Harry woke with a start, in a blur of a hammering heart and clammy limbs and shaking fingers. Grasping for his wand in panic, he looked around the room with blurry vision for the threat that woke him, desperately patting his bedsheets as he searched for his glasses.
It was a dream, he thought as his vision cleared, just a really fucking accurate and horrifying dream. In the cruel reminder that even unconscious he couldn't escape this, his dream had been filed with flashes of green light skimming orange hair and dead bodies almost holding hands and the ghost of a laugh he could still hear. Fucking great. The flashbacks have already started. Yay. Fun. Exactly what I need.
He must have slept then, he supposed, for at least a couple of hours as when he had staggered up to bed - all but held up by Ron and Hermione - the sun had just about risen casting a dull light over the wreck of the castle. Yet, the sun was streaming through the hangings of his four poster now, blinding him as, with tremendous effort, Harry managed to convince his body to stop quaking and his mind to stop racing.
He hadn't even managed to undress himself last night before passing out on top of his covers. He wished he had. The clothes he was wearing were gross and old and almost definitely covered in blood, most of which he wasn’t even sure belonged to him. He desperately needed a shower, to change out of these clothes, and eat. He was hungry, starving even and yet the thought of doing any of those things filled his body with dread.
The events of the last few days still hasn't fully sunk in but the weight in his chest and the effort it took to reluctantly move one foot in front of the other towards the bathroom felt like indicators of what was to come. He’d been through this before, loads of times, with Sirius and Dumbledore and Dobby, yet something felt different this time, he’d never grieved so many people at once before. Remus and Tonks and Fred and Colin, names that permeated his thoughts with every movement and made his heart skip as if falling down a trick step. He would be okay eventually, happiness would come, it had to, it would feel like hell but it would be okay in the end. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time and before he knew it he’d feel warmth again. Not now, but soon. He hoped at least. “A lot more people died this time” the voice in his head goaded, between naming the dead “and it’s all your fault.” Harry just shook his head as if the action itself could dispel the thoughts. Absolutely not, I’m not dealing with this right now,because right now he needed a shower, and that was that.
As he crossed the room, his gaze roamed to Ron’s bed where he slept, wrapped around Hermione, a mess of entangled limbs and hair. They’d at least managed to change before bed, Harry might have wondered where they got their pyjamas from, if it wasn't so much effort. The sight did however have the corners of Harry’s mouth twitching and a loving thought of fucking finally to cross his mind, he was glad this had happened, but that didn’t stop the feeling of sudden, painful loneliness and jealousy that hit him like a punch in the gut; because fuck, he wanted Ginny like that. Now more than ever he needed her comfort, her guiding hand, her floral scent, everything was just better with her around.
That wasn’t a possibility now though, because there was no way Ginny would want to start things up again, not after he had broken it off with her, not after he had left her for months, not after Fred. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that she hated him even, that she blamed him for her brother’s death and anyway he wouldn't blame her if she did. It was his fault. If only he had given himself up sooner maybe.... He shook his head again. Shower. He just needed a shower.
The hot water hurt as it ran over his body, he was more bruised than he had realised, the remaining burns from Gringotts had blistered with some even busting under the flow, there were gashes on his skin, he’d done something to his leg, there was dried blood everywhere and every muscle ached. Yet nothing compared to the pain in his chest. Having caught sight of himself in the mirror as he undressed, Harry had finally seen the effects of the curse that should have killed him. His chest was a mess; a sharp, jagged lightning scar sat right above his heart this time and the skin around it was black, he was pretty sure he had a cracked rib and the whole area hurt, badly.
Harry cried out as the water continued to fall, forever thankful for the permanent silencing charm on the bathroom door. He found this made it easier as the water continued to clean his wounds and ran, murky down the drain. At least while he was under the shower spray the physical pain seemed to push any other thoughts to the back of his mind, he didn’t have to think about anything else except the stinging and the pain and the water running red as it washed the previous night away. He could handle this, it was tangible at least.
Leaning against the wall for support and placing his face under the water, an odd thought crossed his mind. In any other context, it might have been comical, the drastic change in the scene he was in now compared to that of a year ago, when he was interrupting his revision sessions and quidditch practises in a stance just like this, spending blissful fifteen minute bursts immersed in fantasies of a girl he thought was unattainable. Even, just once, in their few weeks together, he had gotten the real thing in the quidditch changing rooms, she’d even- stop that. Stop thinking about that.
He screamed again, because it was the only thing he could do.
It wasn’t until twenty minutes later that the water finally ran clear and Harry could will himself to move again. He still ached, maybe even more than before, but at least he’d cleaned the dried blood and dirt and sweat off himself.
He thought of Kreacher after redressing himself, and though sure the house elf would bring him something to eat if he asked, but was also sure that the crack associated with summoning him would most definitely wake his friends from their well deserved slumber. He’d have to venture into the common room; and so he did, adorned in his invisibility cloak for fear of bumping into anyone.
He needed to eat, that’s all. He’d feel better after he’d eaten.
This chapter is far too long for me to put onto here so I’ve put a snippet and link to AO3 :)
Catch up here! OR Read it all on AO3
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They arrived back at The Burrow, falling through the fireplace one by one, welcomed home with an unnatural silence. While he was told everyone would just be asleep, Harry found this just unnerved him further. The house, so big and full and always loud with laughter should not have been so quiet so early in the day. There should be shouts and bangs and squeals of joy instead of stoic, painful silence.
The sun was streaming into the kitchen, casting bright light through the room, yet everything was freezing. The flowers on the kitchen table were wilting and the fire was dying. The very building seemed to be grieving.
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
He moved back into Ron’s room, much to the dismay of the ghoul who had made it his home for the past nine months. He was now clanging around the attic louder than ever in protest.
Hermione sat on his bed, sifting through her little beaded bag and handing their possessions out. She kept eyeing Harry suspiciously as she did so but Ron’s hand on her thigh seemed to steer her attention away for long enough that she didn’t press again.
When she was done, Ron walked Hermione out of his room, they were whispering outside the door but Harry didn’t bother listening. Instead he sat quietly on his camp bed and proceeded to unpack his pathetically small collection of belongings, he held the letter his mother had written to Sirius, taking comfort in her cursive as he was struck with a feeling he could only describe as homesickness. He wasn’t craving a place, not really, just a time in which he didn’t feel like this.
The common room was, to his great relief, completely deserted and entirely unchanged in the time he had been gone. Gryffindor tower still stood in all of its red and gold glory, cosy and inviting with its familiar soft armchairs, thick throws and mahogany wood furnishings; a magnificent room once associated with inexplicable comfort and warmth and sunlit days in which Harry had never felt less at home.
Despite his solitude, he still took every measure to remain unseen. Draped in the invisibility cloak and curled up in the most secluded arm chair, Harry sat quietly bouncing his leg, illuminated only by the dying embers of last night’s fire.
He’d been right, Kreacher was more than willing to go and fetch his master food and had even sunk to his knees in uncharacteristic gratification of “the sacrifices and bravery Master Harry had shown.” This did nothing but make Harry ragingly uncomfortable and prompted several minutes of dread fuelled panic to plague his head. There would be more of this, more hand shaking, more shoulder slapping, and more declarations of appreciation that he absolutely did not deserve. Because this was his fault. All his fault.
Thankfully, the elf was extremely quick in procuring the meal, if not slightly overzealous with the selection he offered, and so Harry wasn’t left alone with his ruminations for too long. The tiny elf apperated back into the common room with no less than seven trays of breakfast foods circling him, looking incredibly pleased with himself as they magically settled on the coffee table.
“Kreacher did not know what Master Harry would want and so he has brought some of everything,” the elf explained unnecessarily. He wasn’t exaggerating, every breakfast food Harry could think of was right there in front of him, heaped high in true Hogwarts fashion. There were sausages, bacon, toast, black pudding, hash browns and eggs cooked every way imaginable; the sight alone made Harry’s stomach rumble in anticipation. “Kreacher did think of treacle for his master, but Master Harry must not have such things for breakfast.”
“Thank you Kreacher,” Harry said, a twinge of bemusement tugging at his lips.
“Does Master Harry need anything else from Kreacher?”
Harry, already with a mouth full of eggs and toast, was unable to speak, but hummed in appreciation and shook his head.
“Well then Kreacher thinks he will go back to the kitchens and help the other house elves. Master knows where Kreacher is if he need him,” and with a bow and crack he was gone.
It was still odd to hear Kreacher speak like this, with genuine politeness as opposed to distain and Harry almost thought of Sirius and what he would have thought of the drastic change in character. Almost. He instead managed to catch himself just in time, shake his head and focus his attention on nothing except the spread in front of him and the dull agony around his ribs.
The pain in his chest peaked with every movement as even raising a fork to his mouth caused him to flinch and groan audibly. Despite the common room remaining empty and the fact it only enhanced the pain further, Harry remained tightly wrapped in the cloak, taking comfort in the familiarity of the material and the safety of being invisible. It was a slight challenge to eat like this and occasionally a disembodied hand or two would slip out, lifting sausages or bacon into an unseen mouth.
Unfortunately, eating hadn’t made him feel better at all. The energy it took to lift his arm up and down seemed disproportionate to the task and he wasn’t sure he could actually taste any of it anyway, he was just mechanically lifting his fork from the plate to his mouth, chewing loudly, swallowing and repeating with whatever was nearest to him. He felt nauseous but he didn’t want to stop. The absence of Kreacher or throbbing in his torso to distract him would mean Harry would alone with this thoughts again and it was already taking all of his effort to just concentrate on the food on his plate and not on the storm raging in his head.
Ultimately, he was glad for the distraction when he noticed the rumble of footsteps above signalling bodies descending the stairs and heard rather than saw that it was Ron and Hermione, their frantic voices yelling his name down the spiral staircase.
“Yeah?” Harry shouted back, still with a mouthful of food, reluctantly revealing himself to the world again.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Ron demanded, stumbling down the last step in haste to reach the common room. He was breathless and clearly distressed as his eyes sought out Harry, who was still half wrapped in the invisibility cloak, an odd image of floating limbs.
“Eating.” He replied obviously, gesturing to the small feast still in front of him.
“You prat,” Ron grumbled, though visibly relieved as he and Hermione collapsed into the sofa opposite Harry. “Stop running off on your own all the time! We woke up and we didn’t know where you were.”
“Sorry,” he said genuinely bewildered. “I just didn’t think you’d appreciate Kreacher waking you up.”
He hadn’t even considered that Ron and Hermione would worry about him but now his brain was filled with images of an empty bed and panicked friends and he instantly felt like a dick for not considering it sooner. Of course they were worried, the last time he had wandered off on his own he’d done so with every intention to die.
Suddenly all he could think about were the flashes of the forest, of his mum and dad, Remus and Sirius, a conversation with Dumbledore and the cries of those who had already lost so much, forced to watch a lifeless Harry be presented like a trophy in Hagrid’s arms. The images came without permission and once again he was watching the vivid eruption of green light on red hair and almost holding hands and the ghost of a laugh to rush his vision as if he were watching them happen, again and again and again, right where he sat. His chest had constricted, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. It was no good trying to banish the names of the dead from his mind this time. If anything, they seemed to grow louder with every attempt to silence them.
Remus. Tonks. Fred. Dead because of you. Remus. Tonks. Fred. All dead, all you. Your fault. This is all your fault. You asked them to fight for you and they died. How many more have to die for the boy who lived. This is all your fault. This is all your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
“Harry?”
The voice seemed to pull him back to his senses. Hermione was studying him with that irritating look of concern she had, eyeing his shaking hands knowingly. “Are you okay, Harry?”
He glared at her. “Yeah, fine. What were you saying Ron?”
“Just reckon we should go find the others soon.” Ron mumbled, shoving a piece of toast into his mouth without fully finishing his sentence.
Harry reached into the pocket of his robes and threw the marauders map to Ron, who opened it and scanned over the pages between mouthfuls of food. Hermione still looked like she was going to press on and Harry had the abrupt urge to get up and leave. He didn’t want to talk about it. He wasn’t going to talk about it. She opened her mouth at the same time as Ron, and any further questions died in her throat as he announced “Hospital Wing” and sprayed the table with crumbs.
It was Mr Weasley who greeted them ten minutes later, after Ron had finished eating and the trio wandered down to the familiar Infirmary.
The walk down had taken longer than usual, owing to the amount of wreckage that had yet to be cleared, constantly blocking their path and preventing them from going on, ultimately forcing them to turn back. It was miraculous really that, despite everything around him bearing damage, the foundations were intact at all.
Once again, Harry had insisted on keeping the cloak on, though it really wasn’t necessary. The castle was utterly still but his mind hadn’t been. Every step he had taken was permeated with names and faces, a mantra to the sound of his footsteps.
Remus. Tonks. Fred. Colin. All dead, all you. Your fault. Your fault. Remus. Tonks. Fred. Colin. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
“Did you all manage to sleep?” Mr Weasley asked, leading them through the doors.
“A bit.” Ron replied, looking around the surprisingly empty room. “Where’s Mum?”
“She took George and Ginny home a few hours ago.” The father replied, clapping a hand on his son’s shoulder.
“And the others?”
Mr Weasley smiled softly and simply squeezed his hand tighter. “Don’t worry, they’re all fine. Charlie is just getting the once over, Percy nipped back to his flat to get some clothes and Bill and Fleur have just left, they were helping me speak to McGonagall about the, er… arrangements.”
A heavy silence filled the air. Of course there would be funerals, loads of them, how selfish of him to not think of this sooner. Harry wondered if they would be like Dumbledore’s and where everyone would be buried. There had been so many bodies in the great hall last night, would he have to go to the funerals of all of them? He didn’t want to. He wasn’t going to. He couldn’t show up knowing they’d died for him. That this was all his fault.
Your fault, your fault. Dead because of you. Remus. Tonks. Fred. Colin. All the rest. All dead, all you. Your fault. This is all your fault. You asked them to fight for you and they died. They are dead because of you. This is all your fault. This is all your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
Hermione was watching him again, so intensely that he found it hard to look at her. He tried to smile but it came as more of a grimace. Thankfully he was spared any more of her concern as Ron gestured for the pair to follow him and his father to a makeshift waiting area and it wasn’t long until Charlie had joined the group, taking up the seat on his father’s other side and welcoming a sideways hug.
“Ah” Madame Pomfrey sighed, “last but not least. Go on, pick a bed”
Harry tried to protest, say that he was fine and didn’t need looking over, but it was futile; he had unwittingly winced as he stood, betrayed by his own pain. Ron and Hermione led the way to the three nearest beds while Harry tried to swallow down the bile that had risen in his throat. She was going to see it, the scar on his chest. She couldn’t, he wouldn’t let her. Yes, he needed his rib fixing, he was in agony, but he really didn’t want anyone seeing his chest like this. No one could know.
He tried to think of a way out of it. He hoped he could get away with telling her he was fine, but no such luck, Madame Pomfrey was already conjuring hospital robes and telling them to change.
“Honestly Ronald, am I really going to let you watch me get undressed?” Hermione tutted, waving her wand to shut the curtains around her.
“Yeah, n-no, course not. Sorry!”
Ron was seen first, then Hermione, each of them hissing and groaning loudly as their wounds were healed. It only took a few minutes each, but the anticipation had Harry’s legs bouncing and hands twisting.
He couldn’t think of any way he could convince Madam Pomfrey to not look at it, and just when he was thinking he could just out right refuse to let her when she entered, and his resolve vanished.
“Come on Potter, you should know the drill by now. Kit off.” She’d said the same thing to Ron, Harry had heard him jokingly reply. When Harry didn’t move, she continued. “I’ve seen it all before Potter.”
He did know the drill and with a heavy sigh and heavy arms, Harry did as he was told. Kicking up a fuss would only alert the others anyway.
Lying back on the bed and closing his eyes tightly, Harry tried to stop his hands shaking as the matron waved her wand over him and promptly began healing the remaining burns and minor cuts over his arms and legs. She’d poured dittany into gash on his leg, almost making him scream in pain. Some of it hurt badly, some of it didn’t.
She then moved her focus to his chest, still black, still scarred and gave a soft sigh. “That’s some serious spell damage you have there, Potter” Madame Pomfrey said quietly. “I really think you should get checked out at St Mungo’s by the specialist te-“
“No.” Harry had said firmly, far more viciously than he had intended. “I’m fine” he lied, “honestly. They’ll be busy enough as it is. I’m sure it’ll be fine in a few days.”
The matron looked at him with the same pitying concern that Hermione had had earlier, but didn’t press, instead she nodded and continued working.
His ribs were mended the next second, he was unsurprised to find it still hurt to breathe.
“I really should insist that you go to St Mungo’s.”
“I don’t want anyone else to know about it. You can’t tell anyone.” Harry implored, his voice low and quiet.
“I won’t” Madam Pomfrey promised and took a step away from the bed. “You’re all done.”
Harry nodded and reached for his clothes, not waiting for her to leave before throwing his shirt back on. He was jumping off the bed and halfway into his jeans when he heard it, a faint “thank you” added in a sincere whisper.
He wished she hadn’t. He didn’t want thanks, why could no one understand this was all his fault?
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
Harry followed shortly after, fully dressed and somewhat mended.
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
“Right, home now I think.” Mr Weasley said, placing his hand on Charlie and Ron’s shoulders.
“Alright?” Ron asked, turning his head but not moving away from his father.
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
“Yeah,” Harry lied again, because he was, or he would be. “All fine.”
i had the best time with @jorts and @browniecrisp this past weekend... i’m so lucky 2 be friends with them and i can’t wait to hang out w/ them IRL again...
