Warnings: Mentions of Suicide/Attempted Suicide, Jack Harkness, Slash, Some Violence, Some Language.
Note: This story will not be updated regularly (See my current WIP history), so do not be angry, annoyed, or disappointed if it gets left alone for months, if not years. My current projects take president, however this idea cropped up and my muses got too annoying not to pursue the story.
Note 2: This story is based on Harry Potter AU, however it follows the basic history of the books. The differences are pretty obvious. On that same note, this is primarily a Torchwood/HP crossover, however Doctor Who may eventually take over; I do use creative license when describing characters, histories, settings, etc. from both series, but attempt to keep them as IC as possible. Torchwood and Doctor Who will be AU as well.
Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own any characters, settings, histories, or other intellectual property publicly recognizable as belonging to the TV shows Torchwood and Doctor Who, or the book series Harry Potter. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from this story. This disclaimer applies to all chapters of this story and all content within.
Edited for Grammar 06/16/2014
It all started innocently enough. Well, if "innocent" meant surviving three killing curses, bursting into flames, and a run-in with a rogue bludger. Quite honestly it was a twist of wishful thinking that made Harry Potter assume that his continued survival was simply dumb luck. No, his life was far beyond that. But what else could it be when one day you wake up with the nasty realization that you should be dead a hundred times over, yet you keep on ticking. Perhaps it was the slow realization that embodied his childhood idealism fading away in rushing pain and desperate breaths.
The latest incident had involved a bludgeoning charm to the chest. By all accounts he had been dead and unresponsive for a good ten minutes before he spontaneously revived while the mediwizards were magicking his corpse onto a gurney. The blinding pain of his "first" breath seemed to lift a fog from his mind and he could no longer lie to himself as he saw Ginny's grief-stricken face among those attending the accident. He had died as a baby, he had died in the Chamber of Secrets, he had died when Voldemort revived himself, he had died when Voldemort killed him again, and he had died in countless other accidents since the Dark Lord's demise.
No one could figure it out and, much like he once had, laughingly chalked it up to his normal luck. What they failed to realize was that his previous "luck" had been purely to do with Dumbledore's machinations and the prophecy. The thought was fleeting that since reuniting all three Hallows he had become the Master of Death, but he dismissed it since he had given up ownership of the resurrection stone and the Elder wand. The act had been deliberate. After everyone had recovered he had arranged to duel Draco with the express intention of losing. The wand was now to be an heirloom of the Malfoys. A gift for their sacrifices during the final battle. They were hated by their former colleagues as well as the general wizard population for their actions.
The concept of living forever made him feel faint with horror. Nightmares plagued his sleep, watching those he loved wither to dust while he stayed forever the same. Ginny began to notice. How could she not, sleeping in the same bed? In attempts to distance himself from the possible reality of his situation, and avoid the Weasley woman, he threw himself headlong into his work, taking on every job that passed his desk in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It kept him away from home and away from Ginny, who had been pestering him about the possibility of an engagement on top of repeatedly pursuing the topic of his interrupted sleep disturbing her. He loved her dearly but at times he had to wonder who was in love with him more; the woman who had survived a war or the girl who grew up hearing tales of the Great Harry Potter.
Ron and Hermione had gotten married as soon as they were legally of age. It had been a small and quiet ceremony in the back yard of the Burrow. Now they had little time for their former best friend aside from to nag him about when he and Ginny were getting married. It was as if they were attempting to fulfill some fairytale ending. It left him with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had played his part, now they wanted closure. Such assumptions were proven correct as Ron refused him the time of day save where work and Ginny were concerned. Repeated invitations to lunch were brushed off with flimsy excuses. Harry eventually stopped trying.
Then there came a day when he had enough. Staring into the mirror in his wash closet he could hear Ginny distantly, her voice shrill with displeasure as he ignored yet another marriage discussion. Face drawn and pale, jaw lined with stubble, and eyes dull - he reminded himself of Sirius. The caged look in the Black's eyes, like a wild animal forced into a zoo, it had been a look Harry thought he had understood. Only now that he lived in Sirius' metaphoric place could he understand. His gaze drifted to his hair, which was flat and dull from lack of a wash. Gray hair peppered his temples, making him appear far older than his twenty-two years.
Is this what living "normal" meant? Plastering on a fake smile to appease the harpy in the other room, working nine o'clock to five o'clock six days a week, or even forcing himself to be miserable for the sake of those who had abandoned him the second he ceased to fit their perfect image? The flat gaze in the mirror confirmed the realization. For a man who could not seem to die, life was killing him. It was quite mundane.
Turning from the grim image in the mirror he focused his attention on Ginny, who was nearly in tears near the doorway. Searching his mind he drew up the last words from her he had registered. They had been accusations that he did not love her. He held in a deep sigh. They had the same argument every other day like clockwork. It was time to break the cycle.
"The question isn't whether or not I love you. The question is: do you love me, or the kid Arthur read to you about when you were a little girl?"
The quiet words stopped her fast, tears drying up as if they never existed. Harry knew they had not. The witch used crocodile tears to try getting her way, after she realized he had grown immune to her normal venues of persuasion. The long silence was all the answer he needed. Turning away in disgust he made his way past her and into the bedroom they had shared for the past three years. The majority of items were Ginny's. Harry had never been one for needless hoarding, preferring simplicity over extravagance. Most of his things were still packed tight in his traveling trunk as if he had been anticipating this day since the moment he moved in.
A well placed wand swish and a flat"Pack" had all of his stray belongings marching into the trunk as if by marionette. Several moments passed before his actions seemed to register to the ginger woman. "You can't leave! What would the neighbors think?" A line repeated exactly as his aunt would have said. It nearly made him want to vomit. Only, Aunt Petunia would have said, "Don't let the freak out! What would the neighbors think?" Is that what he had reduced to? Though he supposed it was true that history repeats. Shaking his head, he finally let the sigh escape.
"The neighbors will think that you finally kicked me out. I know that you gossip to old Mrs. Roland about what a good-for-nothing I am." Shrinking his trunk, he refused to look at her. He knew about the gossiping and belittling through senile Mr. Hendricks, who had forgotten that Harry was indeed Harry when he spread the neighborhood rumors. It was no secret that everyone was disappointed in Harry Potter for only being a Second Class auror, least of all his poor not-fiancé. He avoided the lime light where he was expected to embrace it, hid behind his friends to avoid the crowds. What kind of savior and figure-head was he? None at all, if he had his way.
There was little left to say so he took his leave. Surprisingly, Ginny did not put up a fuss as he walked through their flat and out the door. His triumph felt hollow and he had to pause at the end of the block to wonder if he had done the right thing. Flushing away his life for something that he could not yet even identify, it was mad. No one had ever accused him of sanity, however. Contemplating for a long moment, he turned on his heel and disappeared with a pop.
Godric's Hallow was a village relatively untouched by age and not at all by expansion. He liked to imagine that it held some meaning to him, beyond the place where his parents were buried. The Potters still owned the plot of land that had been consumed by the fire all those years ago, but he refused to claim it. The wild had reclaimed the site, leaving the foundation entangled in vines and flowering brush. It was a fitting tribute to the life his mother had attempted to save. She had saved him a bit too well, or so he was about to test once and for all. Drawing in a deep breath, he pulled a revolver from his pocket and stepped into the mass of foliage that used to be the front door.
Making his way to where the nursery would have been, he looked around. The scene was nicely shrouded by trees and brush. The only thing to notice would be the noise, but perhaps someone would chalk it up to a backfiring car. It should have disturbed him when he placed the barrel under his chin and felt no hesitance. Honestly though, what did he have to live for even if his theory proved false. Drawing in a steady breath, he quietly said his goodbyes, just in case.
A lone gunshot echoed across the landscape.
