Hello there! Hope your holidays were wonderful. Here for the nee year, a new story I hope you enjoy. If you like it, please don't hesitate to leave a review. All rights to JKR. Xo
All in Time
A Horrible Year
It had been a horrible summer, Harry thought, standing on the platform of the clock tower of Hogwarts one night. He looked out the clear glass of the clock's face at the front gates. Smoke was rising steadily from Hagrid's hut, curling and dissipating into the chilly spring air. Harry could smell the fresh grass and budding Whomping Willow on the breeze that came in through the glassless windows on the wall opposite the clock. He took yet another swig of his firewhiskey, mulling the past nine months through his heavily drunken mind.
The few weeks after the fall of Lord Voldemort had been filled with funerals, memorials, dedications, Wizengamot trials, Prophet reports. Christ, the reports had been murder, and why had he needed bother with giving eight draining interviews, when the Quick-Quote Quills only hacked apart his words anyway? By the time he had put his foot down on using the quills, everything the reporters wanted to print had been printed. There was no defending himself from Rita Skeeter's accusations that Harry had been the one with the whole scheme, not Dumbledore, all along; that he and Dumbledore had orchestrated the Headmaster's murder together. Xaviar Voldak had convinced half of Wizarding Europe that Harry needed deep psychological testing, to prove that there was no threat of an aspiring, deranged new Dark Lord. Harry had stopped receiving the Prophet after that, but the papers had done their job. He hadn't necessarily wanted hero-worship, but it would have been better than suspicious whisperings and fearful faces he saw on the street.
The funerals, however, had been thrice-fold exhausting as the articles. Two and a half weeks of services, nine just the first weekend that Harry was obligated to attend—that was the weekend that the mass ceremony for the Hogwarts students had been held on the grounds, as well. Harry spoke at that one, faltering and stumbling over words that Hermione had put together for him. He supposed they made complete, meaningful sentences, but Merlin's left tit if he could remember what came out of his mouth. Lavender's mum had spoken. The Creeveys (and how did McGonagall manage to explain to muggles that their child was killed in a wizarding war that they had no clue was going on in the first place?). Some parents of the other fallen students spoke. Headmistress McGonagall gave a beautiful speech about bravery and honor and hope. But the deaths of fifty-plus people could have been avoided if only Dumbledore hadn't kept Harry in the dark. If Harry had known all along, if he hadn't had to go through months of solving some convoluted puzzle, he could have been prepared, so many lives could have been spared.
Harry battled with the Ministry to give Severus Snape his dues. Even after he had shown Snape's memories, the powers that be refused to so much as suggest that he was anything other than a Death Eater. Harry finally went above their heads to Shacklebolt to get Severus his much deserved Order of Merlin, First Class. He planned the funeral, to which an estranged sister of his mother's, McGonagall, and the guarded Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy were the only attendees. Harry vaguely wondered where Draco had been, but was too stunned to ask after Lucius shambled up to him, followed by an Auror, to shake Harry's hand and thank him for going so far out of his way. Harry could do nothing but accept the offered hand and gratitude, and wonder at the humbled, frail presence of the once proud man.
Fred Weasley's funeral had been an interesting affair. Molly and George nearly brought the Burrow down with their ferocious arguing over how Fred's ceremony should be handled. Molly wanted a mournful affair in a rented parlour, with respectful whisperings and tea and quiet speeches. George knew better. He insisted on a party at the Burrow, with fireworks and drinks and dancing. Harry had seen George's quiet anger—when he had rescued Harry from the Dursley's and the twins had seen how he was treated; when Malfoy sent a wind charm up Ginny's skirt in the corridors in her third year; many times during Umbridge's reign—but never had Harry seen him explode in a fit of uncontrolled magic. Tendrils of crackling, electrical magic whipped around Harry, Hermione, and the other Weasleys in the kitchen as George hollered that to mourn Fred in such a way as his mother's desire was to insult his memory. Harry silently agreed, and as he looked around the room, so did everyone else. Eventually, after Arthur got into the middle of mother and son, Percy spoke—it was the first time Harry had heard him speak since Fred died. "Mother," he said quietly, but firmly, "George is right. The best way to honour Fred is to mourn him the way that he would want to be mourned. I believe you know this is the right way, but are caught between the 'should-do's' of Fred's personality and society. From experience, Mother, when it comes to family, forget society." Molly had looked between Percy and George, rose from the table, and left out the back door into the sunny garden. She came back a half hour later, hugged George, and told him he was right. The memorial three days later was held in the garden of the Burrow, where the firewhiskey and butterbeer flowed plentiful, and the flower-fragrant breeze wrapped around the thirty-plus attendees as they shared stories and laughed. George, Harry noticed, took particular solace in the once-Gryffindor Keeper, Angelina Johnson, and he had to smile a bit to himself, happy that George had someone like that.
Ginny had tried to approach him, presumably to re-kindle old feelings, but Harry wasn't ready in the slightest for any of this. He didn't know how he was supposed to be attracted to Ginny, to give her the love she deserved, when he felt such a gnawing pit sucking in his core, feeding off most of the emotion he had for himself. Ginny deserved so much more; she deserved everything, and Harry could give nothing. Not right now, at least.
Which led him to his biggest worry: Edward Remus Lupin.
Harry and Andromeda had planned the Lupins' funerals together. Remus and Dora had been buried together in the Tonk's family plot. Harry spent his time after the battle with Andromeda and Teddy in her home, refusing to let the baby not know who his godfather was. After all, in two short years, he would be the sole person responsible for him, or so said Remus and Dora's will. It had been bittersweet, holding a sleeping Teddy to his chest while he read the infant's parent's will. It stated that Harry was to take full custody of Teddy in the event of their deaths, unless Harry was under twenty, in which case custody would be temporarily given to Andromeda until the thirty-first of July, two-thousand. That was a year and four months away, and while Harry had spent every hour he could with the eleven-month-old, he couldn't shake the fear that he would be a terrible guardian. Andromeda had taught Harry how to change a diaper, how to kiss an owie better. She had been trying to find him help to clear and prepare Grimmauld Place for Teddy while he was at Hogwarts. He loved Teddy. He wanted to be the best father he could for him.
His biggest fear was that he would fail miserably and fuck up an innocent child worse than the Dursleys had fucked up himself.
Harry took another biting gulp of firewhiskey.
It had also been a horrible winter. After the war was over, Death Eaters had been locked up left and right. Lucius Malfoy had been convicted of being a Death Eater and for associated hate crimes and sent to Azkaban for fifteen years. Narcissa Malfoy had been found guilty of crimes by association, for standing by and letting her husband invite Voldemort into their home. She had been sentenced to house arrest for three years, and a probationary period afterward of at least one. Draco Malfoy had confessed to taking the Dark Mark and creating a passage for Death Eaters to invade Hogwarts that fateful night their sixth year. For this, and for swearing repentance, he was given house arrest, until that September, with leave for mandatory community service—helping to the castle—under direct supervision of an auror, and then three years' probation. He was also lawfully compelled to return to Hogwarts and finish his education, so that he might be able to become a useful member of wizarding society. One of the stipulations, Harry had heard, was that Draco was to take Muggle Studies, which was led by a new teacher who had a brand new lesson plan. The idea was that he should learn a new acceptance for muggles and muggle-borns. Harry thought it a lost cause.
Harry and Hermione had gone back to study for their NEWTS exams, while Ron stayed behind and lived in the apartment above the WWW to give George a hand in the shop. The headmistress had been at a loss for what to do for the students. Some had excelled, or at least broke even, the year of the battle, and had they taken exams, they would have likely passed. Others—through no fault of their own—did horribly. Mostly people like Neville and Ginny, who were public muggle and muggle-born supporters. Hermione had been helping her with the education track and suggested an exam be sent out to all students that attended that year, whether they passed end-of-year exams or NEWTS or not, to see where they were at according to the new syllabus. If they passed, they passed the grade or kept their diplomas. If they failed, they stayed back a year. McGonagall accepted, and the results had been 58%-42%, with the lead to passing. McGonagall was worried that she would have to hire extra teachers and how things would be so off the next few years. Hermione again had a solution to this: the students who would have graduated, like Harry and Neville and herself (who would later be dubbed "eighth years") be signed on as teacher's aides. The project had gone off very well, which had Hermione looking very smug whenever she sat beside Professor Flitwick's desk, taking notes as he lectured and assisting students as needed. Harry had been appointed none other than Defense Against the Dark Arts to aid, and the teacher that had been hired for the spot—Professor Roybal—seemed to be putting to rest the curse which had been laid upon the spot since Tom Riddle had been denied the position. Roybal and Harry got along, and seemed on the same page throughout most of the lessons, and Harry certainly got his fair share of assisting other students.
Harry knew he had plenty of blessings in his life. Teddy, for one. Hermione to hang out with and to help him with homework. Ron, who sent him packages full of Weezes to test. A job that earned him his DADA credit, which was one less class he needed to study for. A girl waiting for him to come back to her.
But in the centre of it all, the gaping wound left by the war hadn't healed. The battle had been traumatic for him, but hadn't it been so much worse for those who had people to mourn? Yes, he had died, but he'd come back, healthy and physically whole. Shouldn't he be grateful for that? And he was, he knew he was.
It didn't stop him from feeling as though a Dementor had taken residence in him.
He had killed the Darkest wizard of their time. That, Harry supposed, was the problem. He had killed. It didn't matter that he as a murderer, a rapist, a xenophobe to the extreme. The fact was that he was killed, murdered, by a seventeen-year-old boy, in front of the entire wizarding world, and the lot of them had hailed him for it. Harry had gotten a lot of flak about plotting and his mental state, but no one had called him out for killing a human being.
The more Harry considered it, the wider that hole in the pit of his stomach grew. It had gnawed and gnashed its way from his stomach to his brain, to where every moment of rest that Harry had, he obsessed over what it meant. Would he turn into a killer? What would happen if he lost his temper? He'd already proved that when angry, his magic could be volatile. If that seed of evil had planted root in him, he could lose total control if angered, he reckoned.
Another long drink from the amber glass bottle in his fist, half gone, and Harry leaned forward against the ledge of clock, resting his brow on the cool glass of the face.
Without truly processing what he was thinking, Harry wondered what would happen if he kicked out a panel of the ancient glass and pushed himself through it, over the ledge, and let himself fall to the cold, unforgiving brick path below. Would it hurt? Would he feel afraid? Would he feel anything? It might be worth it if, in his last moments, he could at least feel something.
Another one, two, three swallows from the bottle. It burned on its way down, liquid fire ripping through his throat, but at least it was something. That was why he'd filched it from Snape's abandoned office, he supposed. He idly wondered if Snape would be trying to strangle Harry from beyond the grave for daring to enter his office, let alone steal a bottle of his finest whiskey.
A rattle of the metal spiral staircase snapped Harry out of his thoughts with a jerk and he almost dropped the bottle. With a swish of his invisibility cloak, Harry covered himself and scampered to the far edge of the platform he was on. Unless he was willing to test his will-it-hurt-if-I-jump experiment, he had about five feet of empty space around him in the corner behind the staircase. He heard no voices, only a steady huff of slightly exerted breath.
Harry's breath stuck in his throat before he let out a gasp and gave himself away. Just because he had morbid, suicidal thoughts didn't mean he had a death wish, after all. He didn't think that Draco Malfoy would ask questions before stunning the pants off him.