Chapter Text
March 18, 2008
Harry had been itching all morning. His shoulders, his back, his forearms. Fuck, even his eyes felt like they had a persistent layer of sand behind the lids. Long rows of flaking skin along his forearms stood out. He pulled his sleeves back down. Down more. Over the backs of his hands. I must tell lies. Don’t look down.
He rolled his shoulders, his right irreparably tight and throbbing, persistent and distracting. He pulled both shoulders back, winged scapulae struggling to reach each other in the middle, somewhere in his spine, between ribs, his vertebrae popped. His skin felt stretched tight over bones, like he was nothing else but leathery hide taught on his frame. Falling apart. Falling away. Don’t nod off.
He stretched his neck from side to side, taking several deep breaths, forcing his shoulders down. He breathed in and out, focusing himself, fortifying himself against all of the thoughts that lay around the edges of his consciousness, layering them back behind his singular goal: get through today. Get through today. Don’t think too hard about it.
He rolled his shoulders again, spasms of tightness and a gnawing, clawing feeling of unease, tremors of his magic made his grip tighten reflexively before he consciously demanded they open again. The ache he felt, across his back, along his spine and shoulders and wrapped around his very core, was maddening. Tremulous and insistent, it was loud, louder than his thoughts, and he was reduced to nothing but swarms of insects beneath his too tight skin, buzzing to and fro, making honeycombs out of his bones. A hive. Thriving. Dripping in the nectar of the bees. Don’t imagine it.
He couldn’t sit still another moment. The paperwork in front of him swam in his vision, words on the page jumping to snarl and claw at his brain. Blood curses and potion records, ingredient lists and shipment dates. He pushed his shoulders down again and the room swam as he closed his eyes, tilting his head back. Vertebrae crowding each other, spinous processes converging as ligaments slid over bones. Bones carefully crafted around the hive. Don’t feel it.
He was sweating. Shivering. His mouth was so very dry.
Don’t feel anything.
His singular goal, to survive today, was already so overwhelming and it was only 8:15 in the morning. He knew because he could see the wall clock in the corner. A muggle one. Red. It stood out so clearly on the wall of the room because it was the only red thing as far as the eye could see. To be fair, he couldn’t see far. He worked out of a cubicle. In the ministry. White walls. White cubicles. Grey carpet. Red clock.
No windows.
He could feel sweat dripping down his back, just adjacent to his spine, in the gutters that ran right down to the desperate flare of his hips. Despite the cool, refreshing air of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Harry was boiling over.
His face was shining with perspiration. He didn’t notice until a droplet slipped from just beside his nose, down the corner of his mouth and off his chin, smudging the bit of ink he had just scratched onto form 349B. His shoulders twitched again and he closed his eyes. Stop feeling everything.
He needed a cup of water, but he was afraid of getting up from his corner cubicle, where at least his co-workers couldn’t watch him fidgeting and sweating like a suspect cornered in interrogation. Gods, what they must think of him.
He ran his hands through damp strands of hair, falling along his forehead, covering his scar. How did he get here? How had this become his life? He was the chosen one, the golden boy, he was the hope and awe of the magical world – yet, here he was, feeling as though he may crawl out of his own skin with need. Need.
Harry chewed at the edges of his fingernails and stared at the blank cubicle wall in front of him, trying to remember how he had managed to get through the most stressful, most terrifying, most difficult days of his life. How had he survived living under the humiliation, the sickening hatred of the Dursleys? How had he faced Voldemort, year after year? He was a child then. He was a child then, and he had more courage, more bravery, more stamina than the adult he had grown into. Everything was washing over him in waves. Where was the stoicism that had kept him going, the gentle guidance of Dumbledore leading him to his death, a lamb to slaughter. A martyr for wizard-kind. Where was the boy who lived. The boy who lived.
He realised, again, his shoulders had come up, tight as possible, his back in an impossibly tense spasm. He focused, again, on pushing them back down, just as he swallowed down the nightmare of his youth, his past, everything that had brought him here, that had made him an Auror and a pawn in yet another game of good versus evil. He rubbed his hands, feeling the hardened lines along them, snaking beneath his ‘I must not tell lies’ scar, the irony not lost on him. The lies not lost. How humiliating.
He felt sick. The nausea was back. He had thought he had thrown up as many times as a human being could throw up already this morning, but it seemed he was mistaken. After three hours bend over the pewter hewn snakes in the upstairs bath at Grimmauld Place, he imagined the staccato dry heaves were all that could be left, there was no chance his body could put him through any more. He was wrong.
The nausea was building. His abdominal muscles were taught, he hunched over, pulling around himself, his vertebrae spreading, fanning wide and pointed and poignant, hidden beneath Harry’s leather jacket. Sharp.
Harry wanted to hide. The impulse flared bright and bold as he curled around his hands, around his core, his face tucked neatly against his knobby knees. He wanted to hide back in Grimmauld Place, amidst the mould on the walls and the peeling wallpaper and the creaking of old floorboards, dry and cracked with age. In the dark and muffled silence. Dusty and forlorn, amid memories everyone had forgotten, the world turning ever onward.
The thought of his den, his refuge, resulted in a sharp, sickening pull deep in his viscera. He could feel his magic asking to apparate him right back there, straight through the wards of the Ministry. It felt so excited, strong, like it hadn’t for ages. Bold and resplendent at the mention of his godfather’s home. The house full of slithering pewter snakes.
He forced himself to still, to dispel images of his dirty mattress, the shabby, disintegrating wallpaper that hung, suspended in rolls from where the wall had rejected it, preferring to ooze dark magic and blackened, slimy mould. The takeaway boxes and plastic silverware from that Indian restaurant down the road he’d left in a pile by the bed. He thought of his kit, still laying haphazardly across the dusty carpet from where he’d kicked it from his bedside this morning in a rage.
Then he remembered the closet door and the nails he’d driven into the splintering wood, over and over again. He could hear the echoes of his own screams now, the voices he had heard in the dark. The waves of nausea returned and his magic flickered around him, just as itchy, just as tremulous as he felt. For what must have been the hundredth time this morning, he tasted bile in his mouth.
Oh god, he thought, panicking, what if he threw up right here at his desk? He couldn’t do it silently? Everyone was quietly shuffling papers around and making chit chat and it would be a cacophony of violent choking sounds if he let this happen here at his desk. He had to get up. He had to get to the loo. He had to get through today. Get through today.
He paused, steeling himself. Ron was just on the other side of the cubicle, making his way through the paperwork Harry couldn’t begin to address. It had been like this for weeks now. Ron just picked up his slack. Carried him through the bureaucratic process. Without him, Harry was sure he would’ve lost his job by now. He couldn’t bring himself to ask Ron for any more help, not with this. He wasn’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t want to disappoint him… or, god forbid, give him even more stress than he was already under. With the anniversary of George’s suicide looming (the twin’s birthday, April 1st) and the fact that he and Hermione had a six-month old daughter at home – no, Harry couldn’t bring this to them, not now. This was just something he had to do on his own. Alone.
He sighed out the breath he had been holding, realising that thinking of his friends had distracted him, had given him a moment’s composure. It was now or never, and he pushed out of his chair, hiding his trembling hands by splaying them on the desk and leaning heavily on them as he rose. He straightened up, shoved his hands in his pockets and focused on walking calmly and confidently to the loo. He could do this. He was doing it.
He was making his way down the little aisle between cubicles and everyone had their heads down and were focused on whatever light versus dark, death versus life versus unregistered magic violation nonsense that was neatly catalogued on each incident report page. Harry tried not to let the anger rise in him as he turned the corner and headed out into the thankfully deserted main corridor and to the staff bathrooms, his feet treading a hauntingly familiar path.
Harry both loved and cursed the policy of the Ministry when it came to the toilets. Wizards were less gender obsessed than their muggle counterparts, and instead of having banks of toilet stalls in gender-divided bathrooms, they just had a few single bathrooms that were gender neutral and disability accessible scattered throughout the various departments. No one really minded who used which ones, as long as they were kept neat and orderly.
Harry realised what a bad idea his little escapade was just a moment too late. His feet had already carried him to his usual loo, and as soon as he opened the door he slammed it shut again, a slew of curses softly trailing along the sharp exhale he forced out. He wasn’t prepared for the image his mind supplied of the many times his kit had been laid out in that very room. How he had nearly left a spoon on the floor one day when he was too far gone to pick it up and slip it back in his pocket. How much oblivion he had sought there. And, oh, how he’d found it.
Harry stood facing the closed door, his hand white knuckled around the handle, his heart pounding. He forgot to keep breathing and his vision darkened before his brainstem sent a spark of desperation that prompted him to take a deep, shuddering breath. He opened the door and slipped inside, deftly popping the deadbolt lock in place, just another daily routine now soaked in his habit. Fuck.
Harry wretched and heaved and spit bile into the toilet. Sweat was dripping off his nose, drool spilling from his lip, hanging down from his mouth. The force of his heaving stomach had made his eyes water, but he didn’t know now if he was just tearing up or sobbing outright. Everything was running together, the violent spasms of his gut, his stuttering lungs and pounding heart. In his head all he could hear was this is it, Harry, you’re going to die. You have no choices left. You’re going to die.
Slumping backwards against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of him on the cool tile floor, Harry ran the back of his hand across his mouth, reflexively wiping away the drool and tears and sick that had come pouring out of him. He felt each bone of the back of his hand as it slid across his lips, and he startled, looking down at his hands in the iridescent lighting of the bathroom. When had he gotten so skeletal?
The track marks stood out, even against his dark skin, bruises, old and new, filling in the hollows between his metacarpals. How had he let himself get this bad? His skin no longer looked soft and inviting, just ashen and papery. Rough, and like it barely felt the need to wrap around the tips of his phalanges.
It hadn’t, last night. He grimaced as the memory of the closet surfaced. He had spent hours clutching his ruined hands, splinters lodged deep against bone. The surge of relief he had felt when his magic returned and his healing spells finally worked was the reason he was here today; the reason he was fighting so hard to keep it together. He never wanted to feel so vulnerable ever again. He had to get through today. He just had to.
Could he? His vision swam and black spots appeared throughout as he tried to focus, to rally, to do anything but slip back to that place of beautiful, comfortable apathy. A place where molten honey fed the swarm that had made a hive inside him. To where he lay with death beside him, stoic and soft and kind.
Consciousness eventually left him, and his features finally relaxed, the grimace that had been holding his secrets for the last two years melted away, his glasses resting skew across closed eyes. He was out cold.
________
Harry returned slowly, gradually becoming aware of the world around him. He could hear the hum of diagnostic spells, clipped and professional tones interspersed with confident footsteps to and fro. And, he thought reflexively, he could smell it, the lemony fresh scent of St. Mungo’s. Fuck.
This was it, as soon as he opened his eyes and they noticed he was awake, he’d have to start explaining what was going on. He’d lose his job, he’d probably lose his friends, he’d be a disgrace. He was a disgrace. The thought of the Daily Prophet getting hold of this juicy bit of gossip made him burn with anxiety. Golden Boy Falls from Grace. The Boy who Lived a Lie. Hero of the Wizarding World- Nothing But a Junkie.
Harry concentrated on laying still, keeping his eyes closed as he felt them fill with tears. Despite the fears of discovery, he felt a little better than he did this morning… how was that possible? What had they given him? Before he could let his thoughts snowball into a panic, he heard Ron on the other side of the curtain to the right of his bed.
“Healer Sprigg, thank you so much for looking after Harry – do you have any idea what caused this? I had Robards send over the list of potions with blood magic from the raid earlier this week as soon as I realised something was wrong and got him here – there’s nothing to push you into immediate action like your best mate lying unconscious in a toilet, I’ll tell ya.”
Harry nearly groaned, realising Ron had been the one to find him, shrinking in shame against his crisp hospital sheets, starchy and thick. He could hear the fear beneath the attempt at humour in Ron’s voice. He let the guilt wash over him. Let it suffocate him.
“Well don’t thank us just yet Auror Weasley, we’ve still got no clue what’s going on here – he doesn’t seem to be reacting to any of the curses from the raid and so far we couldn’t find anything other than him being a bit dehydrated – we’ve found no magical contaminant in his blood, and we’ve just hydrated him and given him a calming draught.”
Harry felt a distinct twinge of hope in Healer Sprigg’s measured words. They didn’t know? They didn’t think to test? Oh fuck, he might just get out of this. Harry couldn’t believe his luck, and he forced down the bubbling of excitement that he might not have to face abject humiliation just yet.
It didn’t mean he was going to be okay, that any of this was any less inescapable than yesterday, or this morning. He hadn’t managed to get through today. How was he expected to try tomorrow? And the day after? And, eventually, St. Mungo’s would catch on and he’d be forced to explain all of the lies, the deceit, the failings. The excitement he’d felt moments before was effectively obliterated and Harry welcomed back the familiar feelings of despair, hopelessness and the sense that this was a trap with absolutely no way out.
Harry felt his magic ripple around him, nudging him, reminding him that there was a way. He could give in. He could let it have him. He could leave from King’s Cross station and escape everything; the job he hated, the life he was barely living through, the need that had him in such a crippling hold he could barely manage the space to draw in breath, that squeezed him ever tighter the longer he went without it.
His magic soothed him a moment, giving him a rare glimpse of peace. Yes, he thought, that was the way out. There was nothing left to do. The fight was over, the battle won, he was tired and worn out after all these years of desperately pushing back against the dark. He wanted the dark to envelope him, to hold him in that graceful, soft, euphoria he had come to know. He wanted the weightlessness of it, of death, of never having to awaken on that soggy, soiled mattress ever again.
His resolve thickened as his quiet breathing marked time, as he imagined the bright white room, where pain and fear didn’t exist, where Dumbledore had told him he could choose his own destiny. Yes, this is the choice he would make. He would go…on.
He lied his way out of the hospital easily later that afternoon. Yes, dehydrated, he had said. Working himself too hard these days, forgot to get breakfast this morning and had been a bit under the weather with a flu. Yes, a perfect storm, he nodded and agreed with everyone, his hands neatly hidden beneath the folded sheet across his lap. I must tell lies.
He had promised to take tomorrow off. He was very adept at smiling and nodding and reassuring. Everyone trusted his deep and familiar voice, the Saviour’s voice, though he had already decided he would Imperio anyone who caught on or got suspicious to keep them from interrupting the next several hours. He had a plan, and it would be over soon. What’s one more unforgivable, he thought, for what I am about to do, they will have no choice but to forgive.
He would have to write Hermione, he thought, as he exited through the atrium of St. Mungo’s, out past the double doors and into the afternoon sunshine. He couldn’t write Ron. No, he didn’t deserve another one. George’s had nearly sealed his fate as a permanent psychiatric patient in St. Mungo’s Janus Thickey ward. No one would’ve blamed him, of course. Harry never saw the note himself, but he had heard from Hermione that it was seventeen pages long. Seventeen pages of why he couldn’t, not without Fred.
And then Ron had found him, in the back office at Weasley Wizard Wheezes, strung up with one of their extra long jump ropes that had been charmed to stay swinging without anyone holding their ends, just in case you didn’t have enough friends to skip rope with you, and you had wanted to perfect your double-dutch. Ron had told Harry, tears streaming down his face and voice catching every syllable that George must have done it moments before he walked in to help take stock, because as Ron had rushed forward, his legs were still swinging gently and they were still warm to the touch. No one would’ve blamed him.
Molly and Arthur had sold the shop that week. It’s now full of potions for skincare and bath products. No one speaks of the jokes, or the shop, or what happened, or the twins at all, these days. Harry misses their laughter, more than anything. Laughter at all, these days.
It had taken a month before Ron was discharged, given antidepressant potions and a strict schedule with a mind healer. That was a few years ago now, and he’d made an incredible recovery. Harry was so proud of him, he couldn’t put him through it again.
So, it would have to be Hermione. She would be heartbroken, but, ever the practical witch, she would find a way to carry on, she would know this burden was too much, she would know how long he had carried it. How long he had carried them. He needed rest. And quiet. She would understand. He needed rest.
His magic rumbled in excitement and he felt the familiar deep thrumming in his abdomen, begging him to apparate straight to his den. To Grimmauld Place.
Yes, he thought, and he grimaced as he turned on the spot, this is exactly what he needed to do.