Author's Note: Story done for kitty132383 using her prompt "You, sir, are an incredible moron.". Sorry, kitty, I took your funny prompt and made it into angst. The title was taken from a poem by Dylan Thomas, 'My Hero Bares His Bones', which can be viewed here (remove spaces) www . poets viewmedia . php / prmMID / 16430
Author: C.S. Thompson (or theotherthompson)
Summary: They chase him into the waking realm, like bloodhounds on a trail or ducks following their mother.
Rating: T
Warnings: Mentions of death. PTSD, maybe. Hallucinations.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter in any shape or form. I am not making any money out of this fanfiction.
~ ' * ' ~
My Hero Bares his Nerves
~ bares his nerves along my wrist ~
'Harry ignores it,'
~ ' * ' ~
Harry exhales quietly through his nose as his superior officer, Auror Ludwig ("-who had come all the way from Germany," his last instructor had said), yells at the whole class.
"- performance was atrocious! Aurors are supposed to work as teams, not individually!" Ludwig bellows, red-faced and wild eyed. Harry swallows quietly, doing his best to shrink out of sight while still standing to attention. Next to him, Ron cringes, hands clenching and unclenching. His ears are red and his shoulders are tense but Ron doesn't explode, has learned better than that.
The yells from their drill instructor echoes in the training hall for another minute or two before tapering off. The silence left afterwards is tense, and just as bad a the yelling was. "Dismissed," Ludwig says, accent shining through for a brief moment.
The Aurors-in-training scramble to the door, muttering quietly to one another in hushed voices. Harry and Ron follow their peers, not speaking but staying close.
When they are hidden away in their dorm room, Ron rages while Harry sits down on his creaky bed and adds throws in his opinion every now and then.
"You could prank the git," a voice says in his ear, but Harry doesn't reply, ignores it expertly to listen to what Ron is saying instead.
- X -
It starts a month or so after the Final Battle.
Everyone is recovering; so much to do and so much to fix that there is little time to fully relax, to sit down and think and breath.
Maybe it is better that way, because the guilt is pushed back a few more precious days, the grief a few more hours and the bone-weary tiredness a few more minutes, before they all come and wash Harry and his dingy little raft away and leave him suffocating in the tide.
Harry only gets a few weeks before the memories set in and the tide comes.
The tide is a monster in the waves, hungry for lost souls and bitter ashes of hollowed homes on the wind and small fractures of yourself lost in the sands of time. It takes them away in a roaring sweep, never to be seen again.
For Harry, the tide is full of faces and dates, places and people that are burned to the back of his eyelids, sleepless nights spent staring up at the ceiling and voices that aren't there in his ears. Dreams in technicolour- violent greens and fire-hydrant reds, rippling black cloaks and pale, pale peach, and dreams with no sound.
(During the day, ghosts chase him from Morpheus' clutches and into the waking realm to whisper in his ears and follow his footsteps doggedly, like bloodhounds on a trail or ducks following their mother.)
The tide is amber eyes where Teddy's are, a father's face in his son's. It is the rustle of billowing robes in dark corridors and the smell of aconite and ginger in the air. It is parties that are smaller than they should be, days quieter and nights longer. Small things to be written off, nothing to worry about, nothing to cry about.
But those glimpses only come as brief moments wedged between hours of somethings. Harry's hallucinations last longer than that.
In a way, he loves them just as much as he hates them, needs them as much as he shouldn't. He loves them the same way one would love the little tokens left behind by others, the same way he loved the photo album of his parents, the same way he wanted to hear his mother's voice. It's a melancholy feeling that leaves him both lighter and heavier, contrary feelings gathering up in his gut.
He's not sure if it makes him a masochist, or just not ready to let go.
- X -
"Harry, Ron! Come in, come in!" Molly Weasley greets them as they walk up the battered path leading to the Burrow. "I haven't seen you two in weeks! Where have you been, young men?" she says managing to sound pleased and irritated at the same time. Harry smiles, lets Ron tell all about their training to become full-fledged Aurors as they make their way into the rickety house's kitchen.
"You two must be starving. Here, let me fix you something up. I've some leftovers from last night- still make too much, see- Harry, would you like some tea?"
"I would love some, Mrs. Weasley," Harry replies, taking a seat at the table. In all actuality, Harry rather not eat. Apparition still made him nauseous.
"Never say no to Molly Weasley!" a boisterous voice calls out, followed by barking laughter. Harry ignores it, knows better than to give it too much thought.
He drinks the tea set out in front of him, eats what is put there also, and forces himself to pay attention to the conversation taking place in front of him. When Ron leaves for the loo, Molly pins him with a look.
"So, have you talked to Ginny lately?" she asks, almost offhandedly it it weren't for the way she watched his expression. She knows the answer to that already, Harry knows, but he shakes his head anyway.
She pins him with an unhappy look, but doesn't push.
- X -
Harry is pretty sure he is in love with Ginny.
He's pretty sure he's in love with her smile, the freckles on her face and her slightly crooked teeth. He thinks the feeling he gets when he listens to her laugh or talks is love. He may be in love with the way she's so persistent and strong willed, ready to wait awhile for him as he tries to sort himself out.
The problem is Harry is only half sure he's ready for that. The other half is terrified and wants to cling onto the illusion that nothing of the sort is happening just a little bit longer. Harry is terrified, because he messed up with Cho and hasn't dated much since, so he'll be learning as he goes.
Which, actually, is pretty much a theme in his life.
It's a start.
- X -
The wedding is beautiful.
Harry should have expected it, what with Hermione in charge. Not to mention the other Weasley women and Mrs. Weasley's ability to wrangle the Weasley men into helping out. But Harry doesn't get the luxury of appreciating the scenery though- he's busy trying to calm Ron down.
Ron, who fought by his side during the war, is in a speechless state of fear, the type of fear he had with spiders. Harry doesn't know what happened, what was maybe said, to make Ron this scared, but Ron is scared and as the best man Harry is obligated to tackle his best friend to the ground if he tries to run.
"He's worse than your Dad was on his wedding day," someone comments behind Harry.
Harry, sleep deprived and with his nerves worn thin, forgets for a moment that Ron and he are the only ones in the room and whirls around. And alone or not, he still sees shaggy fur in the corner of his eyes.
"Harry? You alright?" Ron asks, blinking.
"Fine, mate," Harry responds, turning back around.
This time he ignores the happy barks coming from the corner of the room.
- X -
Harry needs something, but he's not sure what.
- X -
"You, sir, are an incredible moron," a voice says next to his ears. In front of Harry, Auror Ludwig is yelling again, his spit flying in a similar way Uncle Vernon's spit would fly when he yelled, but Ludwig doesn't become a puce colour. Instead, the tips of Ludwig's ears become red and his short black hair would stand on end, clearly the work of the man's reined in magic mixing with his volatile anger.
"- being famous does not mean you can do whatever you want, Potter!"
Harry does not retort, in fact swallows one down because there is a time and place for everything, a delicate balance that he has been learning since the start of his first birthday.
"In a real fight, you do not leave cover unless you have to!" the Auror yells.
"Oh please, he won a war without you telling him how to fight."
"In a real fight, you do not leave behind your partner! In a real fight, you do not play hero whenever it suits your fancy when it can get you and other killed!"
"In a real fight, those kids would have died if Harry didn't try!" It is said loudly, and Harry almost flinches, but he's gotten good at ignoring things and he can do it a little longer. Harry doesn't say anything, and no one else hears the words that are not being said.
Later, when the class is dismissed, Auror Ludwig asks Harry to stay behind. It takes a moment to convince Ron that he would be fine, but the moment Harry says Hermione's name, Ron flies through the double doors like he's chasing a snitch.
"Yes sir?" Harry asks, an unhappy grumble coming from his left at the same time.
There is a silence, for a moment, before Ludwig speaks. "I- Potter. I am not sorry about what I said, because it is true."
Harry swallows.
"You can't save everyone, Potter. You should know that, with the war."
And Harry does know that, knows that death isn't picky the same way he knows the back of his hands, faded scars, tiny burns and all.
Ludwig leaves, but not before parting with a few final words. "War or not, you have yet to see half of what this world has to offer, and if you keep going on like this, the world will break you, young man."
- X -
The thing is, Harry isn't broken. Hasn't.
The Dursleys did not break them with their cramped rooms and lists upon lists. They have made him cry, whimper, become angry and feel lonely and worthless at times, but they did not break him in the sixteen years they've had him for.
Hogwarts, beautiful and heart wrenching, did not break him. Werewolves in dark forests and dragons in cottages, ghosts haunting the halls and serpents in the walls, whispers and rumors and nasty glares, he has gone through every adversity, every challenge she has given and thrust upon him and did not break once.
The war did not break him, either.
The thing is, Harry has yet to break, and he won't just let himself break now.
- X -
Ginny smiles at him, beautiful with her hair tied up loosely and in an old cardigan. She smiles and her face creases, the corners of her eyes wrinkle and her lips stretch and he can see the freckles dotting her nose.
Harry feels his heart speed up, flutter once, twice, and he's gone.
The voice says nothing for once, and that leaves Harry blinking down at Ginny in a crowded living room and the taste of butterbeer on his tongue. Oh, he thinks, maybe this is what I need.
- X -
Harry visits the graves of his dead loved ones for the first time two and a half years after the funerals.
He goes alone, a bouquet of orchids in his arms and with words on his lips.
It is quiet there, an almost stifling feeling of calm that makes Harry breath in deep and savour the smell of damp earth and moss mixed with the smell of the coming cold.
The earth on top of the four graves have settled long ago, grass slowly growing taller and wilder as the days went by. Wild daffodils are wilting slightly at their stems, making their petals kiss the earth beneath. Harry is tempted to use magic to perk them up again, but decides not to.
He sets down a couple of orchids on each grave, mumbling thank yous and apologies and belated good byes each time.
Godric's Hollow is beautiful this time of year, Harry thinks as he is sitting down in front of the graves with no more words to say. It is beautiful in a way that is all about stillness and patience for what is next to come and valiant efforts of foolhardy plants trying to break the grey-ish monotony.
There is a hum nearby, as soft as the petals of the orchid in between Harry's fingers.
Harry does not try to ignore it this time, does not whip around to stare. He turns his head in uneven increments, steadily, with patience cultivated with years of effort and learning and mistakes.
By his father's grave, the image of a man with ratty hair and rattier robes hanging off thin shoulders sits under the grey light. He sits with his legs crossed like a child, leaning against the headstone with an arm thrown over it, like how one would their arm around a friend. The man looks at Harry with haunted blue eyes, eyes branded to the back of Harry's eyelids, and he smiles with a mischievous quirk to his thin lips that is burned into Harry's mind. The man does not speak, not this time.
Harry doesn't say a word, either, instead he lays down the orchid in his hand by the man's feet.
Neither say a thing, because there is nothing left to be said.
Harry leaves an hour later, with empty hands and a lighter chest, a calm mind and the silence following him home.