Disclaimer: Characters, settings, themes, etc. from the Harry Potter universe are property of J.K Rowling. I make no profit from the writing or sharing of this story.

I would like to put out a very sincere thank you to olivieblake, who continues to be a patient beta reader and friend to me while I continue to flail around in this journey called writing.

The heave and sweat of bodies is mesmerizing. They push and pull at him—hands touching, grabbing, swiping at him as if they're compelled to do so, but it's a very different kind of compulsion that pulls at them. He avoids looking in their eyes, avoids making any sort of connection. Every time he looks across the room through a blank in the wall of flesh, he sees him.

He shakes the sweat from his face, dizzy with it, before he can stop the motion. His feet are planted hip-width apart on the floor and he's pushing away the hands at his waist while he sees the slither of a tongue dart out at him—red eyes locked on him. Harry's eyes close and he's bracing for the inevitable, reaching for his wand. Someone bumps him from behind, latches on with thick palms at his hips and he's shoved from the moment. When his eyes open again, he's gone. He looks around frantically, but he's not there. Scrubbing at his eyes, Harry opens and closes them a few times before leaning back against the body behind him, starting to feel the thrum of the music again.

They never stay for long. Tongues loll against his neck and fingers roam beneath the tight shirt he wears, but they drift away and he's lost again to the mass on the floor. He's just another part of the crowd; another cog in the machine that keeps turning over and over again as the night moves forward.

He doesn't say anything when someone starts to purposefully move him toward the wall. There's more room to breathe and he's been in the thick of it all night. He's facing the empty space—feeling instead of watching—because he doesn't want to watch. He doesn't want to put a face to the body that writhes against his, to the cock pressing against his arse in those tight denims.

By the time he's dragged out the back door, words are decidedly in the off position. He should have talked to the man. Should have gotten a fucking name. It probably wouldn't have been real—would have been less real than the hand that's shoved down his denims and stroking through the sweat puddled there, dipping in and swirling around his cock as a sort of backwoods lube. Harry moans into the hollow of a shadow, grasping but finding himself shoved face-first against the wall.

There are no words. There are filthy hands tearing and leaving streaks in the sour waste of their bodies. There is no lube but for a spit-shine and thrust—tearing, tearing—and screams, muffled screams as fingers are shoved in his mouth. He bites so hard he feels the tang of copper mingle with fear seeping from the corner of his mouth. The bricks scrape at his brow, leaving pieces of muggle dust as if to say, I belong here, I'm part of you now.

Afterward, lying in the black arms of a dumpster, he begins to crawl. A fingernail chips away and the knuckle stutters as he gasps harshly into the night, but there are no words. When he reaches his wand, he realizes he cannot cast a Patronus; instead, he lays there, fumbling with the slender piece of wood until his stomach empties itself across his outslung arm.

He doesn't remember getting home. He doesn't remember the in-between days.

All he knows is the spray of the shower on his skin when he wakes and the way it scalds away the dirt—the way it can never take away the feel of him; the way he still feels him. Harry showers multiple times a day, skin pinked each time in an effort to be rid of him, but it isn't working. It's not working and he doesn't know what to do.

Monday and Tuesday are easy to fake. He calls off with food poisoning and gets a "That's poor luck, mate," in return. Wednesday is not easy. He sits on the edge of his bed and stares at his feet, wondering if they will carry him to the Ministry, wondering if maybe he will see him on the way there. Harry scrubs at his eyes, digs his nails in lightly, then drags himself over for another shower.

He can't eat in the mornings. Nausea threatens to overwhelm him, so he deals with the hunger instead. By the time he makes it to work, his stomach is roiling, calling out to anyone within earshot that it is hungry-upset-miserable. Harry clenches his jaw, snapping out hasty greetings to those who dare speak to him. They cock their heads like chickens staring at a strange new threat in the coop, but go about their business all the same. Ron ignores the behavior.

"What did you eat, mate? I want to be sure that I have no part in it." He's chuckling to himself as he fiddles with the papers in Harry's cubicle.

Harry glares up at him. It takes a moment, but when Ron realizes no answer is forthcoming, he holds his hands up.

"All right then. What's cocked up your morning?"

The phrasing makes Harry cringe, and he stands up quickly, rushing to the bathroom. He's barely there before the water he drank comes back up on him. Some of it splashes on his trousers and he spells it away, resting his head against the wall. He tries to breathe, but it's shallow and not enough. He can't seem to get enough oxygen. His hands brace against the wall and then he feels him and then he can feel him, hear the grunts and the breath at his ear and Harry spins around to see Ron looking at him with concern—only concern.

Harry wipes at his face and heads over to the sink. He splashes cold water repeatedly over his eyes and mouth, then waits. It never takes Ron very long.

"Still sick, Harry?"

Harry nods. It's all he can do, though the room is still spinning.

"Maybe you should go home. You look a bit peaky. I'm sure Robards will understand."

He barks a laugh. "You and I both know he won't." The words are quiet, but Ron nods in sympathy. He leaves Harry alone to gather himself.

Thursday is field work—observation—and Harry is alone. He finds this easier, though he's on edge the entire time. After his shift, he pours himself through the Floo and collapses on the couch. Between watching over his shoulder and looking for the "Death Eater" he'd been tasked to find, Harry kept his eyes open and his body tense the entire day.

Friday morning finds him sprawled across the couch, still asleep from where he'd fallen last night.

"Shit."

He scrambles to the shower, rushes to wash away as much as he can, and throws a semi-clean set of robes on. By the time he reaches his desk, he sees a note from Ron saying they're in the training room.

One breath to rock his head back on his neck and a quick exhale before running down the hall is all he allows himself.

"You're late, Potter," Robards yells across the room.

Ron looks at him sheepishly, continuing his lift set in the corner. Harry nods, swallowing thickly.

"Because of your incompetence, this lot has been working out an extra half hour. I hope they thank you in today's exercises." He grins at Harry, who strips out of his robe and begins the list of prescribed sets on the wall.

"Sorry," Harry grumbles as he nears Ron.

Ron shakes his head, sweat dripping across his brow. "It's all right mate," he exhales deeply. "I just wish you would tell us what's going on."

Harry pointedly ignores the request and moves into lateral squats. The rest of the group finishes well before Harry, but Robards keeps them at it. He hurries through the movements, clumsy and often miscounting.

"Keep at it, Potter. They'll be at this all day and then you'll really have to watch yourself out there."

The barbs weren't helping, as he could feel eyes on him from across the room. Each time he looked up, he caught others staring at him and he balked. It just made things worse. Robards laughed at him and he could feel his palms sweat, the bar between his fingers slip just a touch.

"Get a grip, Harry. You can get through this." The words coming from Ron are both tired irritation and friendly motivation, though Harry is struggling to distinguish between the two.

He finishes. "About time, Potter. Thought you'd never get done. This lot was about to expire on me." The rest of the group stops, exhaustion ringing clear through the room. Robards' glee shines in the feral grin that plasters itself across his face. "All right everyone. That's enough lollygagging. Up on your feet!"

His wand flourishes a quick spell and the room is cleared of equipment.

"We're starting hand-to-hand today."

"But—" another trainee starts to cut him off, glaring. Brave, or stupid, Harry's not sure, but she continues. "—sir, shouldn't we be practicing defensive magic?"

Robards walks toward her. He crowds her against the wall, pins her wand arm to her side where he knows her holster is. "Now tell me, Bolton, how are you going to work high-level defensive magic against me without your wand?"

She gulps audibly.

"Thought so." He spins to face the group. "We practice hand-to-hand because it's something you need to know. You are Aurors, not desk jockeys. If we just wanted you to know book learning, we'd have you back in Hogwarts!" There are a couple of snickers from across the room and Harry turns to glare at them. They quiet, but Robards doesn't pay them any mind. "Potter!"

Harry looks up, expecting a fist to come flying at him. Instead the group parts and he sighs, walking forward to meet Robards.

"Who wants first crack?" The question is simple, but Harry's shoulders tense and he forces his head to stay still rather than spin about the room.

Someone steps forward, though they're shielded behind him. He hopes it's Ron. Robards nods at them and Harry turns to see—Dean. The other man is taller than him, his body is leaner, though he's not as wiry as he looks. Harry knows Dean has the reach on him, has the height, but Harry's done this a few times. He's not sure Dean has.

"Let's see what you make of each other then."

They start circling, arms up in some sort of mock fighting stance. He watches Dean's eyes, sees a flicker of consideration and then he's got a fist at his shoulder. Harry grunts, but lifts his elbow to roll it off. He swings with his opposite arm, catching Dean in the chest as he leans back. It's a glancing blow and they're back to circling.

There's sweat pooling on his nose now, his glasses slipping down his nose. He didn't have time to cast the sticking charm he likes to use before any sort of physical activity, so they're likely to come off. In the span of five seconds that he's thinking about his glasses, Dean stalks closer with both fists in front of his face. He takes a wide swing at Harry and in the scramble to move away, Harry stumbles. He's on the ground and Dean is on top of him, swinging at his kidneys.

Harry collapses to the floor, unable to protect himself. Instead, he's screaming wordlessly, bare hands splayed as if to shield his naked arse. The room is loud—so loud, and all he can hear is the blood pounding in his ears, the harsh breathing of the man behind him, on top of him. Tears come; they fall. He scrabbles at the floor and tries to pull away, but his body doesn't respond.

He stares in abject horror when he realizes that the room is suddenly empty and it's Ron kneeling next to him, calling something out.

"—rry. Harry, mate. Please. Harry, it's okay. You're okay. Harry?" His voice rises as sound returns to Harry.

He shudders, turning away from Ron.

Ron feels helpless and looks behind him toward Hermione, who's hovering near the door. She walks over, whispers in his ear and Ron leaves, looking over his shoulder once.

Hermione scoots closer, speaking to Harry as she does. "Harry, it's Hermione. It's just you and me now." A step closer. "You're okay. There's no one hurting you." Harry shudders, but otherwise doesn't move. "Harry, love, I promise that right now, you're okay." She chooses her words carefully, taking another step. "He's gone, Harry. Dean's not here anymore." Harry looks up at her with a question in his eyes. "Did Dean hurt you?" She pauses, waits. "Did someone else hurt you?" Nothing. "Harry, you can tell me. I promise I will do everything I can to help you." The tears come anew and he drops his face to the floor, feeling like drowning in them would be easier that way.

She reaches out a hand, slowly—so slowly. His eyes grow wide as she nears and she starts to sob quietly along with him. "Oh, Harry. I'm so sorry." He lets her touch him, though the wave of revulsion is obvious by the bowing of his back and the shiver that runs through him. "Let's get you home, okay?" The sympathy in her voice is overwhelming and he can do nothing but wallow in it.

She doesn't know. She can't know.

Kingsley's owl comes in the morning. Hermione scrambles from the couch and takes the letter, scratching beneath her chin and giving her a biscuit before she retreats, obviously not expecting a reply.

"Do you want this, Harry?"

Beneath a heap of blankets, she sees the top of his head shake and she sighs.

"Do you want me to open it?"

The blankets rustle. "O-ea."

"All right then." She slips a finger under the seal and opens it to see Kingsley's neat scrawl.

Dear Mr. Potter,

As of today, you are on extended leave. Please take this time to visit a healer. We've discussed this and I truly wish you would.

Owl when you're ready.

Minister for Magic,

Kingsley Shacklebolt

"Harry, I agree with him. You need to see a healer." At her words, the little she can see of his hair disappears. Instead, all she gets are mumbles and grunts that she can't make sense of. "Please stop ignoring me."

His eyes come above the blanket and she sees fingers gripping it tightly. "Not ignoring you, Hermione."

She smiles; it's full of sorrow and other things she can't name for the empty reasons Harry gives her for his pain. "You're ignoring a great many things, Harry Potter." She moves next to him so that he can rest his head on her arm. "I'm just one of them."

They sit, silent partners ignoring the wall between them.

Harry steadfastly refuses to leave the flat. Hermione is allowed to come and go as she pleases, but when Ron comes over, Harry finds a corner and puts himself in it, wary of Ron's every movement. Though this hurts him, Ron tries to heed the quiet words of Hermione and give him time.

Weeks pass. Harry performs his daily routine by rote. Routine is good; routine is balanced and known. Routine does not involve things that startle him.

When Neville shows up, Harry nearly runs from the door. However, it's the quiet, awkward manner of him that makes Harry remember that it's just Neville. This is the boy he's always known. This is the boy who would never hurt him. Neville moved to turn away from the door, fearing he'd come too soon—"perhaps at a bad time," he says—but Harry's mouth starts moving, though sound doesn't come out.

It takes him a minute, but Neville starts talking. "Would you like to start a garden?"

Harry cocks his head then smiles. He looks down at the pots and tools and flowers in Neville's hands. Reaching out tentatively, he takes hold of a flat of flowers, lifting them to his nose.

Neville smiles in return. "All right then." They move through the house, always with Neville in front of Harry. He doesn't question it.

In the small garden, Harry sets the flowers down and waits. Neville goes about laying things out, telling him how they'll arrange things, what they're planting and how they need to do it. He doesn't treat Harry differently. He doesn't crowd him or try to console him. He just is. He's just Neville.

When he hands Harry a small rake and sets him to rending the earth, Harry raises a brow. Neville laughs.

"We're not using magic for this." He wipes his palm on his cheek, leaving a smear there. "The earth needs a more subtle touch. It likes to be asked, for us to take our time with her. Using magic makes it too fast—too abrupt. She doesn't like it."

Harry cocks a brow at his terminology.

"Ahh yes. She's lovely, isn't she?" Neville leans down and gets to work again.

Using the small rake to plunge and tear, to massage and smooth, Harry finds a sort of peace in the work. He breaks the earth, but brings it back together to make something new—something better. By the time they're done, several neat rows line the side of his small garden with a couple of pots off to the side. He feels intensely calm and Neville has a matching aura about him.

"You remember the watering schedule, then?" Neville asks.

Harry nods.

"How about I come check on them in a week or so?" he pauses, gathering up some of his tools. "Would that be all right?"

Thinking the question over for a moment, Harry nods again.

"Brilliant. I'll be back then. I'll just leave these with you then? You might need them." Neville gestures to the rake and shovel. Harry shrugs, but takes them anyway. "It was nice seeing you, Harry."

Watching him retreat through the garden fence, Harry holds the rake closely to his chest, unwilling to walk away from that feeling. That's how Hermione finds him an hour later. He's plopped on the ground in the garden, shovel tossed to the side, and a rake held reverently in his lap.

"Harry?"

He looks up at her, then around himself to see that the sky is darker than he thinks it should be.

"Harry, how long have you been out here?"

An arm bracing him, Harry goes to stand, but feels a bit unsteady. Hermione reaches out to help him with a hand on his waist and he freezes.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I didn't mean to." Her hand moves to his arm and the tension fades some. "Let's get you something to eat, okay?"

He nods, entirely out of words, though he didn't have any to begin with.

Everything is ash in his mouth. Though Ron and Hermione try to ply him with favorites like treacle tart and pudding, he has to wash it down quickly so as not to choke on it.

Harry can't talk to them. He never speaks of anything outside of basic pleasantries—and even those are few and far between. When they arrive, he's usually buried beneath a blanket or in the garden tending to his vegetables. Neville is the only other person he allows in, near—close. Neville is more worried about the vegetables than Harry and that's part of what makes him safe. Ron gets a bit blustery sometimes. He's always been fiery; whether that's due to survival from so many older siblings or just his innate self, Harry doesn't know. What he knows is that the frustration leaking through comes out in waves of anger and restlessness that Harry can't manage. He retreats further and Hermione has to send Ron away.

The helpless look on Ron's face as he's banished from Harry's home on those days is a small torture, but also a lightening of the air. It's as if Harry can breathe more freely when the pressure isn't there; the pressure to be him—the him he was before.

He doesn't know how to do that anymore.

So it's a shock when Ron (now allowed back into Harry's presence after several days away) and Hermione invite him out to dinner.

"Why?"

Ron sighs and Hermione turns with patient hands and soft eyes back to Harry. "Harry, do you know what day it is?"

He shrugs. The days don't mean anything when time is sludge he drifts through—backward and forward in flashes, unable to control it.

"Today's your birthday," she says softly, as if speaking any louder will shatter him.

He takes in the words, blinks owlishly and simply says, "Oh."

Across from them, Ron starts pacing, his hands gripping and releasing. Harry shifts, as the air starts to feel heavy.

"Ron, can you please give us a minute?"

At first Ron's angry, but then he looks down at his hands, which are both fists lodged at his hips. He releases them and turns to leave.

"Harry, you've been in this house for two months now." Hermione's words are soft, but the meaning is a sharp blade that scrapes at the back of his eyes. "So here are your options: you are either going to get off this couch and come out with us for some drinks, or I'm dragging you to a healer tomorrow." His eyes are steady, dull, and she works her jaw in agitation. "I'll Incarcerous you and have Ron drag you if I have to."

Her quirked eyebrow seemed to do the trick as Harry's head falls into splayed fingers.

"Hermione, I'm not ready." The words are small, but he gives them.

She smiles. "Harry James Potter, you are more than ready. Something happened to you. You have every right not to tell me—" His breathing speeds up as she mentions the incident, but she continues. "—but there is absolutely no reason why you cannot try to pick up the pieces and continue with your life. You have been beaten, bruised, and broken so many times. We all have." At this, her voice drops and she looks to the scar on her arm. Harry's eyes follow. "That doesn't mean we can't move on. We have to move on, Harry."

His throat is dry and he swallows to try and keep the tears where they are, but he can't stop them. "I'm not sure I can. This was—it was—"

Hermione reaches out a hand slowly to wipe at his tears. He jolts at the contact, but lets her. "When you're ready, Harry. When you're ready, you'll tell someone what happened, but it doesn't have to be today. Today we are taking one step forward and getting you out of the house to celebrate your birthday. So let's get you cleaned up and go have a couple drinks, okay?"

He swallows thickly around his tongue and nods into the palm of her hand.

Hermione offers to take him somewhere Muggle—somewhere quiet, but Harry immediately goes into full panic mode. Instead, they choose a location that's both familiar and local.

Aberforth tips his shaggy head toward Harry as he walks past the bar. Harry ignores the greeting, too intent on securing the open booth in the far corner. He sits by himself on the edge of the one side, elbows hovering lightly over the table. Ron and Hermione slide in across him, Ron casually draping himself against the wall.

Steps heavy, a middle-aged woman steps up to the table and sighs. "What'll it be then?"

"Three butterbeers," Hermione says, looking between them. "And… some fish and chips to share, please."

The barmaid scrunches her nose idly then turns to holler the order over the counter. Ron shakes his head, but gives a low, throaty moan when his butterbeer comes sailing toward the table.

Mug in hand, he raises it and grins, calling out, "Happy birthday, Harry!"

Hermione smiles, also raising hers. Harry is shrinking away, but he gives a façade of a smile. "Thanks," he manages, before raising his glass just an inch or so off the table then taking a drink.

It's warm and smooth as it slides down. His throat works easily to swallow, gulping quickly—too quickly and soon, the contents of his mug are gone. Hermione and Ron and bickering happily over something trivial and Harry is lost to the warmth in his belly, the smell of ash and sweat around him.

"—isn't that right, Harry?" When he looks up, both of them are staring at him expectantly and he just nods politely, feigning interest in the conversation. They don't care he's not been listening and go back to their discussion over whatever it is they're arguing about. They seem happier that way.

The table grain moves left to right and he traces the pattern absently, circling a knot that interrupts everything. It stops the flow and keeps the smooth lines from being continuous, easy. Harry feels as if he knows this pattern, as if this is more than the wood grain of a table in a tavern; it's him and everything he represents. He's a knot in the wood—an interruption.

His nails start to dig at the table, to gouge at it and no one notices until his nail tears and he's bleeding. There's a smear of blood across the knot on the table now. He laughs softly now—Hermione and Ron are staring at him as if he's lost the plot completely and he hides his brokenness beneath the table, whispering a healing spell that doesn't work. He feels the tingle of his magic, but it's as if there's a block there, something in the way.

"Harry." His name is said with caution. She's afraid he will run.

He doesn't look up from the table. Instead, he takes a napkin and covers the blood. He reaches his other hand for a chip that's slathered in vinegar and shoved it in his mouth, chewing to stave off the conversation.

"—I'm well aware of that, Pansy."

That voice. Harry shudders as if someone's raked a nail down his spine. Ron looks out to see who it is and frowns. Hermione follows his gaze when he jerks his chin toward a nearby table.

"Why couldn't you just leave it alone? Always meddling."

"That's what I'm good for, darling."

There's a low rumble of laughter from the other table and Harry is stock still. He doesn't want any confrontation. Ron watches them through the next round of drinks as they finish their chips, though Harry doesn't partake of any; his drink also remains untouched.

Draco meets Ron's eyes several times as he looks to their table. He's been watching them and Pansy looks like she's trying to keep him from doing something. Ron watches intently as she whispers in his ear and Draco shakes her off. She looks put out, her jaw clenched as he stands up and walks toward their table.

"Hermione—" Ron says low in his throat. She looks up to see Draco approaching. Harry doesn't notice until he's right next to him, within touching distance.

"Ha—"

Harry panics, lurches from the table and knocks his drink over. The loo is the first place he can think of to hide, so that's where he goes.

Ron looks to Draco, who's staring off after Harry. "What the fuck, Malfoy?"

Draco steels his jaw and cuts him off with a "Not now, Weasley."

The tone and words are shocking. Pansy looks withdrawn and unhappy when Hermione meets her eyes. "What's going on?" Hermione asks.

Pansy shakes her head. "He feels like he has to—" she hesitates. "Like he owes him."

By the time Draco's through the door of the loo, Harry is cowering in a corner. His shirt and trousers are wet from knocking his drink across the table. Draco approaches slowly, speaking Harry's name, but he doesn't seem to hear.

Harry startles when he realizes there's a pair of loafers in front of him. He braces his arms and holds out his wand, but Draco holds open his empty hands.

"I've not come here to hurt you, Harry," he says softly.

Harry is confused. "Then why are you here?"

"I-I just feel that you should know you aren't alone." Draco runs a hand through his meticulous hair and goes to move away, feeling he's said his piece.

"I'm always alone."

Draco turns back, cocks his head toward the door. He slowly pulls out his wand. "You're soaking, Potter. Let's get you dry, okay?"

Harry looks down at the shirt he's wearing as if he hadn't realized the material was wet. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, it's not supposed to be—"

"Don't apologize." Draco stills Harry's hands and at the other man's labored breathing, lets go. "Never apologize. You didn't do this."

Harry tries to think through the words. The words. Too many words. They seem to be more than what they are, but everything is a little hazy.

"Harry." He waits until the other man is looking at him, which takes some time. "You are not alone, okay? I-I know what happened that night."

Harry's eyes move back and forth, his hands rub down his thighs where he healed several scratches, but he still feels them. "You can't know. You can't. You've no idea!"

"Harry," he says, voice gentle. "Harry, it was me who sent you through the Floo to your flat.

Broken eyes and startled fingers seem to move and cease everything at once. Harry cries. It's not the first time since it happened, but now he has more pieces of the puzzle and he can make a bit more sense of it. "Thank you," he says, as snot drips down his lip and his words slur and he's scrambling to hold himself together.

Ron charges into the bathroom, sees Harry in the state he's in and immediately goes for Draco.

"No!" Harry calls, putting a hand on Draco's shoulder. The touch is odd and he's not sure what to do with the warmth beneath his hand, the shock from his skin to Draco's, but he leaves it there—the tingling in his fingertips reminds him that this something new.

Ron steps back, wondering what spell Draco's put on him, but he licks his lips, and leans out the door. "Hermione, can you please come in here?" There's a pause. "Yeah? You can bloody well piss in a cauldron so much as I care! You're not coming in here!"

As she enters, Hermione's face scrunches like she's trying to work out an arithmancy equation. Though he's reluctant to do so, Ron allows Pansy past him toward the pair on the floor. She walks up behind Draco and whispers to him. He shakes his head and the exchange seems heated, but she pulls him away.

Harry looks confused and Ron is upset they're just leaving him like that. "What the hell, mate?" He steps toward Draco. "You're just going to fuck with him and leave? That's not on, Malfoy!"

Hermione doesn't say anything as they leave. Pansy turns to her and nods toward Harry. All she says is, "You need to talk to him. He has to tell you; that's the only way." Hermione stares at her retreating back as the door closes.

Harry is staring at his open hands, snot and tears making a mess of his face. Hermione walks over and crouches down. "We should get you home, Harry." He doesn't acknowledge her. When she tries to help him up, he moves with her, but there are no words—never any words.

Hermione stands outside the shower while he scrubs at the filth on his skin. The lines around her eyes are tight and he knows there's no point in arguing.

After a while, he hears a tentative "Harry, is everything all right?"

"Yes," he whispers, his voice catching a little before clearing his throat. He looks at the bright pink spot on his thigh where the flannel rests. "I'm all right." It's still dirty. He can still see it dripping there, just on the inside where—no. Harry shakes his head and leans against the wall. He bumps his forehead there.

"Harry?"

She must have heard the noise. "I'm fine, Hermione."

He feels her agitation through the curtain and tosses the flannel aside, turns the water down and reaches for a towel. When he emerges, he doesn't look at her. She looks him over and her mouth opens slightly.

"Oh Harry," she whispers. Moving to step forward, she stops mid-stride when he pales and retreats toward the wall. "Will you please let me help you?"

"I'm fine." He skirts around her and nearly runs to his room. His clothes are scattered on the floor; he grabs at anything that looks clean and throws on a jumper and sweat pants. By the time Hermione reaches his room, he's hunkered down beneath a mound of blankets and quite certain that he's not leaving.

She doesn't say anything. Instead, she places a glass of water and some sober-up potion on his night stand. He watches carefully, but doesn't move as she leaves the room, remembering to leave the door cracked open.

Across the hall, he hears hushed conversations. They're afraid. They don't know what to do with him and that scares them. Harry knows fear; he knows it intimately. It's been a constant companion since the world told him who he was and who he was supposed to be. How lovely that even after he did his duty to the wizarding world, he still has to live in fear—this time because of a Muggle.

Sitting up, Harry reaches across and grabs at some spare parchment and a quill. His ink pot is nearly empty, but he thinks that it will manage for this. The familiar feel of the nib as it moves across the parchment is comforting. Once he starts, the words come and he has a hard time controlling them.

Hermione and Ron,

I'm sorry for the things you've had to deal with because of what happened to me. It's not fair to you—but I'm not sure you'll understand. Something was taken from me—something personal. It's something I can never get back.

I was at a Muggle club and a man seemed interested in fooling around, so we went outside. Maybe I was drunk. Maybe someone slipped something in my drink. I'm not sure. All I know is that this man took everything from me.

He had me against a wall in a back alley. My fingernails broke against the wall because I couldn't get away. I screamed until my voice broke, but he shoved his sausage fingers in my mouth. I can still taste his blood on my tongue. I can still feel his breath on my neck. I can hear him grunting behind me, shoving into me. The pain was unbearable.

He left me behind a dumpster. I looked like a two-pence whore with my trousers about my ankles and some bloke's cum leaking down my thighs. I remember crawling toward the door, hoping someone would find me. I remember thinking about casting a Patronus, but not being able to focus on a happy memory.

I couldn't help myself. I couldn't stop him. I couldn't do anything.

That man took everything from me and I can never get it back. I don't expect you to understand, but maybe, someday, you'll know.

Harry takes the letter in hand, crumples it, and grabs his wand. "Wingardium Leviosa." He watches as it floats for a moment. "Incendio."

The smell of burning parchment comforts him. It's the thunder of feet and the blow of his door against the wall that startles Harry enough to nearly lose the levitation spell.

"What the hell is going on in here?" Ron's blustery voice seems weak as he looks around the room.

He catches sight of the flames and looks between Harry and the burning parchment.

"What is that, Harry?"

Harry swallows. "Words I couldn't say."

Ron walks toward him when the flames flicker out, only ash floating in the air. Harry flicks his wand to put the remaining bits into the fireplace. He watches as Ron sits hesitantly on the edge of his bed, scrubbing at his face.

"Harry, we—" His face scrunches in confusion, perhaps irritation. "Harry, you've got to talk to us." He pauses here, as if saying those words took a lot out of him. "We're your best mates and we want to help you. Please let us help you." His face is pained, with eyes drawn down and cheeks pulled upward. His lips are pursed slightly, but he's trying not to show his fear—Harry sees it anyway.

Harry looks at him with vacant eyes. "There's nothing you can do, Ron. It's gone, and I can't get it back."

"What do you mean, it's gone?" Ron turns more toward Harry now. "What's gone?" He gives Harry a chance to answer, but gets nothing in response.

When the silence becomes overwhelming and Harry refuses to look at him, Ron retreats to the room he's sharing with Hermione.

"What happened?" she asks, the worry clear in the lift of her eyes—the tightening of her brow.

Ron walks toward the bed and sits heavily. "He burned a letter." At her nod, he knows she's looking for more, so he rubs a hand against his face and sighs. "All he'll tell me is 'it's gone' and he can't get it back. I don't know what that means." For the first time since this started, Ron starts to cry. It's a heavy sort of anger that he's releasing as the tears drop in thick drops against his jumper. "I don't know what to do Hermione. I don't know how to help him."

Hermione scoots next to him, wraps her arms around his waist as best she can, and places her head on his shoulder. "We'll do what we've always done, Ron."

He looks to her then.

"We'll give him a way forward that allows him to do it himself. We're only providing him the means."

Ron is confused and Hermione smiles softly.

"I would like to give him a journal. It's something he can do in private—something that is his and his alone. He can write down the things he can't tell us." She pauses, trying to think of better phrasing. "Perhaps if he's written it down, then he'll feel more comfortable telling us or someone else what happened."

He rests his cheek against hers for a few steady breaths. The heat from her is reassuring. "I'm not sure it will work. He's never been a big writer."

She nods into the crook of his neck. "I know, but what other options do we have?"

"We can try, love," he whispers. "We can try."

Harry takes the journal. He nods at her idea to write in it, to put words down, to give the pages words he doesn't have—to bleed the words he's lost so that he can retell them aloud.

Hermione is appeased and retreats from the room.

Before he has the mind to burn the thing, he tucks it away. His fingers grip the edges so roughly his knuckles are white and when the drawer opens, he can't help but close his eyes and toss it away.

Words. He has no words for those pages. He hasn't any words for himself. Perhaps that's the problem.

Several days pass and Hermione is anxious. Harry tells her nothing about the journal. They go about their days just as they have been. Ron tries to comfort her with a soft hand at her back, a gentle caress of his hand down her arm—his thumb rubbing just at the crook of her elbow—but she purses her lips at the helplessness in his eyes. He's just as lost in this situation as Harry.

It comes to a head when Harry refuses to come out for breakfast.

Hermione listens closely for the shower tap, which she knows will come on precisely at seven-thirty. She gives it three minutes before barging down the hall and pushing open his door.

"Hermione, wait!" Ron calls from behind her, arms nearly touching her shoulders.

She glares back at him. "Ronald, we cannot let him wither away in there."

At her hissing tone, he withers. "You know what—" he starts, then drops his hands. "Whatever. Do what you want. You're going to anyway." He turns around and goes into their room, closing the door loud enough that it echoes in the quiet hall.

She sighs, but moves through Harry's door. He's still in the shower and she reckons she still has about twenty minutes based on his typical routine, but she doesn't want to take any chances.

"Accio journal."

A drawer across the room begins to wriggle and open, then the journal comes to her hand. She smiles softly at the binding, running her hand up the spine, then opening the cover.

Seeing the first page, she frowns. It's blank. She flips to the next—it's blank too. The next is the same. She grabs the edge and quickly goes through them, but they're all the same.

"Oh Harry."

A noise from the shower startles her and she tiptoes across the room to replace the journal and close the drawer. On her way back out, she takes a look back over her shoulder and truly looks at Harry's room. It's tidier than she remembers. Hermione shakes her head and rushes through the door, leaving it open just as he likes it.

Ron is by the window when she enters their room. He doesn't turn to look at her and she feels his anger from across the room. Moving behind him, she leans her forehead against his back and wraps her arms around him.

"I'm sorry, Ron."

He says nothing, but she feels the tension in him.

"I'm just so worried, I—"

He turns around. "Stop."

She looks up at him, her arms still wrapped around his waist.

"We're both worried about him, Hermione," he sighs, but continues. "The thing is that I'm not invading his privacy in order to check up on him. He's got to come to us!" His voice rises and Hermione tries to step back, but he holds her in place. "I love you, and I love that you care so much for him, but you've got to let him figure it out."

He feels the slow roll of her shoulders as she begins to break apart. Ron tries to hold her together, but she collapses to the floor. All he can do is wrap his arms around her, whisper that "Everything will be all right," as he leaves soft kisses against the edge of her ear, the flat of her cheek. He catches the tears as they well up and she struggles to breathe.

"I d-don't think s-so, this time, R-Ron," she hiccoughs.

Ron wraps his arms and legs around her, holding her closer. "He needs time, love. We all need time."

There, on the floor of their borrowed room, Hermione loses herself in her grief for a lost friend.

The quill is rough against the inside of his thumb. Several barbs are broken, worn away from use, but Harry can't make himself toss it out. The nib is worn low and the ink comes out wide and splotched. If he's honest, it's a bit of a hazard to write with, but it's familiar; he needs something familiar.

Looking at the parchment before him, Harry bites his lip, only realizes he does so when he clamps a bit too hard and soothes it with his tongue. The words he's written stare up at him as if they plan to destroy him. He reads them over carefully—one more time before sending it off.

They don't know. They'll never know. I can never tell them.

-Harry

Not for the first time he wonders if it's too cryptic, if the recipient will understand the words he's written. Harry goes to ball up the strip of parchment, but rolls it instead, tying it with a bit of string and whistling for Pig.

"Take it to him, and be sure he's alone, yeah?" He scratches under the owl's chin after attaching the letter and the bird blinks up at him before leaping from the sill.

Harry makes his way over to the bed, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders as he scoots back against the frame. Across the room is the open window where he's faced with the endless possibilities of his actions.

The response is swift. As Pig drops the letter at his feet, he feels a lurch deep in his belly. His fingers struggle to grab the edge, to pull the heavy weight toward him, the lead of the ink sinking low to the floor.

He breaks the seal, runs his finger over its jagged edges, and begins to read. "Tell them, Harry. Tell someone. Tell Hagrid or McGonagall or…someone. This doesn't have to be your life."

Harry thinks about the words. His lips form each one as he reads them over again, trying to understand what he means.

He rushes over to the table and nearly knocks over his inkwell in the process of responding.

How can it not be? It's gone. I'll never get it back.

-Harry

This time, the letter takes a little longer and Pig looks thoroughly put out by the use. Harry tosses a few treats over while he reads the newest letter.

"Some things we lose by choice. Some things are taken from us. That doesn't mean we can't live with the loss of them."

Harry clutches the letter between sweaty thumbs, rubs them across the words which are too heavy to bear. Once he's read it over several times, he tucks the letters away in a drawer with the journal—his place of unspoken words—and retreats to bed.