Warnings: Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Ambigous/Open Ending
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Harry stared at the ceiling of their bedroom after Ginny had kissed him a hasty goodbye, with a smile and a reminder to not forget his breakfast before he left for work. He had smiled back as usual, a well-practiced joke about her mothering ways on his lips. All the while, he wondered how she could believe him, when he did not feel any of it. Had he become that good a liar? Maybe. Or maybe she just saw what she wanted to believe, the illusion that was so much better than reality. The reality, which was that all of this was fake.
He clenched his fists in disgust and drew a shaky breath. What he hated most about this was that he did not understand why he was not happy. Not happy… even that was a euphemism. He was desperately unhappy. During mornings like this, he wished he could just disappear. He hated the thought of eating the breakfast that Kreacher had made, reading yet another copy of the Daily Prophet, walking to the office yet another day, being greeted by ever the same faces, wearing the same fake mask of the person they wanted him to be. Why? It was ungrateful, he felt, after all life had given him. He loved Ginny, he loved his children, he had the job he had always wanted… and yet… There were so many people whose life was so much worse than his, who had so much less than him. He thought of Draco Malfoy, whom he had seen on the platform yesterday, sending his son to Hogwarts. It had shocked him how old the man looked. He had known that Draco had spent two years in Azkaban, of course, and that the Malfoy fortune had been confiscated. He had testified for Draco after all. More than this, he had refused his inheritance of the Black fortune, something he had never told Ginny. It had seemed petty to hold onto it, after he had seen how Draco's mother suffered, and he had felt indebted to her after she had saved his life during the final battle. Furthermore, he did not need the money, the Potter fortune was more than enough for him and his family. Draco had inherited it after that, as the last of the line. Harry knew that was not what Sirius would have wanted, but Sirius had been wrong about this and many other things.
He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. His thoughts always circled around these old memories. Sometimes he wished he could just erase them, erase the war and everything before it, treat life as if he was born on the day after the final battle. If he did that, though, he would not be the man he was. Those memories had shaped him, had made him into the person he was. He did not want to be different, mostly, because the thought scared him of what he could have become if he had been less humble, and had not made the right choices back then. He did not trust himself. Yet, he wished he was a man who could appreciate his gifts more, who could love Ginny better, who could be happy with what he had. Would he have been that, if his parents had lived, or if he had not died? He did not know, and it was a futile thought. He did not know what would make him happy, or if anything would. Maybe he was destined to be unhappy. Maybe it was the price he had to pay for all he had, all his unbelievable luck that so many others had not shared.
He wearily got up when he heard Kreacher's footfalls on the stairs. The old elf watched him sometimes, with a gaze that made him think he knew. Kreacher never said anything though, not to him, and certainly not to Ginny. He just watched him with his big, knowing eyes. Harry shuddered. Part of him hated the elf, and he was not sure if it was for his knowledge, or his silence.
He went through his usual morning routine, mechanically, without really noticing any of it. Later, he could not have said what Kreacher had made for breakfast, or what news had been in the paper.
He walked through his day in a daze, hardly listening to the gossip of his coworkers. He had long ago stopped listening. It very often made him angry, those casually callous remarks in everyday conversation, that willful ignorance. There were still the pureblood supremacists, making disparaging comments about all things muggle and muggle-raised. Then there was a new type of arrogant fool, the exact opposite, who despised everything old-fashioned and traditional, and claimed Muggles could do no wrong. Finally, there was the most abysmal creature, the one that touted prejudices from both sites with equal conviction and no sense of the absurdity. He had long given up saying anything about it, having realized that it did not change anything, and only served their amusement. Sometimes he thought maybe it was wrong that he felt so strongly about this, and at other times it made him even angrier. These attitudes had caused a war once. Had they all so easily forgotten? Would history repeat itself forever?
Sometimes he stood there, and he could not do anything but listen, despite trying so very hard not to, and he felt his anger rise in him until he feared it would consume everything around him. He pushed it inwards, where it was safe, where it would harm no-one. It exhausted him, sometimes.
When his workday came to an end, he almost dreaded that, too. At home, there was Ginny, who wanted to spend more time with him now that only Lily remained at home. There was Molly, who badgered him about visiting George and Ron more often, and taking up a hobby on his own. Apparently, a man needed his own thing aside from work and family, and as much as he told her work and family were more than enough for him, she would not believe him. Then there was Lily, who was even more needy now that Albus was gone. He loved them all, but they all wanted him to be something for them, and they all were so disappointed when he did not give it. He hated that the most, the disappointment. Lily's, when he had no time to play with her. Ginny's, when he was not in the mood. Molly's and Ron's, when he did not visit often enough. The way they tried to hide it, but not very well. It made him feel stupid, inadequate, and undeserving. He tried to do better by them, but he always failed.
It all felt meaningless. He felt like he was in no man's land, filling empty space with useless words and gestures and meaningless conversations, creating even more emptiness out of nothing. The more they surrounded him, the more alone he felt. He was waiting for something that would never happen, something that would save them all.
They did not need to be saved. Their life was already perfect. His life was already perfect. There was nothing to be done to improve it. Except for the fact that he was not happy. Which proved that whatever was wrong was only wrong with him – he was the part that did not work right, the malfunctioning wheel, the broken piece, the freak in a sea of happy faces.
And if one day, by almost accident, he took one risk to many at work, would they really miss him? Or would they miss a construct, a perfect person of their imagination he had never been? Perhaps it would be better that way, before it all came tumbling down.
He often thought he should have died that day. That he had cheated fate. That he was a ghost walking through a life not truly his, an imposter who had stolen someone else's happiness and could never truly own it.
Better to take that step now, wasn't it. And no one would ever know. If not for Kreacher's ever watching eyes.