For The Houses Competition. It's a Muggle war AU. Title from 'Safe and Sound' by Taylor Swift
WARNING for discussion of PTSD and trauma
House: Ravenclaw
Year: 5
Category: Additional
Prompt: Platonic love
Word count: 938
Later, they tell you that you were the one who fired that final shot. You were the one who killed the feared Lord Voldemort and ended this terrible war.
You remember it, in a detached, dream-like way. When you remember (and you try hard not to), it is like you are watching things happen from a distance, like you are there, but not. You can't quite reconcile that time with now. It was a different person who killed Voldemort (not so) many months ago.
PTSD, some call it, letters that explode and hammer against your skull.
You live with Ron and Hermione now. It's nice. They're getting married in a few months; Ron proposed after you both came back from the Front. You love them both endlessly, and you are happy for them, but you do worry that you're intruding on their engagement bliss. You do tend to be a downer these days, what with the thousand-mile stares, and the night terrors, and jumping at every little noise.
They assure you that you're fine, and isn't that an overstatement if you've ever heard one. Because you're not fine. In fact, you've never been less fine.
But.
You know that's not what they mean, so you let it slide with a forced laugh and a thanks. Ron nods at you in understanding, and you remember: he was there, too. He gets it. Sort of.
You wonder if you could talk to him about it. Whatever it is. You decide that you probably could, but you also decide not to. Ron isn't cracking up like you are, and he doesn't need your bullshit being dumped all over him, too. Anyway, it's not like you're special or anything. You all saw some shit over there, you all killed people, you just have to deal with it like everyone else is. Simple.
And, in theory, it is. In practise, well, not so much. You flinch every time a door slams shut. You see Death Eaters in their silver masks around every corner. You dream.
There was a boy in your company. Colin Creevey, his name was. Eighteen and barely five feet tall, he always seemed so vibrant and full of life. Everyone loved him like a little brother, and you all vowed to protect this kid who had no business fighting a war.
Of course, your promises meant jackshit when he caught an enemy bullet right between his eyes. He was dead before he hit the ground, his face paused halfway to surprise. You saw it happen, but you were still shocked when they brought the body back to be shipped home. He still looked like a child, with mud and twigs for hair and the round cheeks of youth. That is, he looked like a child but for the ugly hole piercing his forehead.
Colin was one of the lucky ones, they say. At least there was a body left to send home.
You dream about the Death Eaters, too, sometimes. How there were men - boys - on the other side, just like Colin, or you, who died. Maybe their parents weren't so lucky, maybe their bodies still lay in pieces on the ruined fields. How many did you kill? How many families did you deprive of a son, or a husband, or a father? How many men died by your hand?
(After you killed him, you realised that Tom Riddle was just a man, too.)
There is so much blood on your hands, blood that cannot be washed out with soap and water. This blood runs soul-deep; you can feel it, staining you, marking you for eternity. When you look in the mirror you see it in the darkness of your once so bright green eyes. They are hollow, dead, black with layers of blood and death, a true reflection of what lies inside you.
(You've seen eyes like this before. You've made eyes look like this before.)
One night, you dream of those eyes. You see yourself in the mirror, red streaks dripping down your face and off your chin. Blood runs in rivers down your fingertips, pools in your life lines and creeps into your mouth. You begin to choke, your throat clogging up with all the lives you took -
You wake up with tears on your cheeks, not blood, and your hands shake violently when you move to brush them away. You get out of bed as quietly as you can, but before you can make it two feet, Hermione's stepping out into the hallway, apparently waiting for you. You avoid her gaze, aware of how awful you look, and instead hide your hands behind your back and stare resolutely at the floor.
"Hey," you say, voice gravelly and hoarse.
"Hi," she replies softly, then steps closer and reaches out to take your hands in hers. You wince at how they still shake, and your eyes fill with tears again at the thought of appearing so weak in front of her, but you don't say anything and neither does she. Her thumbs rub your palms in soothing circles and, slowly, the shakes recede.
"Sorry 'Mione," you sniffle out, extracting a hand from her grasp and wiping your nose. You still can't meet her gaze.
"Oh, Harry," she says, pulling you closer and wrapping her arms around you. You tense up at first, then bonelessly fall into the embrace, turning your face into her shoulder, sobbing. She just holds you tighter, stroking a hand through your hair.
"You're fine," she whispers. "You're okay, you're safe, I promise."
This time, perhaps, you might begin to believe her.
Thank you guys for reading! I hope you enjoyed, and please leave a review if you have a moment!