Summary: Slash, Remus/Harry Despair is a bitter thing and, although the War is over and his duty as hero is done, even Harry Potter can't help but fall prey to the grasping emotion. Unable to shake the depression and the continuing cries of the Wizarding world, Harry needs someone to turn to. Enter Remus Lupin, who just might be able to help Harry in ways no one has ever been able to before.
Author's Note: This is my one of my first ventures into writing Remus/Harry, so I'd appreciate some feedback on how I'm doing. Just a line or two, maybe a suggestion as to how I can better their characters and interactions? Maybe a bit of plot advice? I'm not adverse to any of it and would value it greatly. :-) Just let me know how I'm doing, and I'll be a very happy woman. Thanks for clicking onto my story, and I hope you enjoy!
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Harry, Remus, Sirius, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Bill Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Snape, Tonks, Dumbledore, McGonagall, various Order members. Remus/Harry, Ron/Hermione, Charlie/Tonks, brief mentions of past Harry/Draco.
Warning(s)/Story Note(s)/Disclaimer: angst, AU (ignoring several elements of book five and completely ignoring book six), violence, language, alcohol abuse, slash, het, brief mentions of sex. Anything I've forgotten? Please, leave a review and let me know. :-) I do not own Harry Potter, any of the characters within this story, and do not claim to. No profit is being made from this work of fanfiction.
Thanks go to Sara for the initial read through. :-D Your comments made me giggle happily.
Overall Rating: M, for Mature, just to be safe.
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Heal Over, Someday
I.
Prologue
The beginning of wisdom is to call things by their name.
Chinese Proverb
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1997
"Fuck. You."
The words pressed against the back of his teeth with a vengeance, and if Harry weren't here to save this bastard, he'd be in the process of killing him himself, going through steps he'd dreamed about since he was eleven, glaring hatefully back at the millionth person in his life to torment him endlessly. Draco Malfoy had had nothing on Dudley Dursley then, but he'd sure as hell figured out how to take a few steps up since; Harry shoved Malfoy's wand in the teen's general direction and barely noted that Malfoy had to scramble for it. Malfoy was bruised, bloody, his clothes were torn and caked in various forms of grime, and Harry could honestly say that it pleased him in some sick way to know that Malfoy hadn't been having the trip of his life, despite any and all protestations. He turned his ear to the cell door and prayed that Snape was giving them the time they needed—this was their last chance. Voldemort wanted to siege Hogwarts within the fortnight and they had to be prepared. They had to have all of their people; every able body was going to be needed.
"Later, Potter. What in the fuck inspired you to come traipsing down here yourself? Especially when my father has your death warrant in his pocket, signed by Voldemort, his fucking royal highness, himself?"
"Shut up, Malfoy. Shut the fuck up now, before I permanently shut you up!" Harry hissed the command through clenched teeth, ear turned to the cell door, nearly pressed against it, every sense he had stretched out and straining. He thought he heard something down the hall, but he couldn't be quite sure, and Malfoy's blathering was doing little to aid him; he held up a hand in an attempt to silence Malfoy.
"They're still in their meeting, Potter; they barely left me an hour--"
"Stop."
"Harry, I…"
"Stop."
The command was short and crisp, and Harry had to forcibly keep himself from flinching at the sound of his own voice. Barely three days out of battle, and Dumbledore was shifting through his memories, searching for whatever he could use to help piece together Draco Malfoy's last moments, the things Harry wasn't quite ready to let himself relive; Harry hadn't begged the Headmaster to stay out of his head, but the permission he had given had been grudging--he'd thought that if he was nearly forced into reliving that night that it would all fall into place, that his nightmares would end, that his body would stop being on the verge of going into shock and just leave him be.
He'd been wrong on all accounts, of course; it was still too soon, still too fresh, and sitting in the Headmaster's office, coming back to his senses in a jolt, Harry realized that he should have never agreed to come here in the first place. Sweat was dripping down his back, between his shoulder-blades and down his brow--his heart was hammering in his chest, and the ache in his hands told him he'd been gripping the edge of the armchair much too hard; his knuckles were white as he pulled his hands into his lap, massaging them gently. Avoiding Dumbledore's gaze, Harry stared at his battle scarred hands, trying to rub life back into them as he listened to the click-smack-whirr of the headmaster's gadgets and gizmos. It was strangely relaxing, but the silence wasn't going to last, and it wasn't meant to.
Dumbledore wanted answers, and he wasn't getting them; Harry could feel the disappointment in the stare that had been fixed onto him and forced himself to not react. He had a right to privacy, a right to ask for time to heal before being plagued with questions--he didn't have to give up anything if he didn't want to. Harry held onto that thought viciously as he listened to Dumbledore's shifting of papers and fabric.
"Harry, if I thought that keeping this to yourself would be beneficial, I'd let you…" Dumbledore's voice was soft, but Harry heard every nuance of emotion in it, knew that he was being pandered to, being coddled. The words sounded too much like the things that had been said to him that fateful night in his fourth year, when Cedric had died and Voldemort had been reborn; Harry's hands clenched in his lap as he lifted his head, shaking it 'no.'
"You know why he died; I'm just the only one who knows how. I don't think that's all that important right now." His voice was raw, and the louder he spoke, the more it hurt; screaming at Malfoy, screaming at anyone who would listen to him hadn't done much other than create a lot of noise and confusion. What he wouldn't give to be able to go back and change it, to change all of it. God, what he wouldn't give to go back and be prepared. Looking Dumbledore in the eyes, Harry shook his head again. He wasn't in the mood for this; he was still tired, still weak, and he hadn't slept well since Malfoy had been killed.
He needed a break, to be honest. A break from all of this, a break from Hogwarts, a break from Dumbledore and his prying eyes. A break from fucking life, if it could be arranged.
Dumbledore peered at him from above his half-circle frames for a few moments, and Harry could almost hear the mental calculations, the speculations and ideas about how he was going to extract this information, how he was going to get Harry to comply and tell him about Malfoy's death. The man simply couldn't let anything lie, could he? Harry felt anger start to rise in his chest and sighed, clenching his aching hands in his lap. This was going to be a battle of wills, one Dumbledore would, most likely, ultimately win. Harry hated the thought; he hated the idea that he had no control over his life and what he was and wasn't going to tell the headmaster. He hated how, at seventeen, he was still expected to hand his life over and be everyone's pawn.
Waiting a few moments longer before saying anything to Harry, Dumbledore shifted around a few more papers on his desk and looked generally disinterested in what he was doing; Harry could tell his thoughts were still focused onto himself and had to consciously stop from fidgeting under the attention. Scrutinizing Harry seemed to be a favorite pastime of Dumbledore's as of late and eventually the gaze made him so uncomfortable he had to bite his tongue from saying anything. He wasn't going to let the headmaster know that he was bothering him simply by staring at him, probably looking into his soul and reading things that Harry would have preferred keeping to himself.
Eventually, his patience was rewarded with a clearing throat and a pointed stare. Harry maintained eye contact and vowed to himself that he wasn't going to be swayed, wasn't going to allow himself to be put through the hell he'd been so determinedly avoiding; he'd been won over one too many times, and now was the time to stick to his conviction.
"Harry, please. It would make things easier on the Order knowing…"
"Professor, with all due respect, no."
"You're making this quite difficult, my boy. I'm fully prepared to--"
"Prepared to what? Force it from me? You can't do that, Headmaster. I'm not going to let you, and it's high time you just leave me alone." Harry cut Dumbledore off heatedly, hands snapping against his thighs as he fought to control himself. He made to stand, but paused when Dumbledore held up a hand.
"No one's going to force anything from you, Harry, but I think we do need to know. It would make things so much easier on the Order as a whole." Dumbledore regarded him, eyes gentle and bright, demeanor kindly and unobtrusive and the sight made Harry even angrier; if the Headmaster thought he could manipulate Harry into facing this particular demon, he was wrong. So. Fucking. Wrong.
Standing completely, Harry looked down at the Headmaster coldly, shaking his head again in short, jerky movements. It wouldn't do to verbally lash out anymore, as it was getting him nowhere; what he needed to do was leave, and leave now while he still had some measure of dignity--and his memories--intact.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't. They're my memories, and we're doing just fine without them." Harry made for the door, refusing to acknowledge the stricken look on the headmaster's face; he kept his back straight and paused at the door when Dumbledore called his name. He turned to look at the aging man, hands balled fists at his sides and jaw clenched. Harry didn't want to deal with this right now; top priority on his list was resting, and after that eating, and after that preparing for a battle they all knew as approaching. It was in the air—it was a shadow hidden on the faces of the students and teachers residing here, a bruise on the pale faces of the Order and a wrench in the gut none of them could be rid of.
Harry knew, because he had tried to free himself from it.
Swallowing, he nodded at the headmaster, prompting him to continue. It was the least he could do: listen. The man before him dealt with a lot of problems that Harry had caused, and offered solace whenever Harry sought it, reassurance and goodwill when it was needed. He was his mentor, and someone Harry had the utmost respect for—despite the fact that at this very moment said mentor was trying to pry something very private and tumultuous from his memories. Harry owed him quite a lot.
"Harry…" Dumbledore began, tone steely and no longer patronizing. "If you help me, help the Order, I'll put you under a Memory Charm. You'll be free of this as long as it's in my power."
Not quite believing that he'd heard right, Harry stood for a moment without reacting before swallowing thickly. The idea was enticing, heady and seductive, and being free of this horrid nightmare was something he'd asked for since it had happened; he wished Malfoy wasn't dead and that he hadn't made so many fucking mistakes, but here was his chance to be free of it—the only thing he had to do was relive it one more time, experience the horror that was still raw, still fresh against his eyelids and before he knew it…he'd be free. The harmonious snoring and soft titters of the portraits on the walls echoed in the silence that suddenly stretched long between them, and over the sound of the gadgets whirling in the air, Harry thought that Dumbledore might be able to hear the pounding of his heart as its pace grew rapid again.
To be free of Malfoy's last moments, to hand those over to Dumbledore and not feel a thing afterwards…Harry liked that idea very much. There wouldn't be any more nightmares; his body wouldn't be on the verge of breaking down, the shaking fits wouldn't be a part of him. It was completely possible if he did this for the headmaster, and Harry knew then that this was what the man had known it would come to, that he would no longer be in fear of what was going to happen to him.
Not trusting his voice, Harry nodded.
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