to training tomorrow, even if he had to fight Voldemort one day..

..Tonight belonged to him, and only him.

Blood was life.

Blood was beautiful.

Chapter Text

"Can you sleep?" 

Harry opened his eyes and turned to look at a weary-looking Ron.

"No," he answered. 

How could he? Tomorrow was the big day. Dumbledore's Army was going to break their Headmaster free from Azkaban. It was no easy feat, but they were wizards— was life ever easy for their kind? 

"Harry," Ron started, looking at the ceiling above, "I need to ask you something."

Harry pulled his blanket closer to his face, shuddering, for some reason. "Go on," he prompted. It's not as if he could sleep, anyway. Sleep, he realised long ago, did not sit well with those whose minds raced as if their lives depended on that menacing act. 

"For how long have you been feeling... This... Way?"

"What are you talking about?"

Ron stopped looking at the ceiling and stared straight at Harry now. "Don't bullshit me, mate. Not again. Not this time."

It was funny, Harry thought, how easy it was for people to look the other way when the person in front of them was clearly suffering, but when the suffering person would decide to look away, people suddenly had a keen interest on him again. Harry could have laughed, but he had no energy left in him to, and really, he did not want to piss off his 'best mate.'

"I don't know what you want me to say," said Harry, and wished for the conversation to end already. He wasn't good with talking about his feelings or his thoughts or how it all started and how it would all end and he— he just wasn't good at talking about himself, in general. It was always about other people, wasn't it? And Harry was content with that. How are you? He would say, You? You? You? You? That was the way of things, and Harry was okay with that. 

But, really, was there much left in the world that he wasn't okay with? He took it all like a lion— like a champion. That is what the Harry Potter— the Chosen One— was destined to do, after all. 

To give his all and let people take and take, until there was nothing to give anymore. 

Ron snorted. "I just— I just don't understand where shit went wrong for you. Surely, your life isn't that bad? What went wrong, Harry?"

Surely, your life isn't that bad. 

At this, Harry really laughed. No, of course Harry's life wasn't that bad, you silly goof, silly Ronald! One day, Harry just decided to let his edgy side show and become a little suicidal— all for the fun of it! Even, let's for a minute, let's introduce the idea of Harry's life "not being that bad"— does that fact even fucking matter? What matters more— a person committing suicide or the person committing suicide despite being rich and famous? It's the fact that the person is dead because he was fucking depressed that matters, Ronald! And so, Harry laughed. He laughed a hearty laugh, because he just couldn't believe the idiocy that his silly, goofy friend displayed sometimes! 

Ron kept staring at his best friend. "Why the hell are you laughing?"

Harry tried his best to stop laughing, but settled on chuckling instead. "I'm sorry, Ron— it's just— you saying all of this out of nowhere.. At three bloody am.. Is just.. Weird. We don't really talk about this stuff, mate."

We don't talk about this stuff. 

Ron didn't say anything for a while. Then, he turned to look up at the ceiling again. "I am trying to change that."

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

Harry sighed and looked out the window. It was so dark outside. Were Harry's mind not so clouded with darkness of his own, he could almost appreciate the beauty that the night sky was. Almost.

"Good night, Ron," he finally said, and closed his eyes. 

Sleep was far from coming onto him. 

And so, he settled on a long night of thinking.

Chapter Text

It felt safe.

Harry felt safe when he shut himself into his little bubble, ignoring the world and its blasphemous noises. He would live his life monotonously, always okay with everything— never complaining, never protesting. He would become numb to it all. Living life this way was safe for Harry, because then, he wouldn't feel things like jealousy and desire and stress and tension. He had a 'go ahead, fuck me over once again, I don't really give a shit anymore' attitude, and he often thought that he had become a Monk, or something— feeling the power of tranquility and serenity, or whatever Socrates had said. 

But then, in times like these, when he, along with Dumbledore's Army, was about to raid Azkaban, sneakily, of course, he couldn't help but like this life a lot more. It gave Harry a certain adrenaline— it added a certain purpose to his life. In times like these, he didn't have to listen to people's unsolicited opinions on everything with vacant eyes. In times like these, he could imagine himself getting the hell up and standing up for himself. 

In times like these, he truly felt like he was the Chosen One. 

"Cho, Hermione, Seamus— you need to enter from the back. Ron, Dean, and Neville— join them. I will enter from the front with Fred and George. Everyone else, do you remember your positions?" Harry said, and on getting the nods from everyone, he wore the Invisibility Cloak, making him, Fred and George invisible. "Good luck, everyone," Harry said, "And remember, the minute you sense danger, you need to mound your broomsticks and fly away."

Soon enough, the Army dispersed, with Harry, Fred and George finding their way into the front lobby. 

It was thunder bolts that made the three stop in their tracks. In a matter of seconds, one.. Two.. Three.. Death Eaters apparated in front of them. The three Gryffindors turned to run, but Harry tripped on his feet, with the Cloak falling off of him, revealing him. "Go," Harry whispered to Fred and George, who were still wearing the Invisibility Cloak, "Follow Hedwig. She knows where Dumbledore is being imprisoned. Free Dumbledore. Go. Now."

Fred furrowed his eyebrows in worry. "But Harry, what about you—"

"Just leave. Dumbledore will know what to do. Go! Now!"

At that, Fred and George began to run in the direction where Hedwig was leading them. 

Harry was facing the ground, and the fact that he was now left to face three Death Eaters on his own did not sit well in his stomach. This was not in the plan. This would never, in a billion years, be a part of any plans that he would ever devise. 

"Well, Mr Potter," It was Lucius Malfoy's eerie voice that forced Harry to get up from the ground, "We meet again. The last time we met, things were a little... Painful, were they not?" 

And then Harry realised Lucius was talking about the last time they had met, when he had touched Harry in places he wasn't allowed, when he had made Harry confused by his actions— all to satisfy his own gratification, or to make Harry feel shame— he knew not. 

Harry looked directly in his abuser's— in Lucius' eyes— and said, with his fury and his rage and his hurt and his pain showing in his voice, "You had no right. You had..." Harry started breaking again, "None. You..." And he fell down to his knees, wishing this was all just one big nightmare— a nightmare worse than his own reality, sure, but a nightmare nonetheless.

But wishes are worse than empty words, for wishes bring with them hope, but hope doesn't mean shit in this empty world. 

Wishes aren't fulfilled. 

And Harry really was facing the man who broke him. He became broken when he realised what Lucius had done to him, and he broke into pieces every night when he reenacted the same, dreaded events in his head. He did it every single night until he finally broke, and the pain that Lucius had inflicted upon him didn't mean anything anymore, because he should have told Lucius to stop, right? Why didn't he? 

But Harry didn't even realise what was happening! So.. How could he.. Stop.. Him? 

"Why did you do it?" Harry slowly croaked out, on his knees still. 

"Well," Lucius started, coming closer to the Broken One, and, putting his finger under Harry's chin, forcing him to look up at him, continued, "I did it... All for the fun of it."

Lucius Malfoy broke Harry Potter all for the fun of it. 

Then, almost hushed, Lucius whispered in Harry's ear, "I could do it again, you know."

"NO!" Harry screamed. He needed to get away from Lucius' very existence. He had to. He had to. He had to. "No... No... No..." Harry kept repeating, shaking, putting his hands on his ears to stop listening to the wretched laughs of the Death Eaters. If Death were alive, would she be a kind Soul and take Harry away with her right now? If Death were real, could Harry have a little hope and hope for Death to kill him right now? 

All of a sudden, Sirius, Remus, Tonks and Moody apparated in front of Harry. Harry still had his hands on his ears, trying his best to be oblivious to the vacant, cruel world around him. Remus rushed to Harry's side, and held him as tight as he could. "You're okay, you're okay..." Remus kept repeating in Harry's ears, trying his own voice to triumph among Harry's other, unkind voices in his head. 

"Stay the fuck away from my godson," Sirius said, his eyes flaming with rage, and pointing his wand at Lucius, "Confringo!"

With that, came down the legacy of the ruthless Malfoy, who all but burned in the ashes of the fire and despair he created on his own. 

The other two Death Eaters were no longer found in sight, for they were both killed by Tonks and Moody— one each. "One's your target, one's mine," Moody had told Tonks.

Sirius rushed towards Harry, and he hugged the boy, who no longer seemed as agitated as before. Now, Harry simply stared at the ground. He was tired. "It's over, my boy..." Sirius said softly, "It's over..." Was it? Harry had wanted to say. He slowly pulled away from his godfather. 

Harry looked straight at Sirius' kind eyes, unlike Lucius' agile, "Dumbledore..."

"Has escaped." Sirius smiled at Harry. 

"H— How? Did Fred and George—"

"Yeah, we did it," Said Fred and George, together, as they walked towards Harry, and handed the Invisibility Cloak back to him, "Well, not exactly, but we would like to take credit for it." The two then high-fived each other, and walked towards the rest of the Dumbledore's Army, who were walking towards Harry and the rest, in return. 

Harry put his face in his hands. "Please, Sirius, please tell me we didn't make things worse," He said, dejected. All those days of planning and training could not have possibly gone to shit this way, right? 

"You helped the cause, actually, Harry," Remus said, then, looking at the rest of the Dumbledore's Army, "You all did."

"The Ministry has become flawed," Moody interjected. 

"We cannot trust the Ministry anymore," Said Tonks. 

Harry looked around, not knowing where to start. He finally settled on, "What happened to Dumbledore? Is he safe?" 

"He flee," Sirius said in response. 

"He flee?" It was Ron's turn to sound flabbergasted.

"Thanks to your efforts, Dumbledore's Army," Tonks said, "He was able to."

"Thanks to us?" Harry spoke, clearly confused. He got up from the ground. "Thanks to us? We were supposed to free him and get him back to Hogwarts, not— not—"

"And just how exactly would that have worked?" Said Moody, sneering, "The Ministry would have brought him back to Azkaban. Dumbledore's best option was to escape."

Right, Harry thought, That makes much more sense. 

"And thanks to you lot," Sirius said, looking at Dumbledore's Army, "Dumbledore was able to. While you were distracting the wards and the guards, Dumbledore got the opportunity to escape. A bird— his bird— his Phoenix helped him apparate to.. Wherever he is right now."

"But why the Death Eaters?" George spoke up, "They're working for the Ministry now?"

"That's low, even for them," Fred added, "Who would want to work with the Ministry?!"

"Of that," Remus said, admittedly, "I am not sure."

Sirius then looked at Harry, trying to form an eye-contact with his godson. Furrowing his eyebrows, he shared a look with Harry. Harry simply shrugged. What Lucius did to Harry was forever going to be a secret, was it not? 

Yes, Harry replied to the voice in his head, Yes, it was. No one needed to know about it. 

No one. 

That night, at dinner, when everyone was seated in the Great Hall, talking and chatting over everything and nothing, the voices of the members of the Dumbledore's Army rose above the others, for they had emerged victorious in their task. They had freed Dumbledore from Azkaban; they could rest easy now. 

Right? 

Harry kept his head down and stared at the food placed in front of him, not engaging in any conversation regarding their victory. He chuckled internally, remembering just why he even planned on freeing his ex-Headmaster from the hell that Azkaban was. 

How could I fix this?! 

Those were Harry's words. 

Thanks to those words, Lucius Malfoy was fucking dead now— all because of him. 

The blame-game never ended, did it? 

He stabbed a big piece of the chicken rotisserie kept in front of him with a fork and ate it. What the fuck are you doing, Harry? He took another bite. Stop. Stop. What do you think you're doing? Goddamn, did chicken always taste this good? He took another bite, and then ate another big bite. You are fucking disgusting. What are you doing? Why are you doing this? You aren't supposed to eat! 

Harry then proceeded to eat all of the chicken and all of the vegetables on his plate. Then, he ate the chocolate pudding that Hermione lovingly offered him. Then, he ate another chocolate pudding that Cho had sent his way, and then, he ate a chocolate chip cookie that Ron offered him on his way to his dormitory, and then something came onto Harry, so he excused himself and went to the abandoned boy's toilet. 

He wasn't there to purge. 

He looked at the mirror and clenched his fists. 

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?!"

Chapter Text

What is it like to not be lonely? 

"Harry, you have detention with Professor Snape, don't you?" Hermione asked, flipping over the pages of her textbook, then, looking straight at Harry, said, "Do you think you'll be alright?" Harry's eyes we're fixed at his own book. He nodded. 

What is it like to not be so empty?

As Harry walked towards Snape's office, he overheard some sixth years talking about Malfoy's father. "Who's Malfoy gonna run to now?" They snickered amongst themselves, making fun of Draco, not caring that a son lost his father. Harry didn't intrude in their vile conversation. It wasn't his business, after all. He kept walking. 

What is it like to love being in this world?

Upon reaching Snape's office, he knocked on the door, bracing himself. Which insult Snape was going to throw at Harry— he knew not. 

"Enter," a sharp voice came from inside the office, and Harry entered. 

He coughed awkwardly, and looked everywhere except in the dark eyes of his Potions Professor. He looked at the potions, the disgusting Newt's Eyes wobbling out of the cauldrons, Snape's desk, and... A blood quill— the same blood quill used by Professor Umbridge— kept neatly on Snape's desk. 

"Sit down, Potter," Snape commanded, as he looked keenly at Harry with his infamous cold and stern eyes. 

Harry sat down. 

"Do you know why you are here, Mr Potter?"

Harry waited for a moment, then shook his head, still not making eye-contact with his Professor. 

Snape sighed and got up from his large chair. "Allow me to remind you, then." He walked towards Harry and hovered above him, and it felt as if his eyes were staring right into Harry's soul, "You sit in my class, numb, refuse to be partners with anyone, the only thing you are decent at is the weekly assignments, but your class performance— it is pathetically terrible." He waited for a moment, almost hoping for Harry to protest, to say something, anything, that would make Snape's blood boil and give the stupid boy a twenty-page assignment to complete over the weekend. 

But Harry didn't say a word. He just sat there, looking down at his desk, taking in whatever Snape had to say. 

It all just seemed so... Sad to watch. 

"Very well," Snape said, and walked back to his own desk. He placed a bundle of parchments in front of Harry with a swish of his wand. He folded his hands, and started again, "Read through these carefully. Where you are going wrong while making a dire attempt at Potions— it is all contained in there. Take them, and get out of my office."

Harry nodded, took the heavy bundle of parchments in his hands, and proceeded to walk out of the office. 

"And Potter," Snape started again, sharply, making Harry stop, "If I don't see an improvement in your work within two weeks, the consequences will not be good."

Harry nodded again, and turned to walk, but stopped. 

"Sir?" He said. It was the first time in a month that Snape had heard his least favourite student's voice, and Snape could swear he had heard a bloody cat sound more fierce than Harry. 

"Yes?" Snape replied, trying his best to not focus on how weak and melancholic Harry had sounded. 

"Is that— is that Professor Umbridge's quill?"

Snape raised his eyebrows, then picked up the Blood Quill with his right hand. "Indeed, it is. Why do you ask, Mr Potter?"

Harry waited for a moment, finally looking at Snape. "Why is it in your possession?"

"And why would that be any of your business?"

"Right. Of course not." Then, Harry finally proceeded to walk out of Snape's office. 

"Such punishments are not allowed at Hogwarts, Potter. Umbridge should have known better," Snape said, and got back to grading papers. 

Once Harry was out, he closed the door behind him. 

What is it like to not want to kill yourself every second, every minute, every hour of the day?

Harry decided to sit by the lake. 

What is it like to not want to tear apart your skin and let blood spill like a waterfall every waking moment? 

Upon reaching the lake, he sat down near the rocks and stared at the waters. 

What is it like to not be a walking disappointment? 

Harry kept staring at the waters. Why am I like this? He thought. 

What is it like? 

What is it like? 

What is it like? 

Chapter Text

When you are dying alone, you really are dying. Alone.

When you try and try and fail and only fail, you become dead.

When you have to lose yourself in order to mould yourself into other people's perceptions of you, you keep breaking apart.

And in the end of it all, you realise that you only have one person by your side— yourself. 

Harry Potter was in deep shit, he knew, when he realised he didn't know half the jackshit he should know for his upcoming N.E.W.T.s. Harry Potter was also borderline suicidal, but people only kept track of things like exams and jobs and interviews, and not suicide, depression and brainrot, so he felt he needed to do something about the latter, before jumping onto the former.

Because, you know, life gets very difficult to deal with when you have your own death on your mind 24/7.

Step I— Become Your Worst Before You Become Your Best

Harry sat in the common room, with a warm cup of hot chocolate in his hands, not speaking, not talking— simply focusing on the bloody amazing taste of it. It was easily a billion calories, give or take a few, but Harry didn't give a shit in that moment. He had a big self-harming session planned for that night. He would have blood seeping through his gaping wounds— did some calories in freaking hot chocolate matter in that moment? Yes, the little voice in his head probed, Yes, the calories did matter. 

Fuck the voice.

He got up, bid everyone goodnight, went inside his dormitory, shut the door behind him, opened his cupboard where he had sneakily kept his blades, and unwrapped the little newspaper in which they were kept. 

Tonight was going to be the last time he would self-harm, at least, for a long time, and he would make sure to let a shit ton of blood pour out of him. 

If it was going to be his last time, it might as well be his best.

He sat down on his bed, making himself comfortable. Thank fuck, he thought, thank fuck. He swiped the blade against his skin, pressing well enough, and watched, in a vacant expression, as he saw blood trickling down his leg, slowly, but surely, and beautifully. His blood gleamed in the light of "Lumos!" which he had spoken to examine each of his cuts more properly. 

He kept cutting, and cutting, and cutting, until he was positively sure that blood was all around him. Blood was life. Blood was proof that Harry was alive. Blood was beautiful. 

Once he was done wiping off all the blood from his skin, he stood up slowly, wincing as he did it, and uttered a quick cleaning charm to remove all of the blood from the floor and from his bed— otherwise the room would look like a murder scene.

Step II—  Cry, and Cry, and Cry a little more

And cry he did. He cried about everything and nothing. He cried remembering that his issues were no issues at all— as reminded to him ocassionally; often, on the worst of his days. He cried remembering his parents giving up his life for the miserable existence that he was. He cried about Lucius, and his weird advances towards him— all when he was eleven. He cried thinking about Ron and Hermione, who were his friends for the sake of being friends, but not really people he could talk to about it all— about any of it. He cried remembering Luna, who died not because of her Anorexia, but because of people's attempts at taking away her Anorexia. He cried realising he would never, ever, ever get to talk to her again, because just like his past, she was gone. Luna Lovegood was gone forever; she was never coming back. She was never coming back just like Lucius was never coming back, because he died— because he wanted to do weird shit to Harry again, but he was killed, because, technically, Harry killed him, right? He cried thinking about Hagrid and how he and Harry hardly spoke to each other anymore. He cried because he had disappointed Remus and Sirius. He cried about things he couldn't put into words. He cried about things he couldn't even understand. He cried. Oh God, he cried.

Tears fell uncontrollably from Harry's eyes as he kept remembering and thinking and feeling and unfeeling and feeling too much and feeling nothing at all.

He felt nothing at all, once again.

He sat still, staring at nothing in particular.

Earth was a planet of a billion people, yet he sat alone, as his wounds weeped tears of blood and agony.

How was being lonely so easy, yet being around people, and truly belonging, so difficult?

Harry wasn't going to miraculously find a being he could confide in.

Miracles weren't real.

Step III— Acceptance

They say, "It will get better." They say, "Give it time. Give time to yourself to recuperate." But that's the thing— Harry doesn't have time. Harry has important shit coming up the next week, and he can't take a break and say, "Hallelujah! Vacation, here I come!" Turns out, Harry Potter isn't as privileged as the world makes him out to be. 

And so, he accepts.

He is sitting alone, on his bed, and he accepts the fact that he is alone, and that he needs to figure shit out on his own. It's not an epiphany for Harry; that's just how things always have been for him. He has no one by his side— only himself.

He accepts the fact that maybe all is not good with him, after all, and that it is time to do something about it. 

Step IV— A Plan

He had his quill in his hand and a parchment placed in front of him. He thought for a while, then crumbled up the paper and threw it away. No, he thought, Written plans don't work. Not with his state of mind, anyway. 

Still, he needed to devise some sort of a plan. He settled on relying on his mind— the place where everything started. Tomorrow, he was going to get the hell up, workout, take a shower, eat, study, do homework—

Harry pulled at his hair. What the fuck? No, this was too much. He had blood coming out of his legs, and he was talking about getting up in the morning and working out and stuff like that.

Step V- ????

He got up from his desk, defeated, wincing, and decided to walk out of the dormitory. He walked for a while, trying his best not to limp as he did it, and found himself sitting by the same lake he had been at the day before. It was night now, and he couldn't clearly see everything, but the waters still calmed him down, due to some reason. It wasn't often that things aside from bleeding himself dry calmed him racing mind.

"Are you going to jump, Harry?"

Harry froze. It was the same voice. The same voice that dripped down a person's ears like honey and marmalade, and oh God, how was it possible?

He turned to find the source of the voice. She was standing there, looking more beautiful than Aphrodite herself. Luna Lovegood was standing in front of Harry, and she had no right to look the way she did. She had no right to make Harry feel so safe and warm. Luna Lovegood was dead, so how did she look so alive in Harry's eyes?

"How?" He asked, desperately, despite wanting to tell her a million other things, "How are you here?" In this Hell? Don't you belong in the good that was Heaven?

Luna smiled, and Harry would drown himself in the same lake he was standing near if he couldn't see her lovely smile ever again.

"I don't know," she said, and walked towards Harry, "Maybe you really wanted to see me." And she touched Harry on his cheek, but not in the way Lucius Malfoy touched him. This touch was gentle, and sweet, and Harry wished she would never take her hand away from his cheek.

"Please... Don't... Leave me," He pleaded, "Not again." He was oh so desperate, and she was oh so close. She had no right to leave him again— to leave him alone in this empty world, yet again.

"Harry," she whispered in his ear, "When you feel things go wrong, look to the East." 

Luna pulled back, and started fading away; Harry did not even have a moment to tell her to stay, to say goodbye, or to say anything at all, because he found himself being pulled up from what seemed like a body of water. He started coughing violently, and wondered just how much Fate wanted to mess with him, if she were real, at all.

Look to the East.

"Have you gone mad, Potter?!" 

It was the familiar, displeasing voice of Draco Malfoy that made him immediately open his eyes. He quickly got up, and looked around. It was still night and he was still sitting by the lake. Did he fall down in the lake, or something?

"Are you trying to kill yourself?!" Draco shouted, in worry, and quickly placed a jacket over Harry's shivering, cold form. What the fuck is he doing? Harry thought.

Harry looked up at Draco, and tried to croak out words, but coughed out more water instead. Draco quickly placed a warming charm on Harry.

"This is the second time I have had to save your butt, Potter," Draco spat out, wondering how stupid just one person— in this case, Harry— could be.

"The second time?" Harry finally croaked out, feeling himself warming up because of Draco's spell, "What do you mean?"

"Forget it," Draco said. Then, placing his hands on his temples, visibly stressed, spoke again, "Fuck. I guess I have to tell it to you, after all."

"Tell me what?"

Draco bent over to look at Harry straight in his green eyes, and said, in a clear, low voice, "You and I need to have a little chat."

Step V— Don't Deprive Yourself of Sleep, Lest You Should Fall Down in a Fucking Lake, and Have Draco fucking Malfoy Save Your Ass

Chapter Text

After the little talk with Draco, Harry rushed towards his dormitory. It was almost four am now, and if anyone saw him out here, roaming about, he would be in big trouble. As he walked with pacing steps, he tried his best not to think about the conversation he had with Draco.

.. 

"Make yourself comfortable," Draco said, sitting back on the couch, putting one leg over the other. Harry said down next to him, but not close enough (because getting too close hurts you in the end, right?) and looked at the fireplace in front of him. He let the fire give the much-needed warmth to his body. He was no longer shivering.

After a while of silence, with Draco laying back on the couch, looking up at the ceiling, positively tired, Harry decided to break the silence. Draco had something to tell him, and despite his lack of curiosity lately, he needed to know just what it was that made Draco invite him over to his "secret relaxing place", as he put it.

Harry rubbed his hands together, slowly, still staring at the fire. "I am sorry about your fath—"

"Don't," Draco interrupted sharply, now looking at the burning fire himself.

So, Harry shut up. He knew what it was like when people tried offering him condolences about his loss, and so, he didn't push.

"He was a piece of shit. You have no idea about the things he did. He is better off dead— rotting in Hell— just like he deserves."

"Well, then, I am sorry he wasn't a good father."

Draco didn't speak for a moment. Then, feeling awkward, trying to look in the direction of Harry's eyes, but not exactly making eye-contact with him, said, "I guess I should start by apologising to you."

Harry made no effort to look at Draco in the eye. He did not know where this conversation was going, having never tried to make small talk with his arch enemy this way. He had to admit, this whole situation was starting to make him a little queasy.

"I am sorry, Potter," Draco said, now looking straight at Harry, "I am sorry for— for everything... For the... Terrible, absolutely vile words I said to you. I.. I am sorry, Potter. I am sorry for making you feel like shit. Others don't have it worse than you— fuck, that doesn't even matter. You're in your own shit, and they're in their own shit, and— and— you are not fucking privileged. I have never met a person in my life who is more broken than you."

.. 

Harry quietly entered his dormitory, not wanting to wake up his sleeping friends. He slipped into his bed, and, knowing his sleep was all but gone, decided on getting some study done instead.

Yes, Harry Potter was casually going to study after his incredible self-harming session and a lovely talk with Draco goddamn Malfoy.

He put a silencing charm around him, went under the covers, muttered a quick 'Lumos!' and proceeded to read the parchments Snape had specifically asked him to thoroughly go through.

.. 

Harry didn't know what to say. For one, he was at a place he never knew existed before, and two, his nemesis— his bloody nemesis — was sitting next to him, apologising to him for making his life miserable for so long.

Draco waited for the raven-haired boy to reply, his grey eyes still keenly looking at Harry's green.

Harry coughed awkwardly, then, shifting a bit away from Draco, said, still looking at the well-lit fireplace in front of him, "What did you mean when you said that you saved me twice?" He wasn't just going to forgive and forget the silver git. Sure, Harry had become fuckless now, but that didn't mean he was an Angel who only looked at the good side of others either.

Draco stared at Harry for a moment. Then, took a deep breath before speaking again, "I obliviated you the first time. I don't care if you believe me or not, but know this: I don't gain anything from lying to you. The first time— when you were bleeding to death in the boy's toilet— it was me who healed your wounds and took you to the infirmary. We met that stupid Ravenclaw— that— that Cho— on our way there. I threatened her into not telling anyone about your... Condition, and she obliged. I know the power I hold over people, Potter. I knew she wouldn't speak a word about it to anyone. Not even to you."

And then, Harry began to connect the dots. His memories from that day was hazy. He knew he was bleeding, and he knew that he was dying, but all he remembered was blood and Cho and waking up in the Hospital Bed and seeing the worried look on Madam Pomfrey's face.

Harry finally looked at Draco in the eye. Were his eyes always this.. Bright Grey?

"Why did you save me? Why did you do it, Malfoy?" Harry asked, desperation showing in his voice. He should have thanked him for saving him, but he didn't want to be saved. He could have died there and then, and he would have been reunited with his parents. Draco took that away from Harry, just like Voldemort took away the life Harry could have had.

"I..." He started, then looked away from Harry, "I felt guilty. No, fuck that." He looked at Harry again, a hint of annoyance and anger showing on his face, "What did you expect me to do? Just leave you there... Dying? How low do you think I could get?" He put his face in his hands. "What the fuck do you take me for, Potter?" He looked disappointed... With Harry, or with himself— he didn't know.

"I didn't want to be saved," Harry muttered softly, then again, even softer, "I didn't want to be saved."

"I know. I know you didn't. You're stupid like that."

.. 

Harry winced as he accidentally brushed his hand against the wider of his scars, and quickly looked around, hoping he didn't wake anyone up. Then, remembering he had muttered, "Silencio!" beforehand, he laid back down, putting away his books and parchments, and sighed.

It was five in the morning, and Harry's head was aching.

Not just his head, but his arms, legs, his heart, and his Soul— were aching too.

Does the pain ever stop?

.. 

The two got out of the room, which had looked so small from the outside and so big on the inside. Draco escorted Harry back to the castle. He waited for a moment before speaking again.

"Why did you do what you did?" Draco simply asked, not exactly expecting a simply answer, but he needed to ask this very question from Harry, if he wanted the things he had planned to work, at all.

"Killed myself, you mean?"

"Why? Why did you do it, Potter? Why do you keep doing it over and over and over again?"

"I didn't intentionally jump into the lake. I happened to fall down, because—"

"And what of the times before that?"

Harry became quiet. He looked away. Everyone always asked him this same question. 'Why did you do it?' As if Harry knew how to put into words how he fucking felt about the world and himself and his pain and his agony.

"I don't know."

.. 

It was five-thirty now, and Harry had no intentions of sleeping now, but sleep had other ideas, because soon enough, she enclaved Harry into a deep state of sleep.

Chapter Text

At some point, the depression becomes comforting. Harry can choose to go about his day, feeling like a walking, numb zombie, and nothing in life would have to matter, because his mind was too clouded by his own tempting, dark thoughts. The feeling becomes comforting for himself, but the people around him just think him to be a person who does not wish to take any responsibilities— a person who does not wish to take life seriously.

Harry never once blamed them. If he had a sane mind, he, too, would think a person like Harry was irresponsible and lazy, instead of being mentally ill and in dire need of help.

Help at Hogwarts, as Harry once knew to be true, did not come to those who asked for it, after all.

"I think," Harry said to Madam Pomfrey, "I think I'm a little fucked up in the head."

Madam Pomfrey simply looked at the boy. "You are tired, my dear," She had said, and it was all so simple for her. Harry was just another normal boy to her. He was just another angsty, edgy teenager to her. The feeling would pass, she had told him, Truly, there is nothing wrong with you. And she had smiled at the jaded boy, and sent him away with a packet of cookies because cookies fucking fix everything, right?

If there was nothing wrong with Harry, why did he enjoy looking at blood pouring out of his skin so much? If there was nothing wrong with Harry, why did he feel like exploding at the very thought of eating more than 850 calories in a day? If there was nothing wrong with Harry, why did he feel numb for a whole week, then cried every single night the next week? If there was nothing wrong with Harry, why did he feel alone around the huge group of his favourite Gryffindors?

If there was nothing wrong with Harry Potter, why did he feel like shooting himself in the head all the goddamn time?

He couldn't tell all this shit to a healer at St Mungo's. He'd be sent straight to a psych ward.

"Harry," Hermione prodded, "Why didn't you complete this week's assignment in Care of Magical Creatures? You had all weekend! You were supposed to submit it today!"

Oh, I don't know, Hermione. I was too busy crying myself to death last night.

Harry cleared his throat. "I forgot."

"You forgot? Harry, you can't simply forget! You know how much these grades matter!" She shook her head, visibly disappointed.

Harry's brain did not function like normal people. Normal people never knew how to act around Harry when he let his silly side slip up, and the whole perception that people had of him was close to being shattered.

Close.

"Harry," Seamus said, throwing a rock in the river, "Can you make these rocks dance in the waters like I am?"

Harry walked over to Seamus, flashing him a bright smile, after just having finished another bloody self-harm session, "No, I don't think so."

Seamus looked at Harry, then stared at his pants, with a mix of confusion and terror. "Harry," He started, taking a step back, "Is that blood coming out from your legs? What the fuck?"

Harry looked at his pants. Then, matter-o-factly, looked back at his friend, smiling still. "Maybe!" He then patted Seamus' back, then left the waters and the rocks and a horrified Seamus standing frozen.

In times like these, when Harry felt himself smiling and looking jolly after just having shoved two fingers down his throat to vomit out the food he ate that he shouldn't have eaten, or when he cut and he cut and he cut until his skin was begging him to stop, he truly felt insane.

Other people are not accepting of insane people like Harry unless the insane people are pretending to be sane, and Harry accepted this fact.

In a world where being unique is encouraged but being mentally ill is shunned, Harry knew he didn't belong, and he accepted this fact, too.

In no universe can Harry describe how he feels, or how he thinks, or why he acts and thinks and feels the way he does, so he must pretend to be the most normal being on Planet Earth, and he has accepted this fact the most.

Harry Potter cannot be helped.

Not by Hogwarts. Not by the world.

Born alone, live alone, die alone.

But this is not the way to live life, Moaning Myrtle had moaned to Harry the day he went to the Great Baths to drown himself to death but his survival instinct had kicked in so he floated back up, and then Harry decided to at least try looking at people in a gaze other than that of threat and perceiving them as beings of deceit before letting all of his numbness and agony embrace him for good, never letting him go ever again.

"Harry," Ron said, running up to Harry after Potions class, "Harry, wait up!"

Harry stopped and turned to look at his best mate. "Ron," He smiled his lovely, fraudulent smile, "What's up, Ron?"

Ron smiled back. "It's a Friday night," He grinned, "We're thinking of playing games and partying a little in the common room. You'll join us this time, won't you?" And then, looking a little desperate, continued, "Please?"

No, Harry wanted to say, I am suicidal and in pain and I wish my heart to stop beating so that I could reunite with my parents and stop being the terrible mess that I am. "Sure," He said instead, remembering the words of Myrtle and his loving godfathers Sirius and Remus and how they looked at him whenever he had gone numb to the world around him.

Ron smiled a genuine smile.

That evening, Harry played the silliest and most nonsensical games with his housemates, and ate crumpets and drank butterbeer and felt full with emotions that weren't dark, for once.

That night, Harry decided to try and get better.

Try. And get better.

When Harry walked into the Great Hall that morning to eat breakfast for once instead of looking at it as if it were Lord Voldemort himself, he caught Draco staring at him.

When he came down for breakfast with his friends everyday for the next week, he found Draco staring at him every time, then looking away the minute Harry stared back.

Harry needed to try, and get better.

Especially because of a certain silver git.

Chapter Text

Tomorrow was the day.

N. E. W. T. s were starting from tomorrow, and Harry was scared. 

He had tried his best to be normal the past few days. He ate every single meal and laughed with his friends and spoke in Snape's class and studied to the best of his abilities and did not pay attention to Draco Malfoy (he tried not to, at least.) 

Harry could have chosen to not do the above things and starve and purge and cut and die instead, but he felt a sense of responsibility towards himself; he wanted to make the life for his future self better, and clearing his N. E. W. T. s was the way to do that. He did not want to risk being not normal and screw up his exams.

The risk was minimal, hower, because Harry was the most productive when he ate very less. 

Even then, he was not going to be not normal right before his exams. He couldn't afford to. 

Harry was in the library studying before the big day— too lost in learning about the different ways to make an Emotion-Numbing Potion to take knowledge of Draco walking up to him and sitting down right next to him. 

The silver-haired boy looked directly at Harry, his cheek resting in his palm, looking bored.

"What is it like, Potter?" Draco said in a calm, low tone, sounding positively exhausted, causing Harry to jump up a little and turn to look at the source of the voice. 

"What is what?" Harry said softly, turning back to gazing at his book, now no longer focused at the contents of it. 

Draco shifted closer to Harry, his gaze at the shorter boy all too keen. "What is it like to act so fake all the time? Isn't it suffocating?"

And then Harry remembered the note he wrote one day when he felt the world closing in on him and not letting him breathe. 

Suffocating.

I have decided that it is suffocating. It's suffocating.

It is suffocating.

Harry didn't write 'it' to refer to a particular event in his life, but to a plethora of them. After all, this was Harry Potter, and his luck was always in the shitters. 

No wonder it had become suffocating for him. 

"Leave me alone, Malfoy," Harry said, though not actually wanting Malfoy to leave him alone. 

Draco scoffed and put his hands up in defeat. "Chill out, Potter. Just trying to have a conversation here."

After years and years of bullying him, Draco wanted to have a conversation with Harry. 

Makes perfect sense. This is Harry's world, after all. Things like this happened to him on a daily basis. Bad luck, and all. 

"Go on, then," Harry decided to look at his nemesis acquaintance in the eye, "Have a conversation with me." Harry didn't care anymore. Malfoy could spew more shit about him right in front of his face, and Harry wouldn't even bat a goddamn eye. His heart was already shattered a million times over to the point where he had become numb to petty things like insults. 

Draco waited for a moment, then frowned. 

"How are you?" 

Uh, what the fuck? 

Harry stared at Draco. He simply stared at Draco. Draco never asked how Harry was after he bullied him to the point of no return, but here he was now, sitting in front of him, asking Harry about his well-being. 

"I don't know, Malfoy," Harry snapped, "How are you? What is going on with you? First, the weird thing that happened in your secret, little place; then, you constantly eyeing me whenever I am one feet away from you and then— then— this? Small talk? We hate each other— have you forgotten?!"

Draco never broke eye contact with Harry. 

He took a deep breath before responding to Harry's much-justified answer. 

"Did the talk we have in my cabin mean nothing to you?" Draco sounded hurt.

Harry blinked his eyes and looked taken aback. 

Then, he sighed and put his face in his hands. "What is this about, Malfoy?" 

Draco pulled Harry's hands away from his face and forced him to look up at him. He moved closer to Harry and said, all too softly, "I regret my past actions. I really do. You might never forgive me, and I am ready to accept that."

He continued, almost in a whisper, "But Harry, I want to know what is going on with you. Consider my concern for you as a way of me apologising to you. This is not about me, this is about you. You are not doing okay. So, tell me, how are you, really?" He finished, and with bated breath, he waited for Harry to reply. 

Harry scoffed. 

Harry scoffed. 

"Am I supposed to break down and tell you my sob story? Is that what you expected me to do?" Harry said, angry and in disbelief, "Is that seriously what you expected me to do? Who the fuck are you to me, Draco?" 

Harry waited for a while, giving Draco the opportunity to reply back. Upon receiving no reply from the silver motherfucker, Harry picked up his books and stormed off. 

They say the ones who pretend to be the most calm and collected only show their rage towards the ones they trust. 

Harry was good at pretending to be calm and collected most of the time, wasn't he? 

What changed with Draco? 

Draco stared at the raven-haired boy as he walked away. 

Another approach, then, thought Draco. 

That night, as Draco lay in his bed, he closed his eyes and imagined Harry giving him the best blowjob of his life. 

Fuck, he moaned, quietly still, jerking off to imagining Harry naked, on his knees, going at it over and over and over again and oh God, Draco wondered how good it would feel to be inside Harry. 

Draco Malfoy needed to come closer to Harry, pun intended, and all. 

The Golden Boy would look angelic, moaning away in soft pauses as Draco would thrust in and out of Harry. 

Draco Malfoy needed to come inside Harry. 

Draco Malfoy needed Harry Potter. 

Chapter Text

Harry Potter hated his body. 

No. 'Hate' would be too light a word. 

Harry Potter loathed his body. He loathed his very being— what made him him. He hated how his thighs touched when he walked, instead of being far, far apart like the Moon is, from the Earth. He hated his face; his face didn't resemble his soul— so, really, what was the point in having such a face, at all? He hated the fat that covered the beauty that lay underneath— clean, thin bones. Bones, and skin, and bones, and skin; that was beauty. Harry didn't have that. 

Harry Potter wasn't skin and bones, and he hated himself for that. 

What was the point of the eating and the purging and the walking if he didn't even lose weight? 

No. Harry was doing it all wrong. 

"Harry, coming down for breakfast?" Ron asked as he headed towards the door. 

Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. 

Hell. This was becoming Hell. 

"No," Harry said, simply, his face remaining expressionless, because a face that didn't resemble his soul must remain soulless, too. 

"No?" Ron looked positively perplexed with Harry's sudden visible change in his mood. He was fine two days ago, wasn't he? He and Harry had drunk butterbeer and played games this weekend. What changed, and why? 

"No."

"Is everything okay, mate?"

"Everything is spectacular." 

Once Ron went downstairs, Harry immediately rushed towards the scale kept in his bathroom, gathering dust. He wanted to be normal, and stepping on the scale every few hours wasn't normal, so he had ditched the scale for a whole two weeks. He wiped the dust off, took a deep breath and stepped on it. 

No. No. Fuck no. 

Between pretending to be normal and being busy with his exams, Harry Potter forgot the one thing that truly made him him— being fucked up. If Harry didn't have that, he truly had nothing. Harry was not normal, and he couldn't fake it till he made it, not anymore, so he must accept this fact and move on.

And move on, he did, as he sat on his desk and made a calender for the month. He picked up his quill, and began writing. 

Rules

—Skip breakfast

—Skip lunch

—NO SNACKING

—Zero-calorie drinks allowed

—Only dinner is allowed

—8k+ steps in a day

Harry was going to be a good boy. He was not going to purge. He was not going to cut. He would just starve until dinner and wait for the weight loss to happen. 

This is all Harry Potter had ever known. Anything else was a strange trajectory to him— it was a path that was never to be crossed. 

Starving was safe. 

As long as he went by his rules, he was safe. 

After two hours had passed, and Harry positively believed everyone to have left the Great Hall and leave for their classes, he slung his schoolbag over his shoulder and headed downstairs. He was about to walk further when he heard two girls talking to each other about something very specific, and he found himself stepping back. 

"I worry for him, Susan," Cho said, "I saw blood on his face.. And on his.. Arms.. That day. He was with Draco. He threatened me into not telling anyone about it. Do you think Draco did it, or do you think Harry himself..."

Harry had heard enough. He did not spare a second and rushed towards the Main Corridor. He could catch Draco in time if he kept walking fast, if he kept walking and walking and—

"Training for a marathon, Potter?"

Harry immediately stopped walking and turned around to face Draco. He was behind Harry the whole time? 

"You are stalking me, aren't yo—"

Draco scoffed, interrupting Harry, "Don't be ridiculous, Potter. I was heading to class. I have no reason to stalk you. As much as I would like you to not kill yourself yet again, I value my education equally." He rolled his eyes, and started heading towards class. 

"Wait," Harry started, grabbing Draco by his arm, "Wait, can we— can we talk?"

Draco stared at Harry for a moment. Then, looking a little bored, "You want to talk after you screamed your guts out and let it be known that the Great Harry Potter wants nothing to do with the Slimy, Silver Git, Draco Malfoy?" Harry could sense Draco's bitterness increase with each word that he spoke. 

"I am— I am sorry. I am sorry about that. I didn't.. I didn't mean it. I wasn't— I wasn't thinking things through. I am sorry," Harry said, looking up at Draco, hoping he would forgive him, not that his forgiveness meant anything to him. 

Maybe it did. 

Draco's eyes never left Harry's. "You're not yourself these days, anyway. It would be stupid of me to hold a grudge against you, given your current... Condition."

It was Harry's turn to roll his eyes. Goddamn it, Malfoy. 

"Are you free to talk right now, then? I know you have class— I just—"

"Calm down, Potter. Sure. Let's talk. I know a place."

"No. I know a place. I am still creeped out by your little cabin, by the way."

Draco chuckled. "My 'little cabin' is a masterpiece, and you would be a fool to not see it."

Once the two reached the same lake Harry insisted they would talk at, Draco gave Harry a look. 

"It is very morbid of you to suggest even coming to this place after your failed suicide here."

"It wasn't a suicide. Like I said, I fell in the lake."

"Sure, Potter. Keep telling yourself that. I know what I saw, and I can therefore deduct what actually happened." Draco sat down on the rocks, and gestured towards Harry to do the same, to which Harry obliged. 

They were sitting too close to each other, were they not? 

Harry decided it would be best to begin talking about the matter at hand, to avoid making things even more awkward. 

"Why didn't you just obliviate her?"

Draco looked taken aback. "Who?"

"Cho. You could have obliviated her. Now, I have to be on guard all the time and hope she wouldn't tell anyone about that.. Day. Why didn't you just obliviate her?"

"I don't know, Potter. I was too busy trying to get your arse to Madam Pomfrey's."

Harry gave this a thought. Draco could threaten Cho with a few words, but not mutter a quick 'Obliviate!' and save himself from the trouble of threatening Cho at all? No, this did not add up. 

"I don't believe you. There must be something else. You are hiding something."

Draco groaned. "Ah! I am too sober for this conversation." He whipped out two bottles of firewhiskey from his bag, shoved one into Harry's hands, and began opening the lid of his own bottle. 

"Are you— are you serious right now? At school? At nine in the morning?!"

Draco looked straight at Harry in the eye. "And?" He chugged a big amount of his drink and sighed. "Drink up, Potter. We are gonna need it for this conversation."

Oh, fuck it. 

Harry opened his own bottle of firewhiskey, cursed at his life, and took a big sip of the strong drink. 

Time passed, and the two found themselves drinking the whiskey in silence, instead of talking about the matter at hand. 

"Why d'you casually carry fucking whiskey in your fucking schoolfuckingbag?" Harry said, being the first one to break the silence, feeling a little lightheaded himself— because of the firewhiskey, or because he felt himself be a little playful, due to some outward, magical forces— he knew not. 

"I have my own shit to deal with!" Draco responded, putting his hands up in defense, feeling drunk himself. 

"What shit d'you gotta deal with?" Harry's head plopped down on Draco's shoulder and he found himself looking up at the stars, even though it was the bright hours of daytime. 

"My asshole dad's death... My mother's constant mothering... My aunty in Azkaban... And wanting to fuck an old enemy of mine, to name a few..." 

"Damn!" Harry said, and now found his head on Draco's lap, due to some strange reason, "That sure is a lot to deal with!"

As Draco said nothing in response but only stared at Harry's drunk form on his lap, Harry looked back up at Draco, and then he really looked at Draco, and found him to be a striking resemblance of a dead girl he once knew and loved. 

The silver hair of Draco was so very much like Luna's.. His lips were almost as plump and pink as Luna's.. And his cheeks were rosy and his skin was pale and his heart beat so fast and he looked oh so beautiful in the daylight moonlight just like.. 

Luna. 

Draco Malfoy looked just like Luna Lovegood. 

Harry leaned in and kissed Draco on his lips— which were just like Luna's. 

Harry wondered if this was what kissing Luna would have felt like. 

Harry pulled apart, then kissed him again, and this time, he really went all in, and the kiss lasted for a whole minute— with the two only pulling apart to gasp for air. Their connection was too strong, and Draco was all too willing to make it stronger.

"Fuck," Draco gasped, "Oh, fuck. Harry— Harry— let me fuck you. Oh God— yes. Let me fuck you."

"Okay," Harry whispered, "Fuck me."

It just felt right. 

Soon enough, Harry found himself being dragged towards Draco's own chamber in the castle. He found himself be pushed to the bed, with Draco hovering above him, tracing every inch of his body. He found himself be stripped off of his clothes, feeling exposed under Draco's intense gaze. 

Draco Malfoy looked beautiful, just like Luna Lovegood. 

Draco yanked Harry's legs on either side of his shoulders, spreading his legs apart, and prepped Harry. "How could—" One finger. "One person—" Two fingers. "Look so—" Three fingers. "Handsomely slutty like you are looking right now, Harry? You like this, don't you?"

You like this, don't you? 

Harry laughed, and for a brief minute, he thought that these were the exact words that came out of Lucius' mouth when he did what he did. He forced the thought out. He wasn't going to let that bastard ruin this for him. He was going to have sex with a person his age— with a person who looked just like Luna Lovegood. 

Draco pulled his fingers out and became even harder at Harry's incessant moaning. Not being able to contain himself any longer, he kissed Harry deeply and went inside. Harry moaned, and Draco kept going in, and out. 

Is this what loving Luna Lovegood would have felt like, were she still alive? 

Harry felt Draco come inside him, and he felt his eyelids threatening to shut close, demanding sleep— and so, he gave in. 

He fell into a deep sleep, but not before feeling a stronger body wrap his arms around him from behind, spooning him. 

This, Harry thought, felt safe too. 

"Draco?"

"Mhm?"

"Thank you for saving my life."

Chapter Text

It had become a routine. 

If Harry wasn't sitting in his dormitory, feeling numb, he was shagging Draco Malfoy. If he wasn't listening to Hermione nag about him not studying enough, he was shagging Draco Malfoy. If he wasn't practicing Quidditch, he was shagging Draco Malfoy. If he wasn't checking his body out in the mirror and pushing away the urge to cut open his skin, he was shagging Draco Malfoy. 

Harry didn't know exactly how this had become a routine, and he knew, for sure, Draco didn't, either. They always made sure to get drunk before having sex, because only when Harry was drunk could he see Draco as Luna, and only when Draco was drunk could he shove away the guilt that came over him before he fucked Harry senseless. 

There was no love involved. 

What is love, after all, if not the absence of hate? 

Harry knew all too much what hate was— be it hate for Voldemort or hate for himself— but what he and Draco had, it was not hate, but it wasn't love either. 

And just like everything else in his life, Harry was fine with this, too. 

"I can't believe the chaotic time we had at Hogwarts this year," Hermione said, as she packed her suitcase, "With Umbridge, and Dumbledore, and— and everything else— I can't wait to go back home for the summers."

"We've always had a chaotic time at Hogwarts, Hermione," Ginny chimed in as she put her books neatly inside her own suitcase. 

"I know, it's— it's just— this year has been different."

As Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny headed downstairs, a note thrown right at Harry's head stopped him in his place. 

"Ouch!" Harry yelped. Great. Big slashes with a blade across his skin hardly hurt him, but a fucking paper note did. 

Harry told his friends to go without him, as he opened the note. 

Meet me by the lake. Now. 

                DM

Harry sighed as he looked around, and making sure that no one's eyes were on him, he headed towards the lake. 

But of course, life was never this easy, Harry concluded, as he was confronted by Snape. 

"Strutting around the corridors yet again, Mr Potter?" He sneered, his eyes fixating on the boy, "Don't you have classes to attend? Or have you given up on that, too?" 

"Not yet, Professor," Responded Harry, keeping his own gaze fixated on the floor. 

"Do tell me, Mr Potter," Snape said, as he grew even more suspicious of Harry, "What other affairs must be so important to you that you have not found yourself seated in your class already?"

Harry didn't know what to say to that. Yes, he had class. Yes, he should have ignored Draco's stupid note and head towards his last class before summer break instead, but Draco had called him, and naturally, his first thought was to ditch everything else and meet him. 

Just like a goddamn dog. 

"I— I am sorry, Professor." It was at this moment did he realise how often he saw himself apologising to people these days. 

"Harry," Snape started, his voice softer and tone low, now no longer looking at Harry like a prey, but in a less cold gaze instead, "This year did not treat you well, I believe, but you.. Must not lose hope. You are young. You will face hardships; this is the way of life. You must confront your problems— not run away."

I agree with you, Professor Snape, I do, but I must give two fucks before I 'confront my problems instead of running away.' I must have a will to live before I "solve my problems." Besides, my problems are hardly real, right? Wanting to let blood spill out of my skin like a bloody waterfall and wanting to look like a dead skeleton don't count as problems. 

What plagues the mind, and not the body, is forever ignored by the world at large. 

Harry is fine with that, too. 

"Thank you, Professor," Said Harry, biting his tongue to stop himself from saying what he had really wanted to say. It was at this moment did he realise, too, just how much he stopped himself from speaking his mind. 

Snape gave one last look at Harry before being out of sight. Harry took a deep breath and ran for the gardens and the lakes and the silver git with the silver hair. 

Upon reaching there, he saw Draco looking at the waters in deep thought. Sensing Harry's presence, Draco turned to face him. 

"Took you long enough." Draco sounded.. Eerily sad. 

"There were some.. Hurdles."

The two stayed staring at each other, not speaking a syllable, for what seemed like a decade. 

Harry broke the silence. "What did you want to talk abo—"

"What the fuck are were doing, Harry?"

"What do you mean?"

"You— and I. What is—" He gestured towards himself and then at Harry, "—this? We get drunk, we fuck, we 'forget' about it, and then we do it all over again. What the fuck are we doing, Harry?"

It was funny, Harry thought, how Draco believed him to know the answer. If Harry knew the answer, he would not have fucked around with Draco fucking Malfoy in the first place. If Harry knew the answer, he and Draco would continue to remain enemies. 

"We're just a good fuck to each other, it seems," Harry said softly. That was all Harry was to Draco, wasn't he? That was all he was to Draco's father, too, and God, this situation was getting to be a little too fucked up. 

Draco looked even more hurt. "Is that really all I am to you? A good fuck?"

Harry laughed. He needed to stop doing that so much— and in the worst situations possible, too— it made people so confused. "Your father is fit to answer that one, really." Harry tried to hold in another chuckle, he really did. When life has been fucked up for someone for too long, everything seems amusing. 

"What do you mean by that, Harry?" Draco said, stepping closer and closer to Harry, "Stop laughing. Stop losing your cool at this moment, Harry." He stared right into Harry's eyes and put both of his hands on his shoulders, shaking him, asking him to make sense. 

Isn't this the same thing Sirius had done— shaking him, asking him, wondering just why his godson had attempted suicide? 

Harry stopped laughing, but his face still held mirth. "Your father had very peculiar interests, you see," Harry said, "Do you know who took away my virginity?" 

Draco froze in his place. 

Maybe the world around him was spinning, too, and he had no choice left but to look at Harry in a shock that was vacant— in a shock that lacked valour. 

"You— He— Why didn't you— What the fuck?!" Draco put his hands on his head, pulling at the hair that look all too much like Luna's, and Harry wished Draco would stop ruining his hair this way. 

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!" Draco fell to the ground. He wanted to puke. Lucius Malfoy was a sinner of the worst kind. Draco Malfoy was a sinner's son.

Draco didn't speak, and only stared at the ground. 

Harry looked around him— at the scenic beauty that was Hogwarts. 

Appearances are deceptive, however. 

Too much has happened at Hogwarts. 

Too much bad has happened at Hogwarts. 

"He was a cruel, cruel man," Draco finally spoke up, his voice softer still, "You... You didn't deserve that, Harry. No one... No one does." Tears started spilling down his cheeks. Draco Malfoy was a sinner's son. 

Harry sat down next to Draco, looking at the castle in the front of him. 

People were a threat. 

Then why did telling someone about Lucius' sins make him feel better?

Harry held Draco's hand. 

"I don't know what we are, Draco, or what we are doing. But maybe we don't need to know. Maybe.. Maybe we should just leave things be."

Draco looked up at Harry. "What are you suggesting right now?"

"I am suggesting," Harry said, looking back at Draco, "That we go our separate ways for the summer, and whatever happens when we are back at Hogwarts for our sixth year, will just... Happen. We don't know what will happen, and maybe, we don't need to."

Draco looked at the castle in front of him— the castle stood proud, with no clue about its students and the Professors and the dark magic embedded deep inside its walls. 

"So, see you when the new year begins?"

"See you when the new year begins."

Chapter Text

Once the three were seated in their compartment, Hermione spoke up, "Are you two excited to go back home? I sure am. We are going to visit my relatives in Australia. What about you two?" She was smiling, and her smile was genuine, and it made Harry happy to see his friend so happy. 

Ron shrugged, eating another crumpet the Trolley Witch had so generously offered him, and that Harry had paid for. "I don't really care much about going back home," Ron said, in between his bites of his 'scrumptious, creamy crumpet', as he had put it, "My house would be littered with my siblings, and there would hardly be any peace." 

"What about you, Harry?"

Harry thought for a minute. He loved his godfathers— he really did, but with everything that happened after his suicide attempt, he wasn't too keen on going back home. Sirius and Remus loved him, he knew that, yet a strong part of him wondered if they saw him any different after he had become so... Abnormal.

"We are going on a vacation this summer— my godfathers and I," Harry responded, "To France, I believe. That would be nice, I think."

Hermione smiled. 

As time passed by, Harry found Ron snoring away with Hermione sleeping on Ron's shoulder. The sight was cute, Harry thought, as he turned to face the window. 

He looked out and took in the sight of the prettiest lakes and the grandest trees and the bluest sky that dipped itself in the beauty of the setting Sun, and then, he realised something. 

Harry realised that he wanted to run away. 

He did not want to go back home. 

He wanted to run away. 

His heart started beating fast at the very prospect— at the very possibility that he, in fact, could run away. He looked at the sight of his sleeping friends and he remembered he couldn't ever have what Ron and Hermione had, because why would anyone love a boy with self-inflicted wounds all over his body and in his soul? 

Suffocating. This is suffocating. 

Harry didn't know what he wanted from life. Did he want a big family whom he could go on vacations with? Did he want children whom his godfathers would love and protect and cherish like they did Harry? Did he want to be a normal human being with a normal career, and thus be accepted by society? 

Or.. Or did Harry want to.. Not do any of that? 

What if Harry ran away— away from the world of pain and agony— away from the bolstering hustle and bustle of daily life— away from the chaos and misery in the world he knew since birth? 

Did Harry Potter want to run away for peace? 

Harry got up and quietly got out of the compartment. He walked ahead and tried his best to not bump into anyone. He didn't know where exactly he was going, but he knew he needed to get out.

"Harry!" Ginny exclaimed as she called out to Harry from her own compartment, "Where are you going?" She got up and approached the raven-haired boy. 

"Oh, nowhere, Ginny," Harry said, still looking ahead. The compartments now in front of him— all belonged to the Slytherins. "I just decided to.. Walk around a bit."

Ginny grinned. "Is that so? Well, now that you are here, would you like to join us? It's just Cho and I."

At this, Harry's heart started beating a mile a minute. "Oh, Cho is here?"

"Hey, Harry," Cho said from inside the compartment. Harry looked at her and smiled. "Hey, Cho," His voice came out weaker than he had intended. Cho knew. Cho remembered. She had seen how bloody and full of death Harry was that day. Cho could expose him, if she wanted to. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! 

Before he could let his inner monologue tear him apart to bits and pieces, a soft, familiar voice took him out of his trance. He immediately shot his head up to look at the source of the voice he once loathed. 

"Harry?" Draco said, approaching Harry in small steps. He then gave a sharp look to Cho, who became visibly uncomfortable under Draco's hate-filled gaze. Cho shifted uncomfortably.

Ginny stared at Draco with an equal hateful expression. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

"Stay out of this, Weasley."

No. Harry couldn't deal with Cho and Ginny and Draco all at the same time. This was a mistake. Harry Potter's every move was a mistake. Fuck. Why did he have to be so stupid? 

"I'm sorry— I—" Harry started, shaking, "I need to go." He turned to walk run, but a strong hand stopped him from moving any further. 

Before he knew it, he was dragged towards the Slytherin compartment by Draco himself, in front of Cho and Ginny and the other Gryffindors who looked purely confused. 

This was a nightmare. 

After shoving Harry into a separate compartment, Draco muttered a quick spell to forbid anyone from seeing inside the compartment. Harry gathered himself and before he could run out of the compartment in a state of panic, Draco locked the door. 

"Calm down," Draco whispered softly, looking straight into Harry's green eyes, "Calm down, Harry. It's okay."

It must have worked, because Harry found himself sitting down, facing Draco. 

Draco sighed. "We can't seem to stay away from each other, can we?" 

"No, I guess not," Harry responded, still vary about his current situation. 

"What were you doing there? I thought you were sharing a compartment with Ron and Hermione?"

"I was. I just happened to... Walk for a while."

Draco smirked. "And somehow found yourself right in front of the Slytherin compartments?"

Harry smiled. "Yeah."

Draco sat back and studied the enigma that Harry Potter was. "You are truly something else, Potter."

Harry didn't dare look at Draco in the eye. 

Draco, however, kept his gaze intent on the smaller boy. "What do you want to do?"

Harry stopped his eyes from going wide. 'What do you want to do?' What the Hell was Harry supposed to respond to that? 

"I think I should go back and join my friends."

Draco didn't speak for a while. Then, coming closer to Harry, "I don't think so."

Harry's eyes really did go wide at that. "Excuse me?"

Draco placed his finger under Harry's chin, forcing him to look up, and went in for a deep kiss. Harry stayed frozen for a while, because they didn't drink firewhiskey beforehand and didn't become drunk before this, but he kissed Draco back anyway. 

Draco Malfoy was a damn good kisser. 

They pulled apart, gasping for air, not really wanting to stay apart, even for mere seconds. Draco kissed him again, and deeper, this time, and Harry found his pants being pulled down. 

"Wait," Harry said, gasping still, "Wait."

"What?" Draco said, irritation showing subtly in his voice. 

"We aren't drunk."

Draco sat back, and Harry pulled his pants back up again. The two didn't speak for a while, avoiding eye contact. Fuck.

Did they really want to do this, drunk, or not? 

"Sometimes," Harry spoke up after a few minutes of a silence accompanied with tension, "I want to run away."

Draco looked at Harry. 

"What is stopping you?"

Harry waited for a while. 

"The world."

Draco leaned forward, staring directly into Harry's eyes, "No, Harry, it's you. Your life begins and ends with you. The world has no part in it."

Harry looked at Draco.

Draco was not Luna. Luna would have stopped Harry from running away. 

Luna was a happy dream, and Draco was his worst nightmare. 

It was all so bittersweet. 

"Well, then," Harry said, all too calmly, "Will you run away with me?"

Chapter Text

"Will you run away with me?"

No. Harry had been too foolish. This was Harry's — and Harry's journey only. No one else was to take part in it— not even Draco. It all began with him, and it would end with him. He was just one person in a planet of billions of people; his existence did not matter a dime. The stars did not care that he was The Boy who Lived. The Moon was all too ignorant of his presence. The weight of the world was no longer heavy on his shoulders— because it did not exist. 

Harry Potter— The Chosen One— was choosing his own destiny, and not the one planned for him since his birth. 

There was no Draco, or Sirus, or Remus, or Luna, to save Harry from himself anymore. He was in the middle of nowhere— accompanied by no one but the woods and the vast sky. 

"Will you run away with me?"

Grey eyes met green. Their lips were almost touching. 

Draco was about to say yes— he was about to agree. Draco Malfoy was ready to run away with Harry, without any second thoughts. He never asked him the same whats, or hows, or whens that every other person in his life did. Draco was different, and Harry couldn't figure out why.

But Harry had left him. 

Harry had promised to meet Draco upon arriving at the train station, so that they could run away together, but then he had remembered how easy it was for life to tear him apart from the people he had loved, and it was better— it was always better for Harry to stay away— to keep a distance from them all. It hurt when people left. It hurt so, so much. 

So, with one last look at a confused Draco— at Draco who searched for Harry in the crowd, Harry turned to face away from the boy he had grown to hate, and loathe, and like, and love, and ran away alone— as was his own destiny. 

Born alone, live alone, die alone. 

"Why? Why? Why?" Harry asked himself, falling to the ground, "WHY DID I HAVE TO BE THIS— THIS PERSON?" He screamed— He yelled— at no one in particular. There was no one else to blame, but himself. He was in the darkling of the woods, and there was not one soul present to listen to his agonising screams. 

There was no need to put a silencing charm around himself anymore. He could keep yelling— at himself, and at the world— and there would be no one to listen. 

Home is a place with love abound

Home does not exist

"I tried. I tried so, so hard. I couldn't be normal. I COULDN'T BE NORMAL!" Then looking up above at the sky, tears incessantly falling down his cheeks, he said, in broken whispers, "Are you proud of me, Dad? Mum? Are you... This person that I have become... Did you want me to live this way?"

Hope is an empty word

Hope is magic

Magic was never real

Hope is misery

Harry was crying. He was crying for the dreams that never were, and for the dreams that never became real. He was crying about the friends he could have made, and what memories they could have made together. He was crying about the conversations that he wished had happened, but never did. He was crying about Ron, and how far he had pushed him away. He was crying about his very many successes and achievements he could have shown to Sirius and Remus, his godfathers who loved him to death. 

He was crying about Luna, and how he was finally going to meet her on the other side. 

"Luna," He said, weeping still, "This... Us... We are infinite, are we not? I.. I am.. We will be together... Again."

Harry wiped away his tears and pulled out his wand— his wand that he had first come to use at the age of seven, and was going to use the last time at the age of fifteen. 

The past that I once knew to be true

Was littered with pain and agony more

Than happiness and joy

The future seems bleak

It is time for me to go

What Voldemort couldn't finish, Harry was going to. 

Pointing his wand at himself, he closed his eyes and remembered Sirius and Remus and Molly and Hermione... 

And Ginny, and Ron... 

What pain must this be

That it does not ever end? 

...And Hagrid, and Snape, and Dumbledore, and Draco.

"Avada Kedavra!"

This pain must be real

For it has killed me. 

A grand, bright light emanated from the end of his wand, and Harry fell to the ground. 

He should have seen Luna, coming down to Earth to take Harry's soul away, but all he saw before he felt himself truly die was darkness. 

Peace. 

Harry was at peace. 

Chapter Text

Dear Luna,

       Where should I begin?

       Maybe I should start by apologising to you. I want to apologise to you for not writing a letter to you for so long, Luna. I want to apologise to you for not letting the thought of you enter my mind in so long. I want to say sorry, but Mr Higgs says that it would be counterproductive. Who is Mr Higgs, you ask? He has been my Mind Healer, or, as the Muggles would say, my "therapist," all through the three months of my stay here at St Mungo's. He is a good man, even if my original perception of him was full of doubt and suspicion. 

       I am tired of being suspicious of people, Luna.

       Well, maybe the next part of this letter should be me explaining to you what happened. 

       All I remember, before awaking in the Hospital Wing of St Mungo's, is a bright light pushing me to the ground. The light was so strong, Luna. I could feel its magic in my veins. I thought my spell had worked— I thought I was dead, after trying and failing for so long— but it was not my spell. It was Sirius, and Remus, and some other Aurors who I do not know the name of, who saved me. The bright light that I saw did not come out of my wand, but theirs. "It needed to be done," Sirius had told me, "We had to stop you before you did something else— something more damaging— something that could have really killed you." I was pinned to the ground before the killing curse could have worked. Were it not for them, had they not tracked down my location, I would not be here, writing this letter to you.

       Sirius and Remus did not see me on the train station, Luna. They were so excited to see me, you know. But I had to run away. I just had to run away. I should not allow myself to feel regret and guilt about it— not anymore. As Mr Higgs put it, "If you had not run away, you would have never allowed yourself to break, and only continue to pretend."

        I have started to like Mr Higgs. He can be a funny man, too, even if his jokes can be a little too much sometimes. I still appreciate the man, and everything that he has done for me.

        And help, it seems, is given to those who ask for it. If you don't ask for it, and pretend, and only pretend, and become so good at pretending, can you really hold people responsible for not seeing through the facade?

        My way of thinking has changed a lot over the past few months. I still find myself thinking about my past, and how much better it was— how much better it was to starve myself and cut my skin and purge until my throat screams to stop, but really, none of that was good, in any way. I still have to remind myself that sometimes. I still have to remind myself that that was not the way to live. I have not entirely healed, and maybe I never will, but now, I can look at the sky above and the woods among me and my friends and my godfathers and my Draco, and I feel myself not actually wanting to die. I do not want to die, Luna. I want to go to Hogwarts and make more good memories than bad. I want to grow up and become an Auror. I want to have a family of my own. I want to wake up to a smiling Draco by my side. I want, and I am grateful that I am alive enough to want.

        I want, and that is reason enough to continue living.

        I am grateful for people. I am grateful that we live in a community. We are all brothers and sisters bound to one another through blood, and without blood, are we not? Over the past three months, Ron and Hermione have visited me as much as they could. We talked about everything and nothing. How did I let my warped perception of them push myself away from them for so bloody long? They are my best friends, and my mind made me believe that they are a threat. 

        The mind works in evil ways, Luna.

        I have received so many flowers, and cards, and chocolates, and gifts over the past few months, including Molly's pretty, knitted sweaters that "worked so well in the winters," as she put it, and Ginny's Box of Cards, that we played with so much, and Sirius' Book of Magic: Practicing the Dark Arts. Okay, maybe Remus was not so on board with the idea of me receiving a book on the Dark Arts, but, even before... Everything, I was always interested in the Dark Arts. Why should I let my past ruin what I love doing? 

         As for Draco and I, we talked. We talked about the torture that it was to allow each other to love only in a state of drunkenness. Love should be real. Love should be felt without guilt. We took it slow, and it worked. It started with allowing each other to love, and to feel this love. And soon enough, we found each other doing the most corny things young people in love do— be it sending little love notes and pretty roses to each other, or writing poetry and stupid love songs to each other. We did not know how it happened, but it did.

         And I am grateful that it did.

         Our love did not have to contain just meaningless sex and alcohol anymore, because love is more than that. Love is infinite.

         Luna, I thought you and I were infinite, but you are gone, and I must let you go. As Dumbledore said to me, "Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and above all, those who live without love."

          You are gone, Luna, and I love you, but because I love you, I must let you go.

                                                                                                                                                                                 Yours Truly,

                                                                                                                                                                                      Harry

"What are you doing?" Draco asked as he entered the room, smiling at the boy sitting on the desk.

"Just writing a letter to an old friend." Harry smiled back.

Draco leaned in and kissed Harry on the cheek.

"We're all waiting downstairs for you, birthday boy," Draco said, all too softly at the boy he had grown to care for and love.

Voldemort took away many things from Harry, but this— this love that he shared among the people he cared for the most— Voldemort could never even touch.

Chapter Text

Where should I begin?

Oh my God. Thank you. Thank you so much. Were it not for your comments, kudos and bookmarks, I would not be as motivated to write this story. I appreciate each and every single person who read this story. I appreciate your comments and kudos so, so much. I published this fanfic on April 4th, I believe, and there are so many of you who have followed this story from the start to the finish. Words are not enough to thank you— to let you know how much you mean to me. You are amazing.

You, reader— you, who are currently reading this— you are amazing. 

I started writing this story at the lowest point of my life, and what Harry has felt in this fanfic, so have I. Harry's thoughts were my thoughts, and to enable myself to project my unhappiness through a fictional character is why I began writing this story in the first place. I never thought it would get this much reach, but I am glad that it did, because it made me feel less lonely.

Now, what will become of Silencio? I want to make a part 2 of this book, and make it a happier one. I am starting University this year, and I want Harry to start his sixth year at Hogwarts albeit the many problems that he would come to face— be it the Half-Blood Prince, and Draco's Deatheater Mark, and all the shenanigans that happened in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. 

Would you be down for that? Should I make a part 2 of Silencio? That was the original plan. 

Thank you, again, for being on this journey with me. 

I know a lot of you read this fanfic because you related to Harry in one way or another, and I want to say sorry. I want to say sorry that you have felt what Harry felt. You don't deserve that. I am so, so sorry. I won't say empty words like "It gets better," but I will say this— you are stronger than you think you are. You can follow the light that will lead you out of the dark tunnel that you have been trapped in for so long. Please, never give up. Do not let the darkness in your mind win. 

You are stronger than you think you are.

I love you all so much.

Thank you.

I must take my leave now.

—inkonivory

Chapter Text

Hey, everyone!

I have finally posted the first chapter of the second part of this book. It is titled 'Lumos,' as this spell has the potential to bring light to the darkness of Harry's mind.

However, I must warn you that there is no guarantee of a happy ending in the coming parts of this book. There might be, or there might not be—  I am not sure as of now. I do understand if you will not be willing to read it. Please put yout mental health first, as the topics in 'Lumos' can be quite heavy. It will have its happy moments (more than Silencio, that is for sure) but all in all, considering what this book is actually about, it can be triggering. Please put your mental health first.

I hope you all are doing well. 

Take care, and stay safe! :)

—inkonivory

Chapter Text

Never in a million years did I imagine this fanfiction— or any of my works— to get this much reach. 

Words truly are not enough to describe how grateful I am for all your comments, for all the love that I receive— that this work received, and continues to receive. 

You, reader— yes, you: you're incredible. Thank you for taking interest in this fanfiction. Thank you. Truly, you are amazing. ❤

I hope your coming days treat you well, and I hope you find the strength to get through the bad days. 

You are incredible.

Signing off, 

—inkonivory