won't you come back home?

by misrepresented_self

Summary:

Harry was cold.
The feeling wasn’t foreign, especially when one is sitting in the middle of an empty field, slowly being covered by snow. The warming charms have worn off long ago, and Harry simply didn’t see a point in casting them again.
He was so very cold.

or

Harry struggles to find peace after the end of the War, wishing he could do it all again but better. As things tend to go, regrets are not the only thing following him around, but will he realize that before it is too late?

Notes:

so, this story came to be on a rainy day, when i was truly in my feelings about Harry and his post-war trauma

let me know what you think, and if you have any suggestions for improving my writing! (or tags, im truly lost lol)

WARNING: this work explores mild thoughts of suicide and self-harm (mostly through cold), it isn't graphic but if you struggle with these thoughts please know your health and life matters, something to keep in mind before you read this

(also the title of the fic is from the song Come Back Home by Two Door Cinema Club, i greatly recommend a listen)

Chapter 1: oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

Summary:

It's cold and Harry struggles.

Notes:

Hello! If you've been here before, no you're not crazy, this was once a one-shot but became A Thing because who am I to leave things alone really? Ao3 is confusing once you actually have to post things so apologize if I repeat myself in notes and things just seem wonky, I am truly doing my best lol

Welcome in and oh! yes, yes you will have to strap in I'm afraid.

Harry was cold.

The feeling wasn’t foreign, especially when one is sitting in the middle of an empty field, slowly being covered by snow. The warming charms have worn off long ago, and Harry simply didn’t see a point in casting them again.

He was so very cold.

He used to seek out warmth. Sleeping in front of the Common Room fireplace when there was a perfectly soft bed upstairs or layering sweaters even if the weather didn’t call for it. It was comfort he was seeking, he soon realized.

Snow didn’t offer much comfort but it was better than whatever warmth was choking him back at the Burrow. Harry forgot how he used to consume it like a starved man, grasping for strings of affection that were now tangled up into an ugly mess, pressing into his lungs.

He knew he was different after the War. He saw it in the reflection of others, looking at him like they didn’t quite know where their Harry had gone, leaving this shell of a man behind.

The metaphor of a broken shell didn’t quite fit him. He felt as if he was methodically opened, his insides scooped out and distributed evenly among everyone who desperately needed to be saved. He bitterly wished that they would have taken all of him, so he wouldn’t need to deal with the scraps that have been left behind.

His fingers were slowly turning an icy shade of blue, which Harry knew should have been concerning. He’s been sitting here, in this field, for a long while, no doubt making the Weasleys sick with worry. He didn’t stick around long after dinner, feigning sickness and deciding to go for some fresh air.

He wasn’t expecting to welcome the feeling of numbness that came with a long walk in the middle of winter.

It started out innocently enough. He rationalized that he needed an hour or so of peace and quiet, before he would be ready to go back. Wrapping himself up in a warm coat, putting on his gloves and a scarf, he slowly made his way through the soft white plains. Harry could still feel the chill but it grounded him, in a way.

However hard he tried, his thoughts drifted to the most unpleasant of places. War leaves a mark, Harry knows this but he sees how he’s having a harder time adjusting to this new found peace, than others. They all seem so unbothered. Don’t they remember what had to be done, who had to die for this to come to an end? He can barely look at George, the guilt of letting Fred die becoming too much with every passing moment that he stays at the Burrow.

Sometimes Harry wished that Voldemort’s killing curse actually took his life.

It was always just a passing thought, seemed almost intrusive but on this slow winter walk the thought made Harry spiral.

The cold bit inside his skin with the sudden realization that he did not want to deal with the aftermath of war. They won. He won, and yet he felt like he lost something that he will not be able to get back.

He thinks he’s crying but can’t really be sure, since he can barely feel his face. His eyes can’t focus on anything, and his thoughts seem to be stuck on the deep green of the Forbidden Forest. Harry wouldn’t mind dying there, worse places surely exist.

Many did die in worse places. Many who didn’t deserve it. All who felt he was worth dying for.

It made him want to claw out of his skin and just lay completely bare, showing them who their Savior really is. Show them how damaged and ugly things get, when you’re chosen to save the world that beat you down every step of the way.

He would have done it again.

He would do it a thousand times over, better each time, to ensure that they would stay alive. He would give, and give, and give just so he could do it right.

There won’t be a second chance. Nobody but him seems to want it. They’re all just so relieved that it’s over, and Harry can only feel defeat in the blinding light of victory.

“Harry!”

The call is distant but it’s there, and Harry doesn’t know if he should be relieved or disappointed that they’ve found him.

“Harry, please!”

He can hear their frantic footsteps now, crunching in the eerie silence that he was too busy to notice until it was gone.

He knows who it is, of course. The only two people from whom he could never hide, not truly anyway. Harry was never good at deception but he can also admit that the War has taught him a thing or two about keeping one's secrets close. He doesn’t know how they’ll react when he truly shows them how he feels. He doesn’t even know if he’s ready for that but the world never cared if he was, so now shouldn’t be any different.

He exhales the air from his lungs, not feeling it pass his frozen lips, and looks up.

They’re closer than he thought and in seconds Hermione collapses by his feet, her knees digging into the harsh and frozen ground with a dull thud, Ron close behind her.

The warmth is instant, from their proximity or the warming charm that one of them cast, he doesn’t know and he doesn’t particularly care. They’re here and Harry must now deal with the mess he created.
Bravery, one of the most prominent Gryffindor traits, and yet he still feels like a coward as he’s unwilling to meet Hermione’s searching gaze.

She takes his freezing hands in hers and tugs at her scarf to wrap it around them. He can’t quite recall when he lost his gloves.

She’s quiet when she asks.

“Harry, what were you thinking?”

It all seems a bit sad, and Harry didn’t want to make them worry, and he certainly didn’t want to tell them like this. Despite all of that, it feels fitting in a way. Three of them against the world, here in the middle of nowhere, halting time.

Harry wants to believe that it will all be okay in the end, he just needs to get through it. For the first time ever, he admits to himself that he doesn’t want to do it alone, and he knows he doesn’t have to ask but he at least needs to explain.

He looks at them, truly looks and lets himself be seen. It’s unnerving and he swears the ground is no longer solid, yet he’s still here, looking and being seen by the people he trusted with his life and is now willingly doing it again.

He firstly looks at Ron because he thinks it will be easier, except it really isn’t. His gaze is soft, soft in a way that cuts Harry so deep, he thinks he will never truly recover. It makes him want to cry some more and beg for forgiveness of all the people he failed, for the brother Ron lost, and for the savior that Harry could never be. It hangs heavy in him, rooting him on the spot, unwilling to just ask and plead for something. Anything.

Ron seems to understand anyway, just like he always does, and it doesn’t make Harry feel any better.
Overwhelmed, he looks at Hermione. The girl who is so extraordinary at solving puzzles, and Harry hopes that she will make sense of him as well.
She looks sad, as if she’s mourning him already, even though he’s right here, and Harry understands. He hasn’t felt like he was walking among the living for a long time.

She squeezes his hand hard, only once, “You didn’t think we would let you do this by yourself, did you?”

With his last resolve crumbling, Harry chokes on a sob and leans forward, his head now in her lap, shaking as he cries.
She doesn’t tell him to stop or to be brave. She silently runs her fingers through his hair, covered in wet snow, slowly melting and running down his face, mixing with his salty tears.

Ron’s steady hand meets his back, rubbing slow but firm circles, and Harry feels relief for the first time since he destroyed Voldemort to dust.

He doesn’t know for how long they stay there, him holding onto them and them holding him together, but he knows that at one point it just all feels like too much.

With steady breaths he calms himself, not daring to move just yet. They’re patient with him, in a way that they never needed to be before. Everyone knows that the best way to get anything out of Harry is to relentlessly ask, and something will give eventually, but not this time. This is delicate, and surprisingly he appreciates that they’re all treating it as such.

Deep breath. In and out.

“I just didn’t know how to ask,” he speaks, softly.

With that, Hermione slowly guides him up, her hands framing his face, Ron’s hand steady on his shoulder. They don’t look surprised or angry or much of anything other than sad. Harry would be angry that they pity him but truth be told, he’s nothing but a man to be pitied. The Savior of the Wizarding World, unable to save himself. A joke, truly.

“I won’t pretend that we understand completely Harry, but we understand enough. Anything you give will always be enough,” she says with compassion that Harry doesn’t really know what to do with. He doesn’t seem to know much of anything these days, so he just nods.

The grip on his shoulder tightens, Harry’s eyes snapping to Ron’s. They were never really good with words, so Harry doesn’t expect him to speak.
“Mate, i know people expect things from you, even now after you did it all-”

“We did it all,” he feels the need to specify. It’s true anyway.

Ron pauses and gives a slight smile, “We did it all, but it’s time you do what you want. Fuck what they all think. What do you want, Harry?”

It’s such a simple question but it’s loaded with all the things he never accomplished and all the things he never dared to dream about doing. It speaks of sunny days, Quidditch practices, cramming for exams as Hermione yells at them and all the innocence of being a kid that slipped from his hands too fast for him to even miss it. The question could push forward so many different answers but none of them feel right except for one.

He’s determined to live for himself, and he never thought that would include going back to school. They talked about it in the last couple of months. After the war, Hogwarts was put under serious repair and McGonagall, as the new Headmistress, deemed it necessary to hold off schooling for a year. Give everyone time to rebuild.
Harry never knew if he would ever want to step foot in that place again. Yes, it was his home but he never thought he would be ready to face all the mistakes he had made. He knew Hermione would be going back, Ron sure to follow her, and now it seems he will as well.

It just felt right, and he knew it’s what he wanted deep down all along. To rebuild oneself, one should go back to where it started.

He abruptly stands up, stumbling on his numb legs, Hermione and Ron quickly following, all holding onto each other.

“I want to go back,” he says. Sure, for the first time in a long time.

“You mean-”

“Yes, Hermione,” he smiles, bright, “I think we should go back to Hogwarts.”

Notes:

Longer chapter ahead, Harry will sadly have to suffer some more teehee

Chapter 2: lights are on, but you’re not home

Summary:

It's Christmas.

Notes:

Because this story has hijacked my mind, me and my lovely beta reader are now burdened to see this through to the end. Thank you to all who already left kudos because you are the sole reason I have decided to give this crazy plot a shot lol

This is now a Draco/Harry centric, filled with heavy themes and even heavier plot but I swear we will have fun as well, and to all my anxious readers this is a confirmed happy ending!

WARNING: more suicidal thoughts, be nice to yourselves and know that you are never alone

Christmas in the year 1998 was a gruesome affair.

In all the years Harry spent Christmas at the Burrow, the house was full of joy and wonder, something he never experienced much as a kid until he got to Hogwarts. The Weasleys did everything they could to make him feel welcome and warm, pulling him in, and effortlessly making space for another in an already cramped house. Molly truly was a woman who gave her all to the holiday cheer, decorating the house in so many colors and lights, that Harry feared he might permanently have spots dancing behind his eyes, when he experienced his first Weasley Christmas.

This year she was just as determined, if not even more so. All the usual decorations were spread out, delicious meals being prepped as everyone struggled but fought hard to make the time feel as normal as possible.

Harry hated it.

He guessed something could be said about the Weasley’s sense of perseverance and tradition, but could they really not feel the shadows clinging to every corner in the house? Harry sure could.

Once, when he was still little, 5 years old maybe, he had done something that upset Aunt Petunia so much, she furiously dragged him to the garage and poured gasoline all over his clothes. She screamed and spat insults at his face, asking how he could do nothing right in his life, and why she, of all people, must deal with a problem like him.

Harry truly couldn't remember what he had done, but the heavy stench of gasoline was ever present all around him, even weeks after Uncle Vernon ran into the garage and snatched the matches from her shaking hands, furious, but not at her.

The shadows reminded him of that, heavy and not easily ignored, they stuck to him like the gasoline had, but nobody else seemed to notice that at any point, all it would take is a single spark, and this whole place would go up in flames.

A loud but short wail snaps him from his reflections. Harry drops the knife he was using to cut up the potatoes for dinner, his hands suddenly cold as ice, as he runs, purely on instinct, purely for survival, in the direction of the noise.

Don’t be hurt. Please don’t be hurt.

The run is short, as he stops in front of the living room armchair, Molly sitting in it, choking back quiet but violent sobs, her whole body shaking with the strain of it.

He kneels by the chair, carefully lifting up his arm to soothe her but stopping, unsure if his touch is even welcome after all that has happened. He wasn’t sure, and that was all it took to halt his movement.

He spoke softly, full of worry he couldn’t convey with a simple touch, “Molly? Molly, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

All she did was cry harder. Harry unable to soothe or touch, and all he did was look, as he heard more hurried footsteps behind him, relieved for someone else to take the burden of comforting.

Hermione kneeled by their side first, her eyes quickly checking them both over for any obvious injuries, her hand already on Molly’s back rubbing slow circles, shushing her cries. After she was satisfied that nothing was physically wrong with them, her eyes ran over Molly’s lap, slowly reaching over to uncurl the ball of knitted yarn that would undoubtedly become one of Molly’s famous Christmas sweaters. Just as Harry thought. Determined.

As Harmione smooths it over, her breath hitches as she stills, her eyes already glossing over with unshed tears.

“I forgot,” Molly sobs, “I forgot I wasn’t supposed to, that it’s no use, that he-”

She chokes on another sob, as Harry’s eyes betray him and look at the newly started sweater in Hermione’s hands.

It’s not finished, but it’s undoubtedly there. The start of a big orange letter F, on a field of deep rich green.

Fred.

Harry is going to be sick. He feels it in the back of his throat, climbing up, his mouth filling with saliva.

He stands hurriedly, almost tripping over the edge of the soft rug, pushing past Ron, as he runs through the back door ignoring Hermione calling his name.

The cold outside bites at his face and hands, the snow seeping through his pants as he kneels on the ground and dry heaves.

It’s his fault. It’s his fault.
The vomit won’t come. He heaves and heaves, but there’s nothing, Harry is filled with nothing. There’s a big empty hole in him and he can’t even pretend he’s filled with something. Anything.

In his peripheral vision he sees the stacks of firewood by the side of the house that Harry and Ron helped Arthur acquire. Magic was real but tell a man obsessed with muggles that he can heat a house with burning wood, and then try to stop him from doing just that.
It was a beautiful day when they did it. Harry didn’t mind the cold and the light danced prettily on the fresh fallen snow if you dared to look hard enough. They could have used an extra pair of hands but the girls were busy helping Molly and nobody had seen George leave his room for two weeks and three days. Harry has been counting.

They interacted barely or not at all. Harry too much of a coward to make amends or eye contact, and George too broken with half of him missing. It was terrible. It was a shadow that reeked of gasoline and Harry just kept choking on the smell.

He doesn’t know how long he kneels there, breathing hard, as if every breath could be his last, the expected tears never coming.

He hears the crunch of snow behind him, expecting either Hermione or Ron to come save him from himself once again, but what he gets is a firm and warm hand on his shoulder as Arthur bends down to look in his eyes.

It’s a lot, the grief of a father. It’s over-consuming and spills into his every move, Harry can see it, looks for it even. Takes it as punishment for what he had done, when everytime he sees it, it also cuts him deep.

None of what Harry has gone through could be as bad as losing a child, he’s certain of it. That’s why he rights himself, schools his features into something more acceptable, hiding the hurt, hiding the guilt.

Harry has become a better liar but clearly not a decent one, since Arthur’s eyes search his with nothing but pity and worry. Everyone always worries. Harry wishes they didn’t.

Arthur squeezes his shoulder and helps him back on his feet with practiced ease of a father, not letting Harry step away once he rights himself, still a bit unsteady.

“You should stop doing that,” Arthur says, still looking into Harry’s eyes, holding him there.

“Stop doing what?” he asks, even though he has a fairly good idea that the last thing Arthur would want is for him to get sick from the cold.

He doesn’t really expect Arthur to see him.

“The blame you feel. It’s eating at you, Harry. Nobody here blames you,” he answers, completely serious but still so full of warmth.

Harry could scream if he had the courage. He could scream his throat and lungs raw, with everything he feels, and all he doesn’t. It’s so warm here, everybody is so warm, and they keep trying to warm him up with their words, hoping it might bring some life back into him.

Harry knows he is gone, maybe never to return but he owes them all to try. They care for him even if Harry doesn’t understand it, always bringing him in, bringing him close.

Making space.

Harry swallows and nods, just barely, all he is ready to give at this moment.

Arthur understands, because of course he does, and gently but firmly steers Harry back into the house, back into his family’s home and makes space for the Savior who cannot save himself.

Everybody seems to have calmed down in the time he was out there, all busy preparing stuff for the Christmas dinner Harry was dreading.

Hermione catches his eye and gives him a small but kind smile, understanding coloring her eyes, as she beckons him to come help her charm the candles to float.

They haven’t really talked about what Harry said that day when her and Ron found him out in the cold. He knows she will push him to talk eventually but for the time being she has been giving him space. Her and Ron are always there, everpresent just as they always have been, and Harry feels grateful. All his childhood he felt like nobody wanted him, but Ron and Hermione keep choosing him over and over again, as if he is something precious.

Harry certainly doesn’t feel precious or even worth all of this, but he won’t correct them. Just this once, for these two friends, he will selfishly keep them close. They’re his last life line. If he loses them, he loses it all.

They work in silence, Harry letting Hermione do most of the charms since she’s always been better at them anyway, while he rearranges the candles in a random but pleasing pattern. It’s calming work, he realizes, and can’t help but think she somehow planned it all.

Harry must have retreated back into his head, because the next thing he knows Molly is calling them all to come eat. He regretfully glances up the stairs, wishfully thinking he could somehow escape all of this.

Hermione of course notices but it’s no use, as she grabs his hand and tugs him with her. She makes him sit in between her and Ron, the latter not seeming at all bothered that Harry is separating him and his girlfriend. All he does is pat Harry on the back, letting him know that dessert should be a sight to behold. Harry just hopes he’ll be able to keep it all down, food not really agreeing with him ever since he woke back up in the forest.

Before the deep green consumes his thoughts once again, everybody starts gathering at the table. Ginny takes the seat furthest from him, which he isn’t insulted by, him breaking her heart and all, because after the war nothing seemed right anymore. He did love her once but he wasn’t sure he’d be capable of that feeling ever again. She understood in the end, but hurt can run deep, and wouldn’t Harry be a hypocrite to fault her for that?

Percy takes a seat next to Ginny, talking about how he had to take time away from the Ministry to be here, his work being very important so he had to pull a couple of strings.

Ron leans in close to Harry, with a fake hushed whisper that is intentionally loud enough to reach Percy’s ears, “As if. These days they’re happy if he stops pratting about, putting his nose everywhere it’s not welcome.”

Harry would feel bad, but the red on Percy’s face matches the decorations perfectly, and Harry can’t help but quietly snicker.

Percy was about to give Ron a piece of his mind, opening his mouth to no doubt say something equally mean, when suddenly he stops himself as he looks behind Harry towards the stairs.

Harry’s traitorous eyes once again ignore what’s best for him, as he turns and locks eyes with none other than George.

Frankly, he looks terrible. He is skinnier than the last time Harry saw him, two weeks and five days ago (he’s been counting) and large dark bags lay under his dulled eyes.

Harry suddenly remembers why he shouldn’t, and doesn’t even deserve, to make silly jokes and light comments with Ron or anyone else for that matter. George lost his partner in crime and a smile hasn’t passed his lips since that partner didn’t get back up from the cold floor he died on. The floor he was murdered on. Harry didn’t cast the final blow but he certainly isn’t any less to blame, and others may pretend that isn’t true but George knows. George, the boy who loved to laugh more than anything else and had a whole bright future ahead of him, is now standing in front of Harry, his twin’s killer, about to sit down and share a meal, because that’s just what the Weasley’s do.

Harry can’t stay. He cannot stay, and he is about to say as much and run away once again, when George speaks, his voice rough from disuse but there all the same, “If you stand up from that table Harry, I swear to Merlin himself that Voldemort isn’t the name you’ll fear most.”

That stuns Harry. It also stings. Of course George would be like this. He’s a Weasley. Even after all that death, and all that pain he is still a Weasley. Warm to the core and ready to keep out the cold. Harry doesn’t deserve it and he’s not sure why they cannot see that, why they don’t smell the shadows that follow him everywhere he goes.

Ron’s hand is once again on his shoulder, pulling him back down on the seat, as Harry stares and stares at George. Fred’s George. The Fred he killed. The Fred they’ll never see again.

Ginny clears her throat, making Harry tear his eyes away and look at her, “Well if we’re all quite finished with that, I’d like to see what wonder Mum has cooked up for us this year,” her eyes quickly sweep over everyone as she deliberately keeps her tone light and easy,” And George quit standing there and sit down next to me so I don’t have to listen to Percy ramble about the Ministry all evening.”

“I’ll have you know that I don’t ramble, I am a highly regarded ministry official!”

And they’re off again. Everyone settles into the familiar banter, as Molly brings the food to the table, somehow there being enough to feed a whole village. She has truly outdone herself, just like every year, no trace of the sorrow and tears on her face as Harry looks at her.

She’s strong, he thinks. Stronger than anyone he knows.

Dinner progresses and Harry keeps mostly to himself. Even though the food must taste delicious he tries to get away with eating as little as possible. Ever since he didn’t die, everything tends to taste like ash in his mouth. He’s not quite sure why and he hasn’t mentioned it to anyone, not wanting to worry them even more.

The meal is still as pleasant as it can be. A heavy air hangs around them but they all desperately don’t bring attention to it, the empty spot at the table making its presence known just by sheer will. Harry doesn’t pretend he doesn’t notice it. He won’t allow himself that retrieve.

He still listens to the conversations, laughs and nods when it’s appropriate, but other than that he’s not really there. He hasn’t been anywhere for a while, and it has somehow become the new norm. Harry knows it bothers everyone, that he’s so quiet, but he simply can’t help it. George seems to at least understand, because he doesn’t try to engage him in conversation once.

Dessert comes and goes, everyone full and content, as they gather in the living room to listen to the radio Arthur somehow managed to fix up enough to work around magic. There’s still a lot of static and the music often gets interrupted, but Harry can admit that it’s pleasant, and better than the silence that would otherwise surround them.

They sit and listen as the sounds of a light Christmas carol Harry doesn’t know the name of fills the room. He sinks deeper into the armchair, deeper into himself, and just exists for a moment.

“I wish he was here,” whispers George, snapping Harry’s eyes away from the fire he got lost in.

Ginny and Molly, the ones closest to George, quickly reach out and hold his hands in quiet understanding.

“We all do,” says Arthur, ever the steady and understanding presence, “but he wouldn’t want us to sit around feeling sorry for ourselves in his absence. Fred was a life force, he would want us to make good use of the gift we’ve been given.”

Gift?

“Gift?” Harry dares to ask in his honest confusion, making everyone look at him. George doesn’t say much with his eyes anymore, but this Harry is certain of. George feels sorry for him.

Arthur once again reaches over, hand warm and firm on Harry’s shoulder, “Life, Harry. We were given the gift of life.”

Harry simply cannot agree. He’s glad they’re alive of course, but Harry? He would have been better never getting up from that deep green. Would be better if he let it consume him, his soul and bones. He knows the afterlife, or whatever it was where Dumbledore met him, is cold. The dirt would also be cold in the end, so Harry knows that the warmth of life is nothing but a lie.

He won’t tell them that though. They deserve to keep their lives, as happy as they want to make them, so Harry tries for a sincere smile, it almost reaching his eyes, “Of course. He would want you all to be happy.”

He’s not sure why, but everyone seems to get even sadder with his answer.

Notes:

Thank you for reading! There is no update schedule because my motivation is unpredictable and my wonderful beta reader actually has a life, and I desperately need her thumbs up before I show anything to the general public, so you will need patience lol

Feel free to leave constructive criticism because it is appreciated but PLEASE be nice about it because this author hurts easily lol

ONWARDS!

Chapter 3: and I hear a storm is coming in

Summary:

Things get worse, but they get better too.

Notes:

a bit of a shorter chapter BUT a lighter one emotionally, and if you squint you can also see a little bit of plot no way no way

It started with the nightmares.

They weren’t surprising or unfamiliar at first, mostly filled with things he has seen before. Dead bodies no matter where he turned, Voldemort’s cold eyes tracking his every move as if he still lived in Harry’s head, always pain, always cold. Harry has had nightmares before, during the War of course but even way back, when all he knew was the small dusty space under the creaky stairs. Harry has known fear maybe even before he knew he was alive, so waking up shaking during the night, a scream stuck in his throat and cheeks salty with tears was as familiar as breathing was, for people who weren’t as fucked up as Harry.

In a sick and twisted way he felt better when he learned that other people, even his friends, had nightmares too. That others also woke in the night, scared eyes searching for things that weren’t there, fingers unable to unclench from the blankets. There were many times when he woke up in that spacious tent, while he was on the run with Hermione and Ron, to her hushed whispers and soothing words as Ron shook and cried, seemingly unable to stop. Other times the roles were reversed, and sometimes even Harry stirred and reached with a timid hand to try and make things better, to help the best he knew how.

He liked not feeling alone with his troubled thoughts during those long months. To see others struggling so clearly the way he has all his life, was like a balm to his scorched mind. The twisted pleasure made him disgusted with himself but he couldn’t make himself stop feeling it. It was the first sign that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the freak the Dudleys made him out to be.

The comfort was short-lived. Harry being Harry, he obviously couldn’t even have normal and expected nightmares about the War, the torture, the abuse or even emotional manipulation, truly there was so much to chose from, and here Harry was dreaming of-

Of what exactly?

Whiteness? Darkness? Faces he has never seen before, doesn’t remember seeing before, yelling at him, screaming to release them, that it hurts, that he needs to let go.

The dreams were simultaneously vivid and foggy, coming from nowhere but lingering long after he woke up, sticking, like shadows tend to do these days. It was maddening. It almost made him miss the old nightmares because at least those made sense, and at least he got to see the people he missed so dearly one more time. Even if it hurts.

He debated telling Ron and Hermione about them but he knew what they’d say.

“Harry, this is expected after what we’ve been through, and there’s no need for you to go through it alone,” she said, reaching for his cold hand. Always reaching.

“Even Ron is seeing a mind-healer and he said it got easier. Please Harry, just this once? If you hate it, we’ll think of something else.”

No way. There is no person on this planet qualified or patient enough to sort through the mess in Harry’s head, even if the War never gets brought up. Funny enough, Harry is of the opinion that whatever happened every year at Hogwarts was more manageable than every summer he spent with that vicious family. He won’t say that out loud though, because Hermione will look on the verge of tears and Ron will probably go chop more wood for the fear he hits something or rather someone. So as always, when Hermione has ideas that Harry absolutely does not agree with, he politely nods and says that he will think about it, and as always when Harry lies, Hermione purses her lips and gives him a disappointed look, but decides to leave him alone for the time being until she decides that the bags under his eyes have reached an alarming size again.

This leaves Harry alone with his thoughts and nightmares, trying to decipher whichever trauma brought up strangers screaming in his head, as if thinking has ever done him any good.

It would be almost manageable, if only everybody stopped asking him useless questions. The truth would only land him in St Mungo’s again, and Harry has historically never been too fond of hospitals. Madam Pomfrey probably aged twice as fast every time he was made to Sit still and rest Mister Potter or I will be forced to involve your head of house.

So to put it simply, the War has made Harry even crazier and a new type of liar. It isn’t ideal, but trying to fix things has never really gone his way so he’s decided to just see where this all goes, double points if it somehow doesn’t end with him having to die. Again.

He chuckles lightly to himself at the thought, debating if going at it again would really be so bad. At least something would be happening, and none of this new-found-peace stillness would be surrounding him.

Thankfully with the useless warmth, spring also brings new things to do and chores to take care of, and staying in motion has done wonders for Harry’s tangled mind. Arthur and Molly are very pleased when he volunteers to help around the house, believing that his willingness to be surrounded by things to do and other people is a change worth celebrating. Harry is inclined to agree as he intentionally keeps his eyes away from the dark and sticky corners of the house. Things are somehow worse and better at the same time, and Harry thinks that if anyone ever decides to sum up his life, that would probably be it.

As he’s dusting the kitchen shelves for maybe the third time this week, he sees Ginny out of the corner of his eye, just standing there, watching.

She used to do this a lot back when they were still together. He figured she had the same tendency for puzzles as Hermione, but her gaze was always more curious than frustrated. Now, as he turns his head and makes eye contact, she seems to be amused.

“Who would have taken you for a housewife, ay Harry?” she teases with an upturn of her lips, eyes gleaming with a challenge but also a smidge of uncertainty, as if she’s not sure that they could do this with each other anymore.

It’s an olive branch, an attempt at friendship after months of silence and avoidance, the wounds still fresh and tender. Things between them didn’t end ugly per se, but Harry will admit that he could have handled their hearts with more care. She loved him dearly and he loved her in return for a long while, but things changed, Harry changed.

“Are you serious?” she whispered, tears unshed, “After all of this, we-we just stop?”

He knew it was necessary, that she deserved better than what Harry had to offer. Things changed and Harry just couldn’t feel how he felt before. But Merlin did he miss her. He missed her friendship and jokes, how steadfast and honest she was, never one to turn away from a fight. This, right here, her standing next to him, reaching and trying, is a blessing Harry didn’t know he was waiting for.

Surprisingly, it is easy to reach back in the end.

He chuckles, shoulders releasing the tension he didn’t notice was there, “What would you know about housekeeping? From my understanding Molly has long ago accepted that she gave birth to seven sons.”

She gasps in fake hurt, now fully grinning her brilliant smile, as she picks up a wet rag and flings it at his head and misses, because Harry does still hold the title of best Seeker at Hogwarts. The rag lands somewhere behind him with a wet splat and a loud yelp.

Ginny tries to stiffen her giggles and Harry can’t help but follow, as he turns and sees that the rag has found its home on the head of none other than a very surprised Ron Weasley, who looks like he doesn’t know if he should laugh or retaliate.

The water is dripping onto his eyes and he blinks rapidly to get the droplets out, huffing as he glares at them. The playfulness sends a rush of anticipation up Harry’s spine, as he tries and fails to keep a straight face.

Ron’s brother instincts win out in the end, as he declares, “Oh, it’s so on Ginny!” reaching for the rag and chasing after her, his target already halfway out the kitchen door, screaming in either glee or terror, Harry can’t tell.

He follows, and the sight of them running around the living room, one with a rag in hand, the other threatening to cause severe stab wounds with a candle holder, releases something within him.

It’s so sudden that it startles Harry, and it’s loud. It rips out of him and keeps building that Harry can barely catch his breath. He’s shocked with himself but he can’t stop it, and Ginny is somehow trying to hide on the ceiling, and it’s the funniest thing Harry has ever seen.

He can’t help but laugh harder, supporting himself on the door frame, as the two idiots in front of him play a game of cat and mouse, and Harry loves them, he loves them so much and he forgot how that felt, how it fills his chest with so much warmth that he thinks he might burst out of his skin. It’s light, and it’s free, and it’s joy.

At some point they notice his attempt at death by laughter, and both turn to him with disbelief in their eyes, as if seeing him for the first time since Hagrid carried him from the deep green. They turn to each other and seem to come to some sort of telepathic sibling agreement, and before Harry realizes, it’s too late. They both lunge at him, Ron splashing him with the wet rag, laughing in his face just like he did when they were kids, and Ginny attacking his weak spots, tickling, leaving him more of a mess than he was before.

He laughs and laughs and it hurts, but he hasn’t felt this good kind of hurt since forever, and Harry thinks that maybe, just maybe they will be okay. And if he’s lucky, he will get to follow right along.

Notes:

super excited for the next chapter! I have it written out and it's a much longer one, just tweaking out some details, but we finally get a glimpse into the mind of a Certain Someone, so stay tuned for that ;))

Chapter 4: my dear, is it all we’ve ever been?

Summary:

The heat brings surprises.

Notes:

very excited for this chapter!! my wonderful beta reader helped me polish it up, because i really wanted it to be perfect lol

enjoy, and see if you can spot a little easter egg ;))

The July heat is unbearable enough that Harry debates completely throwing the game of chess he’s going to inevitably lose. Anything just to move back into the cooler house as soon as possible. It’s Hermione’s fault he got dragged into this anyway, since she doesn’t really like chess, and Ron was about to climb up a wall if he didn’t find something interesting to do. He’s been practically vibrating since they woke up, the heat seemingly having no effect on his energy levels.

Harry used to think he and Ron had a bit of laziness in common, but since these months have been filled with truly nothing to do except rest, emotionally heal and maybe do something around the house, Ron has been nothing but restless. Harry gets it, even if he can’t physically or emotionally find the motivation to follow.

Harry is not terrible at chess, which is why he thinks Ron likes to play with him. So, to try and be a good friend, he agrees when Ron asks him if he is up for a game of chess or two. Harry just didn't think the wanker would make him sit outside in the suffocating heat while they were at it.

Harry doesn’t mind losing, because the thought of winning has never even crossed his mind, so he calmly wipes some sweat from his forehead and thinks on how to end this game quickly but not too quickly, so they don’t catch onto his little plan. Hermione still decided to join them outside, sitting on the grass next to them, reading a book that’s about the size of Harry’s head, completely transfixed on the words.

Knowing Hermione, the book probably has something to do with their upcoming classes, because Truly Harry, you can never be too prepared, especially since we basically haven’t been to any classes in almost two years.

He knows she’s right, but even if he’s decided to go back to Hogwarts, that doesn’t mean he’s actually a good student now. The whole reason he’s going back is to look for a sense of normalcy, and him doing his reading two months before is definitely not normal.

Ron nudges him with his hand, snapping him from his thoughts, “You alright, mate? It’s your turn.”

“Oh- yeah, yes. Yes, just thinking, sorry,“ he says, eyes focusing back on the board, Ron’s black pieces greatly outnumbering Harry’s white ones. Knight to f3, maybe?

For some reason, Ron just keeps his hand on top of Harry’s forearm, calloused fingers nudging his skin, surprise coloring his freckled face, “Blimey Harry, you’re as cold as ice!”

Harry frowns and touches his own arm, not really feeling anything. He feels hot, he feels the air around him and he is sweating, but he doesn’t feel sick or anything. He shrugs and on instinct looks to Hermione, who’s already abandoned her book.

She stands up and walks up to the table, prompting Harry to face her. She touches his forehead and his cheeks in a weirdly motherly manner, her frown getting deeper the longer she checks him over.

“Do you feel cold? Are you shivering at all?” she asks, pulling out her wand and performing some basic diagnostic spells they learned during the War, the magic having an instant cooling effect, making Harry sigh in relief.

“No, not at all,” he slightly shakes his head, trying to stay as still as possible and let her do the spells, “the heat has actually been getting to me pretty bad, it’s so hot today.”

Hermione hums in agreement, but her frown doesn’t disappear, her wand movements becoming more precise and complicated as she works.

It only takes a couple more seconds, and Harry immediately misses the feel of her magic around him, as she purses her lips and says, “Harry, this- well. I’d say it’s highly unusual. Either I've completely forgotten how the diagnostic spells work, which we all know isn’t likely, or there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“What?” Ron exclaims, “You felt how cold he was Mione, that can’t be normal. Here,” he leans across the table, grabs Harry’s hand and thrusts it and Harry towards her, “feel that again. There’s no way.”

Hermione does touch his forearm and flinches but doesn’t let go, now running her hands up his arm and to his shoulders. The frown returns, this time even deeper, as she appears to think for a second.

“Harry, take off your shirt.”

“What?”

“Just do it will you!” she huffs and starts tugging at the bottom of his shirt, leaving him no choice but to comply.

Once the shirt is off and Harry feels properly embarrassed, she starts assessing his bare chest, her fingers lightly moving from his shoulders to his abdomen and back up. It’s not as if she hasn’t seen him shirtless before, being on the run fighting for your life will get you into those situations. Besides Harry has laid his soul bare in front of his friends so really this was nothing in comparison. He still sideyes Ron, simply checking if he has a problem with this, not that he exactly expects he will, but Ron can be a bit hot headed when it comes to the love of his life.

All he sees is the anxious turn of his mouth and worry in his eyes, completely focused on Hermione’s face, looking for signs of panic.

Hermione’s hands move back to his face and to the back of his neck, pushing at seemingly random points, as she circles back to his arms.

She steps back, and Harry feels himself breathe a little easier, as she chews on her bottom lip, now properly confused and worried at the same time.

“Well?” prompts Ron, anxiety in his voice becoming more apparent, “What is it?”

She seems to shake herself out of some thought, still chewing on her lip, as she answers, ”I don’t know. His arms appear to be ice cold and his hands are practically freezing. But the spells didn’t show poor circulation and his fingers don’t appear to have any limited movement, or anything.”

Ron reaches out and starts touching his right arm in the same way Hermione did, moving over his shoulder and towards his chest. “You’re right. He feels warmer here,” he emphasises by tapping his chest, “What the hell is that about?”

“That’s the only normal part. It’s his hands that are bizarre,” she says, puzzled.

Not that Harry doesn’t appreciate the worry, but this is more touching he’s comfortable with these days, so he shakes Ron’s hands off and tries for a lighthearted tone, “Guys, it’s probably nothing. I’m a little cold to the touch, so what? Do I have to remind you that I cheated death, not once but twice?”

It doesn’t have the desired effect. Hermione’s serious stare turns to him, evidently not appreciating the morbid attempt at a joke.

“Exactly,” she deadpans, “do you want to risk it a third time? Cause I for one, don’t. You don’t know what this could be. Just-,” she hesitates, side eyeing Ron, looking nervous. “Just let me get in touch with some healers over at St Mungos-”

“No,” Harry interjects, voice firm and ice cold.

Hermione’s eyes soften with understanding but he knows she won’t let this go easily.

“It’s just a precaution. We can pick the doctors and everything, and me and Ron will make sure that nothing happens-”

He stands up, janks his shirt out of Ron’s hands, quickly putting it back on and pushing past her as he heads for the house. He wants out of this conversation immediately.

He hears her rush after him, talking quickly, “I know you don’t like going, and we would never make you, but this is worrying. You know I'd never say that if it wasn’t true, Harry.”

He refuses to talk about doctors again, speeding up his walk as much as he can without breaking into a full on sprint. The next time he has to see a doctor again he better be on the brink of death, and Harry knows how death feels, so this surely can’t be it.

He reaches for the door, but before he has the chance to turn the knob, the door opens, almost smacking him straight in the face. He staggers back looking face to face with George, who’s probably the last person he’s currently emotionally ready to see.

“I- uhm,” he stammers.

“There’s letters,” says George, with more fervor than that sentence calls for.

“Sorry?”

“There’s letters,” he repeats, now looking past his shoulder at presumably Ron and Hermione.

There’s a surprising quiet anger in his eyes. This can’t be good.

His eyes trace back to Harry’s looking him dead on, and Harry hates how similar him and Fred look- looked. Merlin help him.

The anger in his eyes burns a touch more lightly as he clarifies, “They’re from Malfoy Manor.”

The idea of that is so ridiculous that Harry believes he must have misheard. Letters from Malfoy Manor? Being sent to the Burrow? Someone might as well tell him that Snape complimented Harry’s non-existent potion making skills from beyond the grave, and that would be more believable.

But the way George is looking at him, the way Hermione gasps quietly and Ron pushes past them all to go straight into the house, has him questioning his disbelief.

Malfoy.

Well, that’s a name he hasn’t heard in about a year. The trials were exhausting and never-ending, pushing Harry to his limits and he wasn’t even the one in risk of Azkaban. Lucius got what he deserved, and Harry will never budge on that. He did speak in favor of Narcissa. She lied to save her son and therefore defied Voldemort, so Harry felt it was only appropriate to try and make sure her goal was met. She was a Black first anyway.

Malfoy looked sickly on the stand. He was too thin and too pale, not one ounce of his general poshness present, as he looked dead straight, and answered every question politely and honestly, his voice so quiet it barely reached the walls of the well-packed room. Harry was sure that Malfoy thought he was on a one way ticket to Azkaban, fear probably coursing through him. Fear. Something Harry could relate to.

He spoke on his behalf. He stepped onto the stand, addressing everyone in the room, his eyes briefly meeting Malfoy’s pale ones before quickly looking away. Harry wasn’t ready to decipher what emotion was hiding behind those eyes, and back then he didn’t have the capacity to truly care. He told them how Malfoy lied at the Manor, refusing to give Harry and his friends up to Voldemort, risking his life just to possibly save Harry’s. He didn’t speak on redemption, he didn’t know why Malfoy did what he did, but he let the Wizengamot know that what was done did help.

In the end they couldn’t really ignore the Savior’s earnest statement, since Harry notably didn’t speak on behalf of Death Eaters for no reason. Ultimately, they decided to let him go. Harry saw Malfoy just barely sag with relief, which he wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t watching his frame so closely. The mask didn’t crumble under the eyes of others.

Harry didn’t stay to hear the end of the sentencing, there would probably be some kind of community service involved, as he all but fled the presence of the Malfoys and the searching eyes of about a dozen reporters. Vultures, all of them.

And now he’s here, miles away but not far enough to escape.

He takes a deep and measured breath, slowly centering himself back. George is looking at him expectantly.

“Let's see them then.”

Ron is already at the dining table, sitting and staring blankly at a piece of paper, many more scattered around him, unopened. His shoulders are tense, the feel of his magic simmering with a quiet rage.

“There’s one for each of us,” says George, stepping forward, searching among the letters. He finds the one he’s looking for, and hands Harry a crisp white envelope, with the Malfoy family crest stamped on it.

Harry takes it, running his finger along the sharp edges, almost hoping he’d get to accidentally ruin this whiteness with a paper cut. No such luck.

Looking up, Hermione has found her letter but is looking at Harry with a question in her eyes. It looks like none of them are sure what to do with this situation, except for maybe Ron who was never one to hesitate, still completely absorbed in his letter.

Harry shrugs and decides that he feels too exposed for whatever he’s about to read. Nodding at Hermione once, he quickly and quietly slips upstairs into Ron’s room, softly closing the door behind him. He sits on the edge of the bed, the old mattress creaking beneath his weight. He’s still tense, as if he’s preparing to flee at any moment, and just looks at the envelope.

In dark black ink, directly in the centre, with elegant cursive handwriting reads to Harry Potter.

He smooths over the letters with his fingers, trying to decide if it’s even worth opening something that comes from that family. This could be anything and it could be from any of the three, Lucius being the least likely, but Harry wouldn’t put it past him to be playing some twisted game even from Azkaban.

However, Harry isn’t stupid. Deep down he knows who this is, he knows the boy who could never leave things alone. Always where he wasn’t wanted, always poking, always prodding.

With a deep inhale, his body subconsciously preparing for some kind of pain, he carefully opens the envelope.

The wax gives easily, and Harry pulls out a surprisingly soft piece of cream-colored paper, because of course Malfoy is nothing if not over the top fancy.

It’s carefully folded in half, the edges perfectly aligned, and for a second Harry imagines Malfoy, sitting at a rich table in the Manor, a stack of papers on one side, as he leans over and folds his letters with undying focus, the strands of blonde hair falling over his eyes. It seems fitting. Harry always took him for a perfectionist.

He unfolds the letter, and braces himself.

Potter,

I am aware that a letter from me is probably a surprise and most definitely an unwelcome one.

You owe me nothing. If anything I owe you a debt so great, I doubt it could ever be repaid, but if you would do one thing for me, please read this letter to the end. After that, you can burn it for all I care.

I am a coward. I am selfish and cruel, and the only good thing I’ve ever done in my life was lie, in an effort to save yours. My mistakes, my shortcomings, will haunt me till the day Death takes me, and I don’t deserve to ask for anyone’s forgiveness, especially not yours.

I vowed to make your life hell from the day that you made the sane decision to not shake my hand in friendship, and somehow I succeeded.

I am sorry for all the pain that I have caused you and the pain I have caused the ones you love. Words will change nothing but believe me that I say them earnestly.

I am trying to become a person that would be worth saving, so my mother’s efforts, and yours, don’t come to mean nothing.

Thank you for saving me even though I didn’t deserve saving.

Regards,

Draco Malfoy

 

Harry stares, and stares for what feels like hours. At some point the words blur together, his eyes stinging from the strain to try and understand all this.

Harry never expected this.

His first reaction is disbelief. The Malfoy he knows would never admit to any shortcomings, especially not to Harry of all people. The Malfoy he knows would never speak with such emotion, no cool calculated mask covering his face, just asking for Harry to break it with venom words and sharp knuckles.

It was disorienting.

He doesn’t know what Malfoy said in any of his other letters, but Harry assumes it was something along the lines of repentance. The thought fills him up with disdain, wondering how one can be so bold after all the death he’s caused. For Merlin’s sake, Harry was there when Dumbledore died. When he was murdered.

He feels all this anger towards Malfoy but every time his eyes trace back over the letter, he can’t help but see it for what it is.

Malfoy is trying. He’s hoping. Hoping that Harry doesn’t regret helping him at the Ministry. That he doesn’t regret pulling him out of the fire. Hoping, desperately, that Harry will believe him.

The thing is, Harry is not quite sure if he’s ready to.

He folds the letter back into the envelope, standing up and carefully tucking it into his back pocket, unsure of what he should do next.

The decision is made for him as the door to the room opens, Hermione standing there looking a little frazzled, faint shouting of Who the hell does he think he is?! being heard from downstairs.

Expectedly, Ron did not take Malfoy’s words well.

Harry sighs, giving Hermione a small, hopefully encouraging smile. He’s not quite sure how she feels about the letters but she does smile back, inclining her head towards the yelling.

“Ron’s losing his mind,” she states, accompanied by more faint yelling and cursing. What in the world did Malfoy say to him?

Well, only one way to find out.

Harry feels about 20 years older than he actually is, as he takes her hand and leads them back down, to try and once again deal with the mess that a Malfoy created.

Notes:

a couple more chapters and Hogwarts is on the horizon!

Chapter 5: i’m getting old and i need something to rely on

Summary:

It's the 31st of July.

Notes:

sorry this took so long, me and this chapter got into a genuine fist fight, i'll let you decide who won lolol

also this story is now rated as Mature since i realized that it will be much more intense than previously intended, always remember to check the tags and if you think i forgot to include something PLEASE tell me

Harry hates his birthday.

Growing up, he’s lived through some awful days, but birthdays were particularly hard in a house where everybody hated you just because you existed. Petunia made sure that every birthday was filled with as many unpleasant tasks as she could come up with, screaming at him every step of the way. If he was particularly lucky, Vernon would be stuck at work for the day, so Harry didn’t have to fear being locked in that tight and cold space, emptied out just for him.

Years of being surrounded by people who actually cared about him, made him realize he didn’t share common childhood experiences with many people, being The Chosen One or not. It was a hard truth to learn, and it didn’t exactly make him feel any better. Still, he now had people he could talk to, and the only ones who knew the most about his time with the Dursleys were Ron and Hermione.

They were only kids when they first met, and kids can be perceptive but they’re still just kids. They noticed Harry was more jumpy around loud noises and not fond of dark and small spaces, but that was the extent of it. It took the second task at the Triwizard Tournament for them to truly notice more.

He was freezing when he was pulled from the lake, and it stuck to him like an unwelcome shadow. It took months for Harry to feel any sense of warmth again, layers and layers of clothes not doing anything to help, his teeth involuntarily chattering at random moments, making Hermione look at him with worry.

Cedric’s death just made things worse, and Harry felt like he would suffocate with the weight of all the mistakes he made to get everyone here. He was frustrated and scared, Voldemort was back, and Harry had nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. All he could do was, endure, endure, endure just a little longer and the lid would open, come on Harry breathe stay with me.

After they found him, shivering and crying in a closet, he couldn’t run from it anymore. There was little space, but Ron and Hermione huddled close anyway, surrounding him with warmth and calm, shushing his cries.

And he broke.

He told them almost everything. Of the work he did since he could walk, of the space under the stairs, the fists and the screams and with a shuddering breath he told them about the freezer and how he could never escape the cold.

Their hold on him never waivered, if anything they squeezed him harder, centering him back into his body, as he sagged further and further into their arms.

Harry was terrified that they would leave him after learning the truth. That they would think he’s too broken to fix, too broken to love.

It’s Harry’s nineteenth birthday, and they’re still right here, next to him.

There’s no freezer waiting for him, no heavy fists or sharp words, only love, and presents, and cake. It’s a beautiful day outside, the sun playing hide and seek behind the scarce clouds, the soft wind tickling Harry’s skin as he lays in the tall grass, eyes closed.

The quiet is interrupted by a loud sneeze to his right.

Squinting one eye open, he sees Ron scratching his nose, muttering, “These bloody allergies.”

Harry chuckles, “You know you don’t have to stay here with me, right?”

“Yeah, sure. Like I’m gonna leave you alone with your depressing moods, on your birthday of all days. Me, your best friend. You’re getting real funny lately mate,” he says, reaching out and landing a hard flick on his head, trying to get the point across.

Harry now properly laughs, flicking him back and getting a fistfull of grass thrown on him in return. He splutters, trying to get grass from his mouth while simultaneously poking Ron just under the ribs, knowing it’s a winning move.

Ron lets out a giggle and tries to turn into a human ball with little success, as Harry just continues poking. Ron just laughs harder, his freckles almost blending in with his now red complexion.

With tears in his eyes, he manages to gasp, “Alright Harry, alright! I’ll never offer my emotional support ever-HAH-ever again, you can wallow in self pity all-AH-all you want! It’s your birthday!”

Ron Weasley is a bloody bastard but Harry takes pity on him, and releases him from his grasp, Ron still gasping for breath as the giggles refuse to leave him.

Harry lays back on the grass, chuckling at his friend’s pain, pleased that he won in their little game. They’re children, honestly.

It suddenly hits him that he doesn’t feel his age at all, feeling younger than he’s ever been while carrying something much older than any one of them have ever known. He’s like a corner piece of a puzzle trying to force its way into the middle of a well-constructed order. He’s nineteen but he shouldn’t be. The forest took him but then spat him right back out, only he must have been put back together wrong because Harry doesn’t feel like Harry anymore.

“You didn’t think you’d make it here, did you?” says Ron gently.

It’s the kind of random insightful question only Ron is capable of, never one to tip-toe around Harry and his complicated feelings.

Harry shrugs, his shoulder scratching on a particularly pointy stone beneath him, bound to leave a mark. It’s grounding in a way, the loaded question threatening to push him out of his body.

“I never thought I’d make it either, you know?” Ron says softly, as if he’s admitting a secret he didn’t think he’d ever share. “There was so much going on, and so many had died before me that I thought, surely, surely I’m not the one who was going to make it. Everyone fought so hard, and a lot of them were stronger and smarter than me, but Death came anyway. So- well, most of the time it just felt like I was waiting. Waiting to be taken.”

He’s fidgeting with his hands, pulling at the grass near his sides almost absentmindedly, “I kept hoping that at least you, Mione, and my family were going to make it. I kept telling myself that if I could guarantee that, then- then all of it was going to be worth it. Then maybe I could- I don’t know, rest easy or something.” There’s a pause as he swallows, seemingly unsure if he should continue.

He does so with a shaking breath, not looking at Harry, “That’s why I thought it was all for nothing in the end, when I saw-,” his voice gets stuck in his throat, eyes glossed over, “When I saw you just laying in Hagrid’s arms. Lifeless.”

He looks at Harry then, with so much emotion in his eyes that Harry can’t possibly understand it all, “In those long moments, before- before you got back up, I- I didn’t know what to do, Harry. It was- Merlin, it was like the ground split open. Suddenly up was down, and down was up- everything was a bloody mess, and I just- just couldn't take it.”

It’s Harry’s turn to get choked up, because he tries to imagine if it was Ron who didn’t make it back from the forest, if it was Harry who had to let him go and send him off to his death. What if?

Ron clears his throat, determination filling his eyes, “So mate, I bloody don’t care if you hate your birthday. I don’t care if you think- whatever it is that you think in that huge head of yours, about how things should have ended for you, because that’s- all of that is bollocks,” he abruptly stands up, the sun behind him making him look almost angelic, offering Harry his hand, “We are going to get up, go back inside, eat that bloody cake, and you are going to love all of your presents, even the one from Percy that is probably going to be the most dull thing you’ve ever seen in your life, but you will be there to see it, got it?”

He sounds a little angry now and a little breathless, staring at Harry with an eyebrow raised in a challenge.

Harry hates his birthday, but he does admit that they are getting better and better every year.

“You know what, mate” he says, clasping Ron’s outstretched hand and letting himself be hauled up, “you’re right.”

“Of course I bloody am you git. Now move,” he laughs, and pushes Harry back towards the Burrow.

As they walk, Harry realises how much is left unsaid between them. So much happened in the years growing up, and even if he had nothing he always had Ron. Harry looks at Ron’s side profile, truly seeing how much they’ve grown up.

Ron, sensing he’s being watched, looks at him with a questioning gaze. “Well, spit it out,” he teases.

There’s a lot Harry wants to say, and a lot he should say, but words are a mystery to him most of the time, and what comes out in the end is a soft, “You know you’re my best friend, right?”

Ron’s eyes soften, still crinkled a little at the corners, and that’s how Harry knows he understood him, and always will.

“Of course I know, Harry.”

I love you.

I love you too.

 

____

 

The party isn't much of a party, with Arthur and Percy missing because of Ministry business, or so Harry was told, but there is cake, and presents, and staticky music. It's much more than Harry could dare ask for, so he sits at the table debating on how to act like a normal human being. He's a little nervous, since Charlie returned home from Peru. Harry doubts it was for his birthday and labels it more as a coincidence, but he still accepts Charlies' present, feeling the thoughtfullness of it spread through him. It's a charm in the shape of a dragon that turns to life if you tap it with your wand twice. It only moves around for about a minute before it stills again, but Harry believes it to be the best thing ever.

“You fought a Vipertooth?!” exclaimes Ginny, eyes shining with excitement.

Charlie chuckles, “Sure I did. If you can call getting my sorry arse out of there as fast as possible fighting. They’re some quick little creatures. Vicious, too.” It frankly sounds terrifying but Harry can tell that he loved every second of it. Charlie is sunny all over, from the sunshine and from the absolute thrill that being a dragonologist seems to give him. His smile spreads wide across his face, the faded scar over his upper lip streatching with it, and Harry idly wonders what it would feel like. Maybe not much of anything, or maybe it's ever-present, following every word out of Charlie's mouth. Catching on it, like a physical type of punctuation.

His drifty thoughts get interrupted by a plate, full of those small lemon cakes Hermione loves to bake, narrowly missing his head, as Molly slowly lowers it on the table with a flick of her wand. Harry more so feels the freshness and warmth of them, rather than smells it.

“And thank Merlin you did,” huffs Molly, setting another jar of lemonade on the table, “it would do you well to mind your life once in a while, Charlie Weasley.”

“But I do, mum,” he pouts looking up at her, “that’s why I got the fuck out of there.” It's a cheeky thing to say, and it's so very Charlie of him. He's all lazy smiles and soft jabs, so much so that Harry wonders how a person like that ended up close and comfortable with dragons of all creatures. It must be gratifying, to love something that much.

In answer, Molly smacks him over the head while simultaneously pouring him another glass, “And mind that tongue of yours, there will be no such language in this house.”

“My, my, so serious,” he grinnes apologetically, “Thanks, mum.”

Molly's eyes soften, full of love for all her kids, but Harry knows that seeing Charlie so rarely takes a toll, especially after all that has happened. She'd cocoon them all, tightly and securely under this roof, never letting them leave if she could. Unfortunately for her, she raised one rascal after another. If Harry were to describe the feel of the Burrow, he'd say it was like a never-ending fireworks show. Bright, loud and most of all imprinted in the back of your mind for all eternity. It's all tangled together, if you tug at one end, the rest will follow.

“You’re welcome. Now, everyone have some more cake. Harry,” she lookes at him expectantly, a hint of worry framing her warm wrinkled face, “you’ve barely had any, and I know that’s still your first slice. Don’t say you dislike chocolate all of a sudden?”

His skin prickles under the attention. He was once deprived of care, didn't know what love looked like under the gaze of someone who just wanted to soothe all your rough edges. He knows this right now is love, but he can't help but shy away from it, all of this too big and too much for feelings he doesn't want to share. The food must taste great. He remembers this more than knows it. The meat tastes charred, the vegetables rotten, and the cake reeks of gasoline. He prays he can keep it all down for just a few moments longer.

He tries for an easy, sheepish smile, hopefully succeeding. “No, no, not at all Molly, it’s perfect. I just- well, I think I ate too much of that roast earlier.” He follows with a chuckle, and it sounds weak even to his ears. Nobody believes him, he can tell but most of them are used to him being weird now. It's been months of this impostor wearing their dear Harry's skin, so Molly just nods with sad eyes. Harry can tell she's about to say something, words of comfort or encouragment maybe, but Harry doesn't want this feeling to start actually feeling real, so he quickly turns to Charlie, asking, “What were you doing in Peru anyway?”

Immediately he can tell that Charlie is definitely not used to this version of Harry. With his sunny smile gone, confusion draws at his mouth and around his eyes, the gaze intense, searching. It takes all of Harry's new-lost willpower to not look away.

Something must give, because the frown is replaced by a wide grin, except there's something about it that makes Harry feel too exposed. Like Charlie actually saw something. And if he did, he doesn't say it.

Slowly his smile turns into something more contemplative, Charlie shifting a little in his seat, his hands absentmindedly plucking at the skin around his nails. " Do you guys know why owning and breeding dragons is illegal?" he asks, his sharp gaze sweeping over everyone present, the air around him turning more serious.

Expectedly, Hermione answers as if she's reciting something, "In 1756 a couple, Eddie and Maria Wains, organised a private collectors club that gathered every year. The Wains had a vast estate in Wales, where they supervised staff that dealt with breeding and selling many different dragon species. The invitation list was carefully picked, only the most influential and rich purebreed wizarding families were invited. The majority of the dragons were sold while still in their eggs, mere days before hatching, with certain exceptions, of course."

She seems a bit uncertain if she should continue, her nervous gaze meeting Charlie's who gently inclines his head, as if saying Go on.

She takes a deep breath, the words leaving her in a rush, "Many years later it-it was discovered that most hatchlings weren't sold to many interested buyers, but were rather-" she stumbles a little, grasping for words, "Were rather kept in the estates underground cave system, waiting t- to be used in blood rituals."

Harry's eyes widen, making brief contact with Ron who seems a bit paler than usual. Understandable, Harry thinks.

She closes her eyes for a second, and continues, determined, "More specifically, they were trying to find a way to prevent wizards from having babies with people without magic. With Muggles."

"What?!" exclaimed Ginny, leaning over the table, looking frantically between Hermione and Charlie, "What are you saying?"

Molly puts her hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her but looking at Charlie, "That's enough. They're kids, there's no reason to-"

Charlie almost looks angry. Harry has never seen him angry. "Of course they deserve to know, mum. It's history. History that got us where we are today." He looks at Harry, somehow looking almost sorry, "They kidnapped and tortured many people, Muggles and wizards alike, using them for experiments that they called The Sacrifice."

Harry feels like he's about to regret asking anything at all.

"It was an order of Purebloods trying to eradicate the existence of half-bloods. Some dragon species had a certain type of venom that mixed with wizard blood, was used in potions that could block a wizard's magic for hours, days or in some cases even years."

He feels sick, "So- so they were trying to- what? Prevent the magic from being passed on?"

"Could they really do that?" asks Ron, glancing at Hermione with unease, lips pressed tightly together.

Charlie nods, "That was exactly it. They wanted a "pure" society, where only purebloods could have children with magic. Half-bloods would just cease to exist." He huffs, his tone laced with distain, "I am sure you're all familiar with that sentiment."

"Historians refer to them as The First Death Eaters since some believe that this is where it all started," says Hermione. She looks angry, as if she hasn't already fought and won a war to defeat this mindset. Somehow the work never feels unfinished, and Harry can't help but silently agree.

"Wait, why haven't we heard of this before?" asks Ron.

Hermione shrugs, "The Wizarding Society isn't exactly fond of information sharing. Remember our fourth year? It's kind of like that. I was just lucky enough that Madam Pince let me visit the restricted section of the library from time to time. I kind of just- stumbled upon it."

"Those bloody hypocrites," says Ginny, with a good amount of spite behind it, which earns her a half-hearted smack from Molly.

"So," Harry turns back to Charlie, remembering, "what does this have to do with you being in Peru?"

He grimaces and stands up, now pacing, his magic spreading his unease around the room, "There was word of an illegal dragon selling ring of sorts, that traveled from reserve to reserve, stealing eggs and selling them for profit. They were last spotted in Peru, so the Ministry hired me and some of my work mates to come with them, in case things got- well let's say heated."

Harry would chuckle at the pun, but he didn't like where this was going.

"We got to the reserve, and immediately we could tell that something was wrong. These places are never quiet. Dragons can't be tamed and if alive they will make noise, but this place was dead silent. I swear I could hear my own heartbeat."

He stops his pacing, looking uncomfortable with recalling what happened, as if he never planned on telling them all of this, "Every dragon we encountered was killed. Every single one. It was a massacre. Done quickly but without mercy. We looked but couldn't find any of the eggs, realizing that we were entirely too late. " He swallows, seemingly in pain, the look in his eyes carrying heavy grief. "The reserves are usually far from any cities and are pretty big, so covering all that ground took hours," he looks at Ginny, "At some point I did encounter a Vipertooth that seemed unharmed. I couldn't get her back on my own, but the reserves are surrounded by pretty powerful magic, so she wouldn't be able to wonder far anyway."

"But," starts Ginny, "if the reserves are that protected, how could they have gotten in?"

Charlie sighs, looking more defeated by the minute, "We truly don't know. The magic signatures left behind indicated there was at least thirty of them, which-"

"That's impossible," says Hermione, eyes wide. "Getting one person through the barricade without the proper identifications would take at least a couple of hours, maybe? But thirty? Someone would have surely noticed in that time."

"Exactly. Which means-"

"They were working with someone on the inside!" exclaimed Harry, a sudden rush passing through his entire body. It made sense. If someone let them all through then they could have done their business in under an hour, if efficient. More than enough time to get in and out unnoticed. That must be it. He feels his magic humm with unreleased energy, suddenly determined to do something. Go. Move. Save. The air around him fills with distant static, a faint buzzing in Harry's ears that makes him shake his head, still distracted by his thoughts.

He doesn't notice the room going quiet around him, until he looks up to find everyone starring at him, or more like right above him, in various states of alarm. Harry frowns, about to ask whats wrong, when Molly says, her voice a mere whisper "Harry darling, would you mind letting the knives go?"

"What?" he says, utterly perplexed on what she's talking about. Slowly he looks up, only for all the air to leave his lungs as he sees knives hovering above his head, pointing to the front. To them.

He chokes, gutted as he frantically reaches up and plucks the knives from above, setting them all quickly on the table with a loud clutter. He can't breathe. When had he stopped breathing?

"I-I don't- I mean- I would never-"

Hermione is by his side in an instant, "Hey, shhhh, we believe you Harry, it was an accident." Her hand stroking his back makes his forehead clammy with sweat, and he can't breathe and she's so so warm.

"I've never- my magic, it's-"

"You did wandless magic before, remember? This is only that except your body just did it on its own," she says, rubbing his back with long slow strokes. In and out.

"I did?" he all but whispers, still starring at the knives on the table. Molly gets up and slowly gathers them, taking them to the kitchen. Out of sight. Away from Harry. He feels sick again, and can't really remember the last time he hasn't felt this way. He almost hurt them. He almost kill-

Hermione kneels next to him, reaching to turn his gaze towards her. Her eyes are so warm and so so brown. "That one time on the run, when we were walking for so long and it was so cold but we couldn't stop just yet. Remember?"

Harry's eyes involuntarily snap to Ron's, seeking some sort of reaction. Harry did this in his home.

His vision blurs and he can vaguely hear his wheezy breath barely making it past his lips. His lungs are burning in protest and Harry looks at Ron, and Ron looks at Harry, and his body feels too small to contain whatever is burning up inside him.

"Come on, Harry" urges Hermione, her hand pressing harder onto his back. Pressure. All around him.

A vague memory burns through his panic, of a long harsh winter day, when they feared they weren't far enough, weren't quick enough. Harry's hands were freezing and he kept them stuffed in his coat pockets, already dreading having to use his wand for a warming charm. So he didn't do it. He just thought about doing it, and it just kind of…happened. He remembers Hermione and Ron's relieved hum followed by surprise on how he managed to do it. It all feels like so long ago to Harry. Like a distant life. A different life.

He manages a big inhale and a harsh exhale, his breath shaking, "But I tho-thought about it then. I wasn't thinking about it now. Hermione I-I swear!"

She shushes him once again, her fingers gently carding through the mess on his head, "I believe you, you know I do. Wandless magic is-" she pauses, worrying her lip," -tricky. It makes sense that sometimes it would be difficult to control."

He desperately wants to believe her, so he nods, hoping she's right and this was just a fluke. An accident.

A hand on his shoulder almost makes Harry jump out of his skin, the harsh static feeling returning for just a second. He forgot other people were in the room, seeing him like this. Reluctantly, he turns, coming face to face with Charlie. That contemplative look is back on his face as he inclines his head, pointing to the front door, "Wanna walk with me, Harry?"

I would rather curl into a ball and hope you all forget I exist actually.

But he swallows the nerves and accepts his fate of another heart to heart. He slowly gets up, a little shaky, and follows Charlie, who is holding the door for him. "Don't worry," he says, adressing the other three, "I'll have him back in a jiffy." Harry looks back, silently pleading with whoever will listen, but receives no such support. Ginny all but pins him under her stare and Harry makes a mental note to try standing up to his ex-girlfriend. Later though.

As they start walking away from the house, Charlie stays mostly quiet, only humming a tune from time to time. It fights away some of Harry's unease, stomping down the horrible thoughts over what just happened. What Harry almost did.

They walk all the way to a lake, that calmly sits some way from the Burrow, it's waters clear and fresh, even in the summer heat. It's like magic Harry thinks, and then feels silly for it.

"You know," starts Charlie, soft, gentle, "I was glad I had somewhere else to go after the War."

Harry briefly closes his eyes, preparing. "What do you mean?" he asks, mouth suddenly dry. All the rotten food left all this cotton in his mouth, and he fears Charlie will bring it out of him.

Charlie doesn't seem rattled, holds as still as the water in front of them, emitting calm from his very core. "It was as if the world burned, and in some ways it really did, so I just wanted somebody else to put out the fire for me. I wanted to leave. So I did."

Harry remembers. When it was all over, how they all wanted to rebuild and heal. And he remembers a day, early autumn, when Charlie just up and left. He said goodbye to Molly and Arthur but not much other than that. Harry doesn't remember wondering why he left at the time, but now he finds himself listening. Curious.

Charlie takes his silence as permission to continue. "I couldn't take the burden of it all. Fred-" Harry freezes, ice in his already cold veins, "-died, and it broke something in everyone. Being here was just an ugly reminder, so I wanted something that didn't look like Fred at all."

Harry manages to ask, the words burning, "So why did you come back?"

Guilt. Guilt. It's all your fault. How can you look at yourself? How can he look at you?

From the corner of his eye he can see Charlie smile, his gaze fixated on the vast lake, "I learned that you can't really escape the people you love. I saw him everywhere, Harry. In the cunning of a dragon, and in the distant laugh of a merchant that sounded just like him. He followed me through every ocean and continent, and it felt like he'd be right there if I turned around quickly enough."

He sighs, sadness sipping through his sunny exterior, "I realized that there were others I wanted to see as well. Debated coming back for a long while." He looks at Harry then, the sun blinding, "I missed this. I missed home, and I was sad. I was grieving alone and I realized that I never wanted to."

Harry feels like breaking. He can feels the cracks start to form the longer Charlie talks. There's so much that Harry regrets, and the burn of it is all-consuming.

Charlie seems to understand in a way, "But the months spent away were still healing. I did it for me and I don't regret doing it. It sounds horrible but I don't regret leaving everyone." He turns, making Harry look at him, his eyes full of sorrow and the sun," The world burns, Harry. Doesn't mean you have to burn with it."

Harry is surprised that the crack in his very soul doesn't make an audible noise. His shoulders sag as he kneels in front of the water, grasping for something, someone. The reality of it all keeps pushing him down, and Harry has stood proud and tall in front of others all his life, but now he just wants to curl up and never get up again. Charlie kneels with him, simply pressing their shoulders together as Harry tries to remember how to breathe. How to live.

Could it really be that simple?

It's either minutes or hours, Harry can't tell, when he rolls back and sits down in his exhaustion. Just as he thought, when you tug on one end the rest will follow. Charlie sits back with him, just letting Harry breathe.

Charlie has always made Harry feel like something more than he really is. Maybe Harry wanted to be more like him, since he always gravitated towards him everytime Charlie showed up for Christmas. It wasn't every year, but as Harry got older he thought that maybe there was more to just wanting to be like him. There was a type of want, everpresent, but Harry pushes it down, even now, before it develops into something stupid. Something reckless.

"Where would I go?" he whispers, voice heavy with unshed tears.

Charlie hums, a type of hope lacing his words, "You could always come with me. I'll teach you all about dragons and you'll see the world. Mum wouldn't be too happy, but making her happy shouldn't really be the standard of living life."

Harry chuckles and considers this. He gathers it would be nice in a way. Seeing all the different places and freely doing what you want, with Charlie by his side and the sun on his back. For the old Harry it would have been perfect. But he knows he's not ready. Harry isn't really Harry, and he dreads making Charlie's life worse with his presence. Charlie is a Weasley and he's nice, so he'd never admit it but this is a fear of Harry's lately. Or it has been a fear all his life.

You're a worthless child! You're a burden to this family! If my sister was smart she would have killed you when she had the chance!

Harry sighs. It all sits heavy within him. The world won't feel like home, but maybe Hogwarts will. And Harry wants to take that chance, a last try before the shadows consume him. Maybe Ron and Hermione are right and this will be good for him.

He gets up, the blood rushing back into his legs making him itch all over as he offers a hand to Charlie. He hauls him up with a soft grunt, watching him dust off dirt that isn't there. Fidgeting. He looks like he's anticipating a certain answer and as Harry looks at him, he knows he'll be disappointed.

"Thank you for looking out for me," he says with sincerity, "but I think I'll try my luck here."

Expectedly, Charlie still grins, the scar stretching with it, and Harry quickly tucks the thought of what it would taste like away, deep deep down where even he won't find it.

"I admire your courage, Harry, " he says and Harry laughs, sharp and quick. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

Harry can't help but feel a slimmer of hope, weak but undeniably there as he smiles, "You and me both."

Notes:

i personally believe that Ron Weasley has the emotional range of a much bigger spoon

Chapter 6: all eyes on me

Summary:

Up for a shopping trip?

Notes:

i need you all to know that Harry does NOT have a crush on Hermione but i DO, so if that bleeds through it's only because i failed to separate the writer from the subject, Harry is but a victim

 

also i apologize for any American vs British English words, english is not my first language so mixing and matching is just how i roll, any corrections are appreciated!

Only the bustling and chatter of Diagon Alley could take Harry back to being that eleven year old kid again, wide-eyed and subtly pinching himself in hope that all of this is real, and he won't wake up under those creaky stairs again. Luckily for him, Hagrid wasn't just a product of his wild imagination, and this world was something that he got to keep. For better or for worse.

He's all but dragged around the street, tightly holding onto Hermione's hand in an attempt to not get lost among the number of people, all rushing to get their shopping done as quickly as possible. There's a tiny leaf stuck in her hair, catching onto the brown curls, and Harry's fingers itch to get it out of there. Before he gets the chance, her hold on him tightens as they manage to escape the dense part of the crowd, stopping in front of Madam Malkin's. They all huddle a bit closer together to avoid bumping into anyone, Hermione letting go of Harry's hand to pull out the list from her jacket pocket, brow furrowing in concentration, as she skims over it.

"We should go check out the Quidditch brooms after," says Ginny, straining her neck to see over the crowd, "I heard you can win the Nimbus 2004 in a game of catch, there's a list to sign up and everything. I believe it starts in about an hour or so." She looks excited at the challenge, her eyes practically gleaming at the thought of getting to fly the new broom model. Her gaze turns to him, grinning wide "What do you say Harry? Up for some good-ol' Snitch fun?"

Ron chuckles, his fingers carefully untangling the stray leaf from Hermione's hair, who's still absorbed in their supplies list, "If you want a chance at that broom, you should get Harry as far away as possible. There's no way you'll beat him."

Her grin turns a shade wicked, as she lifts her chin in a challenge, "You wanna bet?"

A part of Harry is too tired to even entertain the idea of a competition, but he does still hold some pride over his flying skills. Besides, he hasn't flown in a long while, he might as well check if he's even fit to try out for the Hogwarts' Quidditch team. Arms crossing and meeting Ginny's stance he says, "Alright, I bet two Galleons that I can catch the Snitch faster than you. Four that I can win the Nimbus."

Ginny practically vibrates with anticipation, "Deal! I've been practicing, you're done for."

"You guys don't even have your brooms with you," huffs Hermione, properly annoyed, pushing one stubborn strand of hair out of her face, which then gets securely tucked behind her ear by Ron. She looks at him fondly and takes a deeper breath, focusing on the task at hand, "Plus we still need new robes and we still need to stop by Flourish and Blotts."

Harry shuffles a little closer, leaning over her to take a look at the list they received from Hogwarts. They each got their own letter of course, but since they will be sharing a lot of classes, that with last year being a disaster, Hermione compiled a list for all four of them. The new so called "8th year" class is bound to be small, so McGonagall decided to combine some lectures with Ginny's year. It will be different but Harry thinks that some change will probably do them good. Harder to get caught up in old patterns.

True as she said, they still need robes and school books, which will most definitely take them longer than an hour. He looks up at Ginny apologetically, but she looks unbothered, "We get brooms at the competition so it evens the playing field, and you can always just drop off the list at Flourish's, and get the books delivered. Easy."

Hermione seems to consider all this, nodding to herself, "Alright. When we're done here I'll stop by the bookstore, and you all should go ahead to not miss the sign-ups. That will work."

"Actually I'll just go with you, Mione," says Ron a bit thoughtful, "just in case there's a problem and we won't be able to get the books by post. I'll help you carry them."

Everyone here is well aware that Hermione Granger is completely capable of charming any number of books to float, not even mentioning her magically extended bag. But as she looks at Ron as if he hung the moon herself on the night sky, nobody really has the heart to correct him. Harry can't help but snicker a little, making eye contact with Ginny who looks like she would rather eat the earwax Bertie Bott's Beans than see her brother in love.

To put her out of her misery, Harry interrupts, "I guess we should get going then?"

That snaps them out of whatever daze they were in, Hermione looking a bit embarrassed and Ron looking really proud to have gotten her there. They both nod so they all take their turn entering Madam Malkin's, Harry going last and softly closing the door behind them.

The windows must be charmed because the difference in noise is instantaneous, the shop's interior a quiet and soothing place. Harry can feel his shoulders sagging a little, just now noticing how wired up he was before, with all the noise and the people. He likes Diagon Alley, he really does, but he won't complain about some quiet and some personal space.

The little bell above the door alerts Madam Malkin to their presence, who looks up from her scrolls, her striking blue eyes assessing them. She smiles, greeting them warmly, "Good day, what can I help everyone with today?" She doesn't seem to recognise them, thankfully. Before they left, Hermione transfigured all of their faces to look just a little bit different, enough to not be recognised in public. He doesn't want any more uncomfortable handshakes and pictures than strictly necessary, The Ministry somehow always roping him into whatever cause they want him to support now. It annoys Harry on a good day, outright sickens him on a bad one. So with all of that, he would rather keep spontaneous fan-sighting to a minimum.

Harry subconsciously scratches at his forehead, the scar invisible, avoiding looking suspicious, as Madam Malkin's gaze stays on him for a bit longer than necessary. The very last thing they need is for her to think they're here to cause trouble.

Thankfully, Hermione steps forward, smiling politely, "Hello. We're here for the new student robes. We were hoping to get them by the end of August, if it is at all possible?" She slides over a smaller piece of paper with all the different robes that they will need.

Madam Malkin picks it up, reading over it quickly, already hopping down from her stool and walking away from the counter, quietly muttering something to herself. Her eyes once again sweep over all of them, assessing. Harry feels a little uncomfortable under her sharp gaze but it passes quickly enough. Seemingly satisfied she nods, "I can get all of this done in a week. I will still have to take your measurements, so first one, step to it." She snaps her fingers pointing to Harry, directing him onto the little platform in front of one of the mirrors.

Harry knew he wouldn't be able to avoid this without making it awkward for everyone involved, so as the others make themselves comfortable on the couch propped up next to the wall, he quickly takes of his jacket, setting it over the armrest , and stands on the platform, body rigid.

"It's okay to relax," she says while dragging over the stool from behind the counter, it's wooden legs scraping on the floor. Setting it next to Harry, she hops onto it with practiced ease to better reach Harry's arms. She lightly redirects them, touching his forearm, and if the cold bothers her she doesn't show it, her face looking polite but impassive. Harry manages to unclench his jaw a little.

He stays quiet as she works, only the sound of the others muttering between themselves filling the well-furnished space. He can't help his eyes from wandering, impressed by all the different gowns and robes she has on display. He never really noticed when he was younger, especially not in his first year, being too distracted by tiny Malfoy, standing proud and talking loudly. The very first kid wizard he met, and he sure did leave an impression. That small image of Malfoy bleeds over the sight of him on the stand, facing Azkaban, and Harry shakes a little, to get the image from his head. Not the time.

Madam Malkin clicks her tongue, willing him to stay still, "Just a bit more and you'll be done, young man."

"Yes, sorry-uhm thank you, Madam," he stutters out apologetically, quietly cursing at himself for letting his thoughts drift.

True to her word, it takes only another five minutes and he's free to go. He thanks her quietly and sits down on the couch, trading places with Ginny, who goes with an excited grin. Her and Harry do share their love for Quidditch, but he will never understand girls and clothes. As long as they fit semi-comfortably Harry won't complain. At least he knows Ron shares his sentiment, picking up on his friend's boredom. Hermione brought a book with her because she is Hermione, so him and Ron are left counting all the different bird species on the wallpaper. At least it passes the time.

Before they know it, it's Ron's turn, which leaves Harry alone in his counting game as Hermione and Ginny look over some of the fabrics displayed by the dress gowns. Harry hopes there won't be another ball this year. It will surely be a disaster so he'd rather just not show, but knowing who he hangs out with, he won't succeed.

"There we go!" says Madam Malkin, stepping down from her stool and loudly dragging it back behind the counter. They all follow her, putting their jackets back on as she rings them up. Before any of them have the chance, Harry steps forward, quickly handing her enough Galleons for all of their robes, plus extra, decidedly ignoring Ron's annoyed stare he can feel on the back of his neck. It's the least he can do.

She looks up at him with wide eyes but smiles quickly, thanking him, "I'll be sure to get these done quickly, young man. Your generosity won't be forgotten."

Harry can feel himself blush, ready to fight off her gratitude, but gets interrupted by Ginny, smiling sweetly, "Thank you for your exceptional work, Madam. Always a pleasure."

He can see Madam Malkin preen under the praise, clearly satisfied. "Only the best for our heroes," she says, winking at Harry.

The disguise must have not been as subtle as they thought, and Hermione stutters for an explanation but Madam Malkin just shushes her with her hands, "It is quite alright, Miss Granger, I wouldn't have known it was you if I haven't been seeing you here every year. I am good at my job you know. Never forget a measurement," she emphasizes by tapping her temple. "Now off you go. I am sure your day is not over."

They all thank her again, for the work and for being discrete, as they pile out of the door and onto the still busy street. The chatter seems louder than before, making Harry wince a little.

"Well that was something," says Ron, pulling his now blonde hair over his eyes, trying to see if he's suddenly ginger again.

"Very kind of her to not make a big deal out of this. Although I am sure that in her eyes we're still just those kids who couldn't sit still for a fitting," smiles Hermione.

"We should get going," says Ginny, lightly tugging on Harry's sleave, "We don't want to miss it."

"Yes, alright, let me jus-"

But before he can finish that sentence, somebody bumps into him hard, almost toppling him over if Ginny wasn't there to catch him.

"HEY!" yells Ron, "Watch where you're bloody going!"

As Harry regains his balance, he looks after the hooded figure, quickly moving through the crowd, not paying them a second glance. Harry frowns. Something feels - off about them.

"Whatever," Ron huffs, shaking his head, "people have no manners anymore, I swear."

"Are you alright, Harry?" asks Hermione.

"Hm?" he says, his gaze still following after the person, not being able to shake this feeling about something. His magic follows the instinct, a subtle static filling his ears, as his brain screams at him to Move!

"-ou alright?"

The feeling grows and Harry can't help it, "Yes. Just- just give me a second."

"Wait- Harry!"

And he's off.

His eyes stay glued to the hooded figure, moving like liquid through the crowd as Harry sprints into the heart of the movement. He knows he's not being particularly polite, by Ron's words, but he needs to catch them. His heart beats in his ears, a frantic rhythm set by his running and his anxiety. Harry pushes himself harder, fearing he will lose sight of them, his muscles straining as he runs.

Finally he breaks free on the other end, just catching them running into an alleyway, and with no regard for what might happen, Harry follows.

He rounds the corner and comes face to face with a dead end, for a second feeling defeated, but then his eyes catch something at the far end of the alleyway. His instinct screams at him, the static popping in his ears, breathing ragged, making it difficult to hear anything around him. The shape moves slightly, looking like it's hunched over something.

He pulls out his wand, approaching slowly and as quietly as possible.

The figure hears him anyway. It turns around slightly, and all Harry can see is a patch of dark blue on pale skin before they Disapparate, the distinct pop mysteriously missing.

There is a different noise, however, like a pained whine. Harry's eyes follow it, and he can now see what the figure was hunched over.

It's a woman. She can't be more than thirty but her skin is sticking to her bones, the color sickly and covered in sweat, making her look on the brink of death. Harry moves before he can think too much about it.

He kneels next to her. "Hey, hey- look at me. What happened?" he asks, his hands hovering over her, afraid to cause more pain, "Who did this to you?"

Her breathing is so faint that for a second Harry thinks he's too late, but her eyes are alert, boring into his, pinning him in place. She tries to speak but no sound comes out except for the wheezing. Harry notices blood in her mouth, some spilling over her lips slightly.

"Just- okay, don't talk. Save your energy," he urges, gently grasping for her hand that she barely squeezes back. She's weak. She's dying, and Harry is useless.

He tightly squeezes his eyes, willing himself to snap out of it, his magic humming with unreleased energy. Think. The pressure builds, his magic thumping against his insides. As he opens his eyes, bright red sparks release with a loud pop, flying over their heads, about a dozen of them, signaling for help. For the Aurors. They will know what to do.

"Okay, okay," he chants, smoothing over the woman's hair, a couple of strands falling out, her breathing weaker by the second, "They will come for you alright? Just focus on breathing. Where does it hurt the most? Can you show me?"

Her limbs don't move, her grip almost slack, the only movement the spasms of pain. She's shivering. or that might be Harry, he can't quite tell. He's terrified.

What if I was too late?

He hears footsteps behind him, urgent and fast. He turns, making eye contact with Ron, an ounce of relief flooding through him.

"Harry!" he runs towards him, and Harry can tell the moment he sees the woman because his face becomes three shades paler. He doesn't question Harry but turns back around, bellowing with a strong voice, "Hermione! Ginny! He's here!"

More footsteps and in seconds Hermione is kneeling by the woman, immediately pulling out her wand and performing some sort of spell. The woman looks relieved for only a second and then she stills completely, breathing stopping.

Harry panics, "Wha- What did you do?!"

"I performed a Statis spell," she says, looking over the woman, gaze focused, brow furrowed, "She will stay like this for about a minute. I basically put her in a time bubble. For this next minute she won't get worse."

"Not better either," snaps Harry, his emotions running high. They need to get her out of here. They need to help her.

"Harry, I'm not a Healer. I can't help her without possibly making her ten times worse. You called the Aurors, we saw the sparks."

"Yeah, and so did all of the people out there," says Ginny, already standing up and trying to make the people at the entrance to stand back. Harry didn't even notice them, but now that he's looking, he's attracted more attention than he's ever wanted to. He accidentally makes eye contact with one of the men, something like recognition passing over his eyes as he shouts, "That's Harry Potter!"

"Shit," curses Ron, "you look like yourself again."

"So do you," says Hermione, "we all do. This Statis spell takes a lot of concentration, I couldn't do it all."

"You made the right choice," says Harry, hoping it's true as he watches the crowd get louder and bolder, making Ginny come up with some colorful threats for them to stay away, Ron deciding to help her by putting a shield up.

Harry turns back to the woman, still completely still, and even knowing why doesn't make him feel any better. She already looks dead.

"What happened," mutters Hermione while concentrating on some more diagnostic spells, all of the images coming up red.

Harry frowns, "I just had this feeling about the person who bumped into me. I couldn't help it so I just- just kind of followed them here, and- Merlin- this is who they were hunched over. They Disapparated away as soon as they saw me."

"They couldn't have hurt her this severely that quickly. I don-"

"EVERYBODY MOVE!"

Both Hermione and Harry jump, looking to where the yell came from. There at the entrance to the alleyway, the crowd disperses, making way to five Aurors, all dressed in long black robes, with the gold Ministry crest pinned on them. The first one, Harry assumes he's the man who yelled, spells away Ron's shield, quickly stepping up to Harry and Hermione, looking down at the woman.

"What is this," he asks, tone hard.

"We found her like this," answers Hermione, "I have performed the Statis spell on her. She is severely wounded. She needs immediate med-"

The woman behind her gasps loudly, the spell running it's course, as she coughs up more blood. Harry winces, still holding her hand and squeezing tightly.

"I understand. Walker!" barks the Auror, turning around to the others, "Send for the Emergency Medical Team."

"Already done, sir" says one of them, looking like the youngest out of the Aurors, and severely green in the face.

"Good. Everybody else, deal with the crowd. Walker, you and me are on questioning."

Walker looks a bit nervous at that, glancing between Harry and Hermione but ends up nodding, "Yes, sir."

There's another pained whine from the woman, a tiny faint sound, and Harry's head snaps to her. He scoots closer, gently rubbing her hand, "It's alright, there's Healers coming. They will take care of you."

She opens her mouth, a gurgled sound coming out of it that could be words. Harry leans in close to try and make them out, but before he can, somebody yanks him by the shoulder, forcing him to lean away and stand up.

"Hey! What-"

"We need to question you and your friends, Mister Potter," says the Auror, harshly leading him and Hermione away from the woman, "Make way for the medical team."

Harry's eyes refuse to leave the woman, who is now surrounded by Healers, and just before they put her under another Statis spell, she mouths something to him. She does it too fast and she's too far away for Harry to catch it, and dread fills his stomach as she stills once again, the Healers levitating her off the ground.

His line of sight is broken as they round the corner, and the crowd that has gathered around them erupts in questions the second they see him.

"Harry! What's going on? Tell us something!"

"Mister Potter are you alright? Did that woman hurt you?"

"Do you think that this has something to do with The Dar-"

All sound is completely cut off as him, Hermione, Ron, Ginny and the two Aurors are enveloped into what seems to be a two-way Silencing Charm. Harry releases a big breath, hunching over a little. He hasn't been in public in so long, especially not as himself. He already dreads the noise after the Aurors will be done with them.

The older Auror clears his throat, making Harry look up at him. His dark and sharp eyes meet Harry's, emitting authority. He has a neatly trimmed beard, with long-ish black hair tied into a neat ponytail, clearly putting a lot of effort into looking presentable. Next to him stands Walker, a young cadet, Harry assumes, with short blonde hair and soft blue eyes, barely making eye contact with any of them.

"I am Auror Evans, this here is Walker, our Auror in training. I hope you don't mind if he's present while we conduct this questioning." It's more of a statement than a question. His tone is clipped and straight to the point, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else but here. Harry immediately doesn't like him.

Hermione speaks on their behalf, "That's alright with us." The rest of them nod with her quietly.

"Perfect," Evans clips, "Now, tell me what happened here."

They all look at each other, a silent conversation passing between them. Ultimately Ron speaks up first, voice unwavering, "We were getting robes at Madam Malkin's, when this guy- well I assume it was a guy, we couldn't see their face, bumped into Harry here, almost knocking him over. We didn't think much of it but Harry decided to run after him. We lost him in the crowd but then we saw the call for the Aurors and knew where to find him."

"Walker, pull out your notebook, write this down," snaps Evans. Walker sputters, pulling out a small notebook from his robe pocket, almost dropping his pen in the process with how fast he's moving. Annoyed at the sight, Evans then turns his suspicious gaze at Harry, "Why did you follow?"

Harry isn't sure how to explain this, "Well it just felt- wrong? I just had this feeling that I had to go after them."

Evans raises one of his neatly trimmed eyebrows, clearly disbelieving, "And then what, Mister Potter?"

He says Harry's name as if he's mocking him, as if Harry stuck his nose where it didn't belong, and now he gave him more work to deal with. Harry quietly bristles, trying to keep his voice even and calm, "I followed them to this alley. They were hunched over that woman, and as soon as they were aware I was there, they Disapparated. I then saw the woman and tried to help best I could."

Walker's pen is making this scratching noise as he scribbles on his notebook, trying to note everything down, and Harry focuses on that as Evans scoffs, "You expect me to believe that the person you allegedly saw hurt that woman as badly as they did, all in a couple of seconds?"

Hermione pipes up, "That's what I thought too. It's highly unusual."

"Yes, that it is Miss Granger. If you all weren't who you are, I would have suspected you had something to do with it," he accuses, his harsh gaze sweeping over all of them. Harry is surprised that Ginny's glare doesn't kill him on the spot, but Evans looks unbothered.

"You are not serious, sir?" gasps Walker, his pen stilling, "This- this is Harry Potter!"

Harry appreciates the sentiment because he is in fact innocent, but he hates when people throw his name around like that. As if just being who he is makes him better than everyone else. It all tastes bitter on his tongue. He tries for a sincere tone, "Look, we're telling you the truth. I probably know even less about what's going on here than you do. We've told you everything we know."

The sneer on Evans' face is uncomfortably familiar as he waves his wand, removing the Silencing Spell, the chatter of now an even lager crowd almost deafening, "We will see about that Mister Potter," he all but spits, "We'll be in touch."

He grabs Walker by his shoulder, apparently a habit of his, and yanks him towards the rest of the Aurors, robe fanning out behind him in a manner so like Snape's that Harry feels nostalgic for a second. But only a second.

Harry can hear people calling for him but he turns towards Ginny quickly, hiding his face, "Sorry about the competition, we definitely missed it by now."

Ginny rolls her eyes so hard he thinks they'll pop right out of her head, "Harry you probably just saved a woman's life. Get a grip."

Harry chuckles a little, worry still pulling on his heart, "I hope she'll be okay. She looked really bad."

"That she did," says Hermione, looking at the crowd, "We should Apparate out of here, there's no way we're making it through this."

"What about the books?" asks Harry, guilt sitting heavy, "I can handle some reporters, Mione."

She shakes her head, "Don't be ridiculous, me and Ron will go another day. Now come on, lets go. Focus. "

Harry has no chance but to follow, as they all close their eyes focusing their mind on the soft summer grass in front of the Burrow. The yells from the crowd grow even louder as they have no doubt figured out what they're doing, but the noise is drawn out by the sickly feeling Apparition always gives him.

In seconds he falls heavily on the grass, air punched from his lungs.

"Never gets easier, ay?" says Ron, offering a hand for Harry to stand, his strong arms pulling him up effortlessly. Harry rights himself, taking a deep breath of the fresh air around him, glad to be rid of all the prying eyes. What a nightmare.

"Yeah," chuckles Harry, the events of the day pulling at his limbs, dragging him down, "Today was crazy."

"Are you alright?" Ron asks, the worry in his eyes and a steady hand on his shoulder a well-known duo.

Harry sighs, "Yeah- I mean I think? It was just confusing you know?" Harry still feels the panic. She looked so frail but her eyes were so intense. He probably won't forget that gaze for a long time. And Merlin, she was trying to tell him something, but everything else is such a blur, the adrenalin waning out.

"It was really strange," mutters Hermione, almost to herself, "How could they have hurt her like that? How did they even know she was there?"

Ginny plops down onto the grass, closing her eyes, "Maybe we could go visit her at St Mungos or something. When she gets better."

"You think the Aurors would let us?" scoffs Harry, "That Evans guy hated me."

She cracks one eye open, grinning, "Won't hurt him if he doesn't know."

Ron nods enthusiastically, "We haven't done something reckless and illegal in so long, please can- OW! Mione! I was kidding!"

"Knowing you, no you weren't," she chuckles, "Enough plotting for now. Let's get inside, Molly is probably wondering what's taking us so long." She starts walking towards the Burrow, reaching back to take Ron's hand in hers, while rummaging through her charmed bag. Next to Harry's feet, Ginny emits a big huff as she springs up, not caring about the grass on her pants, a smidge of tiredness pulling around her bright eyes. She looks at Harry and inclines her head towards the house, following the others.

Harry's cold hand grasps at nothing, everything sludgy and slow after such a long day. He follows the rest to the house, steps heavy, hoping that Molly made some of her chicken soup. It's the only thing that doesn't make Harry's insides churn, the taste mild and barely there, which is preferable.

His thoughts drift back to the hooded figure and their pale face. At the memory he can't help but feel this unease, as if they're still right in front of him. He wills the thoughts from his head, trying to focus on the promise of hopefully uninterrupted sleep.

Still, throughout the evening, his magic hums.

Notes:

hmmm i wonder what all of that was about

next up: Hogwarts!