Chapter Text
Prologue
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"I tell my piano all the things I used to tell you." -Chopin
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People don't realise how loud they are when they think they're not.
Harry's whole life had been filled with an unending stream of gossip, ringing in his ears like the incessant, screeching buzz of mosquitoes on a hot summer's night. It had started at a very young age when, roaming the immaculately mowed lawns of the Dursleys, the prying neighbours made him the main topic of their afternoon gossip. "Such a weird little boy," one would say, while another responded with rumours of him being a problem child. "He should be grateful for everything the Dursleys have sacrificed for him."
Of course, the children at school imitated their parents' behaviour, not caring if their words reached the ears of "the ugly-haired kid," "the orphan with the knobbly knees," or "Dudley's strange cousin."
Harry had never felt affected by the curious or petty remarks of his classmates, perhaps because he had been forced to mature faster than they had or simply because he had learned to ignore them in order to survive. He had thought that they probably lived such quiet, normal, trouble-free lives that they felt the need to interfere in his. What had hurt Harry the most were the parents who raised these children and didn't have the excuse of age or maturity to justify their hurtful words.
The behaviour of the people in the wizarding world was no different. He soon realised that the children of Hogwarts were undoubtedly similar to those of his childhood, and unfortunately, so were the adults. They talked. They talked too much and too loudly; when it was rumoured that Harry was the heir of Slytherin, when it was rumoured that he was lying about Voldemort, "when, when, when." Harry had become so used to it that it felt strange when it stopped. In the past few years of his life, his ears had stopped ringing. Maybe he didn't listen to them anymore, or maybe happiness had made him immune to the rest of the world.
But then, the gossip recommenced vehemently after she died. It returned like a chronic illness you thought was cured. No more than a few days following the funeral, the vipers had hissed everywhere he went: "They were such a beautiful couple." "They had married only a few months ago." "Did you know she was pregnant?" "Poor boy."
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When Harry woke up in St. Mungo's that day, his head wrapped in bandages and his eyes stinging as if needles were piercing them, he understood the seriousness of his condition. Yet, an inexplicable urge to laugh overcame him—not because he found any humour in his situation, but because he had reached a point where he no longer had the strength to care. He wanted to laugh at the irony of his life, at how, for a fleeting moment, he had naively believed things could get better—or at least that he couldn’t sink any lower than losing the woman who had made him the happiest. And yet, he had managed to make his life even more miserable.
Perhaps, in truth, he wanted to laugh to keep from bursting into tears.
At least he felt something. Whether it was laughter or sadness, he hadn't expressed either emotion since her death. He had been living in a strange state—not fully present, not reacting as people expected, as if he had become an empty shell. Some called it grief, others depression, and all said that time would help. But Harry knew he was beyond repair. Time would not cure him; it was too late. And today, he received confirmation that life had no mercy and would not spare him until he was gone for good.
There was always a hand holding his, fingers gripping so tightly he could feel the bones beneath the skin. Voices drifted around his bed, coming and going, replacing one another throughout the day, until silence settled, and he knew it was night. They repeated his name over and over, each with a different intonation, a different volume.
"Harry." "Harry." "Harry."—Mrs Weasley, Mr Weasley, George.
"Harry, we're here; it's okay now," Hermione said.
"Try not to move your head," Ron said.
"Should I get him some water?" Neville said.
And so many more.
He quickly stopped listening; he knew there was no point trying to make sense of these voices, because none of them would ever be Ginny's. Unlike everything he had heard in that hospital room—his friends trying to cheer him up, telling him it would be all right—he knew Ginny would have been the only one to joke about it (perhaps with George, but only if the accident had happened a few years ago). She wouldn't have joked straightaway, but after a few days, she would have playfully accused him of drawing attention to himself just two days after her birthday. Then she would have looked at him with a smile on her lips and told him he looked ugly, but that at least he no longer needed to wear glasses.
She was like that—always smiling, never crying. This had sometimes unsettled Harry; he had expected her to cry when they bought their house, when they got married, or when she finally told him she was pregnant after all those years of trying. But she never did. She laughed loudly and openly, the corners of her brown eyes crinkling, her freckled cheekbones lifting slightly. Now that she was gone, though, he was grateful she had never cried—he would never have to remember the sound of her tears.
The notion of time disappears when you can't see the light.
Some days passed in seconds or minutes, but most felt excruciatingly long and dull. The sun rose and set without Harry noticing. He was told he had received letters and flowers—from school friends, former teachers, colleagues, and even people he couldn't remember ever speaking to. The flowers were nice, not for their colour or shape, which he couldn't see, but for their smell, which lifted the gloom that always clung to hospital rooms. The letters, however, had little effect on his mood. As Hermione read them to him (when they weren't howlers), most of the words sounded the same: “We're here for you,” “I wish you a speedy recovery,” and “You're strong.”
They went in one ear and out the other.
At least some of these people visited him in his hospital room, proving they weren't just feigning interest in his recovery. Neville was the most frequent visitor (apart from Ron and Hermione). He always brought new plants to replace the faded ones on the bedside table and sat in the same creaking plastic chair. One reason for his frequent visits was likely that his parents lived there, making it easy for him to drop by Harry's room. The other, more genuine reason was that Neville truly cared about him.
"He's your friend, Harry; visiting you would never be a waste of time," Hermione had told him one afternoon, tapping him gently on the shoulder. It was so easy to forget that people in this world could care about him as much as he cared about them, even after all these years.
The healers often interrupted his friends' visits to talk to him about his eyes, his burns, his cuts, and sometimes his future. From what Harry understood, the spell had burned half his face, and the damage would hopefully fade in time if he continued applying the cream and drinking his potions. As for his eyes, the healers knew little. Some were optimistic that he might one day regain his sight, or at least part of it; others preferred to keep their lips shut, the heavy breathing from their noses the only sign that they were still in the room. Harry preferred the pessimists; he didn't like false hope.
A few days later, his team gathered in his room in the early hours of the morning. A long silence filled the space as they all stood around the bed, seeing his face for the first time without the bandages. The healer attending him, Shelagh Byron, had removed them the night before. She had said that the wounds on his face looked much better, though she hadn’t commented on his eyes. Harry sometimes wondered what his eyes looked like, but he never asked. What was the point? He might never be able to see them again, any more than he could see the expressions on the faces of the people around him. He didn't care what other people thought of his appearance now that they were all invisible to him.
"How are you feeling?" Fowler asked at last.
"Brilliant, as you can see."
Harry’s sarcasm hung in the room, thickening the already charged atmosphere. No one used irony with Fowler, likely because he was too intimidating with his broad shoulders and thick eyebrows, which made him look like he was always angry. Only Harry spoke to him this carelessly, as he had ever since he and Ron had joined the department when they were barely nineteen.
Fowler didn't answer, but Harry heard him sigh. On the other side of the bed, Ron shifted uncomfortably in his seat and, after clearing his throat, spoke: "What the hell were you thinking, Harry?"
Ron's voice was tense, without a hint of sympathy. In fact, he sounded angry for the first time since Harry had woken up.
"Ron," Millie said.
"What."
"Go easy."
Her advice didn't work. Ron gave her a non-committal grunt before continuing: "I'm asking you a question, Harry. What possessed you to go off on your own without even warning us? That's precisely why we took you off this case! You’re making it personal. I know you're obsessed with this case, and believe me, I am too. It took a year to find these bastards! A whole fucking year before we found the people who killed her!"
Ron exhaled sharply.
"I know how you feel, mate. Ginny was my sister, but that didn't push me to make a decision as stupid as the one you just made. Do you think this is what she would have wanted? For you to rush headfirst into it? It looks like you were just trying to get killed."
Ron had started out calm, but by the end, his voice was almost a scream. What could Harry say? Was Ron trying to compare their pain? Ron was right; Ginny was his sister—she had been his sister. What tense should he use to describe a dead person? She had been, and she still was. She was a sister, she was a daughter, and she was a wife. His wife. Harry turned his head towards Ron as if to meet his frustrated gaze, though he couldn't see it.
'Do you think this is what she would have wanted?' How could Ron be so sure? It was easy to speak for the dead; people always did it to defend their own opinions. "Your parents would be proud of you" instead of "I'm proud of you"; "Your father wouldn't have wanted you to do this" instead of "Don't do this"; and now it was Ginny. But how could Ron know? Perhaps she would have wanted Harry to rush headlong into avenging her death.
The Auror Department had taken Harry off the case as soon as they learnt that Ginny was one of the victims. They had done the same for Ron, but had changed their minds a few months later when he had shown himself capable of keeping a cool head—something Harry hadn't been able to do.
Ron vented his frustration for several minutes while Harry remained silent. He wondered why Ron kept talking about a suicidal act; why did he insist that Harry had tried to kill himself? Then he remembered that he had gone alone to face three wanted and dangerous wizards when his team was supposed to have surrounded them that evening. He hadn't told anyone about it and, as a matter of fact, he hadn't cared much about his chances of survival.
The wizards who provoked the attack in Diagon Alley, killing five and injuring seven, were young—no more than twenty. They claimed to be ardent supporters of Voldemort, who, in their own words, was "the best thing that's ever happened to the wizarding world." A month after the attack, the Aurors finally managed to identify the three culprits still at large: Dwight MacQuoid, Jasper Villan, and Patton Relish—names that had haunted Harry for a year.
Hatred and distrust towards Slytherin House increased after the tragedy, despite one of the culprits, Jasper Villan, being a Ravenclaw. But public opinion didn't seem to care. Shortly afterwards, the Ministry decided to open a file on all witches and wizards who had been sorted into Slytherin since 1990 to prevent other extremist groups from forming. Of course, they didn't open a file on Ravenclaws or any other house, as if Jasper Villan had never existed, as if Peter Pettigrew's example didn't count—as if he was just a small mistake, an exception. An exception that had led to the deaths of Lily and James, an exception that had led to Sirius's imprisonment, and an exception that had contributed to Voldemort's return.
Two of the three young wizards had been arrested after the Aurors arrived at the scene where Harry had been found unconscious. According to one of his colleagues, Lucien, the third wizard had died. However, Lucien did not specify whether the death had occurred before or after their arrival. Harry remembered very little; from the moment he had learnt that the three targets had finally been located, his instincts had overridden his rational thought.
For the next hour, they sat by Harry's bedside as he remained silent, lost in thought. Part of him realised that he had made a serious mistake—one that would undoubtedly have professional consequences—but another part did not care. He might be sacked; he might have to find another job; but did he even have the energy to worry about his future?
When his partners finally understood that Harry was not in the mood to socialise, they left his room with words of encouragement and pats on the shoulder, all oblivious to the slight flinches their unannounced touches provoked in him.
"Bye, Potter," Fowler said, followed by Millie: "See you soon, Harry; please get some rest."
For a moment, Harry had the impression that Ron had not left the room with the others and was standing silently, probably watching him with saddened, upset, or angry eyes.
So, not sure if his hunch was correct, let alone if Ron was listening, Harry whispered,
"I'm sorry, Ron."
And only silence followed.