Count to Ten
Summary: Harry Potter is suffering from post-war trauma due to what he saw the day of the battle. He has been in a state of shock, despair and numbness since then.
Note:
-All the characters don't belong to me but to J. , only the situations and interactions are mine.
-This is the first one-shot I've written in a while, don't mind my lack of knowledge of page layout, it'll get better eventually. Anyway, feel free to review!
Nothing, he can't feel a thing, he's numb, sore everywhere, he knows he's probably in a ball somewhere, he would want to go inside himself, to disappear. Far from these voices. Calling him great names. He's not a survivor, he's not chosen, he's not a hero. He's just a boy, lost in a universe of nothingness. Haunted by the ghost of a battle, the earth stained by blood forever, people screaming, strangers, teachers, comrades, friends, lover. Suffering, howling, dying under the wands of other human beings. Cruelty at its finest.
There's a wall now. He can't hear anything outside of it, can't feel anything, can't see anything. It's been this way since then. That day, that battle, that slaughter. Voices screaming into his ears, tears in their throats, teeth scraping around his ears, on his face, his hand, his feet, feeding on him.
He slowly breathed out. He was lying awake. Closing his eyes.
One, he relaxed his shoulders, unfolded an arm, caressed the sheets.
Two, he took in the warmth coming from next to him, he brushed against bare skin.
Three, he unfolded his legs, leaving the feotal position he was in.
Four, he breathed in, soap.
Five, he shivered, voices echoing, ringing in his ears, the regular breathing of the person next to him soothed him.
Six, he opened an eye, his face partly buried in a pillow, nothing but blurry darkness.
Seven, he opened the other, the right one, a face gently illuminated by some light, or was it emiting the light ? It was so pale.
Eight, he looked, it was blurry but he could almost make out the features, birdlike.
Nine, he reached for his face, slightly touching his cheek, warmth, silver eyes, light fingers on his neck, his shoulder, his arm, hand on his hand.
Ten, « You are alive, Harry », a cracked voice, faint smile coming from it, he breathed in and remembered.
Salt wet on his lips. Iron bitter in his mouth. Voices buzzing, screams leaving him hollow, trembling, dropping to his knees. It was too much to bear, he closed his eyes, tried to forget the corpse lying next to him, his knee touching her, a stranger, wasted into nothingness, pale face, red lips, hair falling on her shoulders, now scattered on her face, sticky with blood. She had reached out to him and smiled. She smiled at him and then, she went. She forgot to take the memories of her to wherever she was headed. How selfish, disappearing from life's record but still staying in people's memories. A lingering nameless ghost, she will remain as such when she comes and haunts him. Then, he felt hands dragging him, a tumbling powerless puppet, what good could he be now ? Yes, they won, but at what price ? Death won this round.
He sat up, rocking his body slowly, his head reaching the mattress then swinging back to hit the headboard. « Why ? » whispered in an endless thread. Salt on his lips, his hands rubbing it on his skin, permeating it, salt everywhere. Blood on his lips, in his mouth, tongue lapping his lips, teeth chewing everywhere.
The touches firm by now, the voice awake by now, the eyes fierce by now were distant. A wall separated them. He stood still. It had calmed down, whatever was under his scalp, under his skin, in his being, it stopped. He looked up, it was blurry but he could see two orbs of moonlight incrusted in a pale, angular face. « Purity » he mumbled.
Arms lifted him up, the floor under his feet, it was warm, comforting. He heard him calling a name, someone came in, and he was dragged to somewhere else. The floor was cold, his toes coiling, hewas blinded by the light, the whiteness of the room. He faintly heard water running, hands on him, carefully removing clothes, he was immersed into water. The hands were everywhere, persistent, rubbing him, he heard voices, they were distant. A freckled hand passed in front of his eyes, diverting his gaze, he followed it for a second, it froze, he was amazed by the map these dots formed, they crawled on the hand, merging into a big point, hollow. Screams, blood, lights poured from it. He tried to escape them, hands maintained him in the water, the wall thickened. He went limp, falling into darkness.
The girl was there. She was waiting for a bus that will never come. On this bare landscape, no life to be seen, only nothingness. Except for a bus stop, a little bench setlled on cold black tiles. An image of the bus network hanging in the air over the bench, it's lines kept on fading, only one stayed now, and only one dot.
« The next stop will be the last » she spoke without moving her mouth. « You know that, don't you ? »
He sat on the bench. His hands on his knees, he couldn't feel the fabric of his jean under his palms. His senses were dull here, he didn't think his hearing worked too for when he opened his mouth to answer her, he spoke without a movement. « I'm sorry ».
He felt more than saw her breath quicken. « And I feel sorry you're this stupid... » she sighed. « That's always the first thing you say : sorry. »
« It's my fault. I'm the one who caused your death... Everyone's death. » He let his head fall into his hands, fingers freely tugging on his hair. No, he could feel. Guilt, remorse, despair, sadness.
« This war was yours, yes. But it was yours to battle, yours to win, and you won. You have been tangled to this battle all your life, it was the climax of this era, of your first era, she paused. You know... I like to think of life as divided in eras, with a different queen or king for each. Mine was great, it was governed by joy, a queen, smiles, warmth, sunlight, flowers, I still feel all of that... Yours was a dark, crazy, disturbed king and his era ended with a battle. Some eras don't end well » A silence, she looked at her feet, then she slowly turned towards him. « Do you know what happens when an era ends ? »
He silently shook his head, averting his eyes, trying not to look where he thought her lifeless eyes would be.
« There's a celebration, people mourn, yes, because seeing something ending is always a sad sight, but... It's a renewal at the same time. Death calls life, they love and hate each other, where there's death, there will always be life. Life is the beginning of a new era. » A silence, she considered the non-existent horizon. « You can start anew. A new life is waiting for you, don't you see it ? » she was whispering now.
« I could stay here. With you. I... don't think I could look people in the eye. » His voice was muffled by his knees. He was bent, his head on his knees.
« Where's the brave boy who was sorted into Gryffindor ? What ? You want to die rather than live ? » she calmed a little. « The choice is yours but think of the consequences. You don't want to leave them, I know it. »
« No, I- » he sat up again, she stopped him. « I'm a figment of your imagination, I know you... And you don't want to lose anyone, especially him. You love him too much for that »
« I... hardly recognize him, I don't know, I don't remember him, or them. I forgot, no... I want to forget. Everything... I'm not that brave you know » He had a little smile, shaking his head. « Merlin, I suppose I'm stupid too, right ? »
« You are a big idiot. » her voice was smiling. « The bus is coming soon. »
« Does it mean you'll never come back ? »
« Move on, people need to move on or else they don't feel complete. You can still accomplish a lot, you are not alone, you have never been and you will never be. »
He looked at her for the first time. She was smiling, he could see it, her hair smoothly falling on her shoulders, her eyes laughing. He smiled back at her, she looked him in the eyes. Silver eyes, pale complexion, her features started to change, elongated, became birdlike. He blinked.
One, he moved his hand, letting his fingers roll.
Two, he gingerly unfolded his arm, playing with his elbow.
Three, he let his fingertips linger above that person's cheeks, on his cheekbones, up to his eyes.
Four, he unfolded his other arm, letting it rest on his knee, delighted at the feeling of the fabric under his palm.
Five, he let his hand roam in the hair as light as day, shining as bright as moonlight, smooth.
Six, he couldn't stop looking him in the eyes, his silver eyes, burning with something that gave him strength.
Seven, he was surprised when his hand goes back to his cheeks to find them wet, his silver eyes are filled with tears.
Eight, he was crying, smiling, sobbing and laughing.
Nine, he repeated his name, again and again, there was no end to it, he could have said it all day long.
Ten, « I'm alive Draco ».