His name is Harry Potter, and he is five years old. Sometimes he forgets his name—Aunt and Uncle always call him Boy—but he's getting better at remembering now that he goes to school. His teachers always get upset when he doesn't respond right away, and that kind of upsets him too.
He knows he shouldn't upset adults, but it's hard when he's scared. It's even harder when his cousin grabs him and shoves things down his pants. His screams only make Dudley laugh and the teacher frown.
It's not all bad though. He's been promised a slice of bacon with his toast if he behaves himself. He'd really like his breakfast to include bacon for once. He's never had it before. It smells good though!
He's wandering around the neighborhood after school when he meets The Man in the Suit with the Hat.
A man in a suit shouldn't be a strange sight, even Uncle Vernon wears one, but there is something distinctly…distinct about the way this man wears a suit. It's almost like the stranger is a shadow, one made at the end of a day.
"Chaos," The Man says while looming over him.
He opens his mouth. He tries to say "What?" and instead makes a sound resembling a frog from the garden. Heat rises to his cheeks, and he snaps his mouth shut. He stares up at The Man whose eyes are hidden beneath the brim of a hat.
"So young," The Man snorts, "and so innocent. Truly a perfect lamb."
He keeps staring at where he thinks The Man's eyes are. His legs won't move and neither will his mouth. His hands are shaking. He has no idea what's going on.
(Later, he will realize that he is afraid. Not like at school or when Uncle Vernon comes home in a bad mood. He is afraid like a lamb before a lion. Death stands before him. He is terrified.)
"Listen up No-good Harry," The Man purrs dangerously, "you're a bright kid, but that's going to get you killed."
The Man reaches for him faster than he can blink. A finger pokes his forehead before sliding towards his scar. He doesn't dare move let alone breathe.
"Things will be hard," The Man says, "but this will keep you from burning to death."
The last thing he sees before falling asleep is a bright, yellow light. Despite everything, he finds the light to be warm and soothing. It dances beneath his eyelids and calls to something deep inside him.
When he wakes it's to the familiarity of his cupboard. He rubs his forehead and wonders if The Man in the Suit with the Hat carried him home. He hopes this doesn't count against his bacon. He doesn't think Aunt Petunia will be nice enough though.
Years pass and the memory of that moment fades away. While The Man in the Suit with the Hat, along with the warm light, gets pushed to the back of his mind, sometimes on sunny days, he stops and tilts his head to the sky, looking for something. He gets an aversion to black suits and fedoras though he only has a vague idea why.
The letters start showing up, and he stops looking at the sky.
He is eleven, and he's just killed a man. Well, he's not technically responsible for killing Quirrell; Voldemort lowered the axe when the spirit left the man's body. Still, he can't seem to shake off the screams of his once professor. He's unable to stop himself from remembering the way the man's face just seemed to burn.
(Something inside of him cracks just a little bit.)
It's fine, he tells himself, Dumbledore said it was all fine.
The stone is fine, his friends are fine, and he's fine. He's got a feast to go to.
He's twelve, and he's just killed a basilisk and a memory. The basilisk was terrifying, but it is the screams of a ghostly Tom Riddle that stay with him. He knows he did the right thing. Ginny is safe, Voldemort can't come back, and Hermione and Ron smile at him on the train ride home.
Still, he feels a little…out of sorts. Sometimes it feels like he's stuck dying, and sometimes it feels like he's still wielding Gryffindor's sword while running down a dark tunnel.
(The crack widens just a bit more.)
It's probably nothing.
He's thirteen, and he's furious. At Pettigrew, at Fudge, at the dementors, at himself—he's the angriest he's ever remember being. He had been so close to getting away from the Dursleys and having a real and proper home with his godfather. A home that could have been everything he's ever wanted; one filled with love, food, and support.
It's all ashes to the wind now. His desire to not have blood on his hands has only ended in more suffering, not only for himself but for Sirius too.
(That fracturing piece gets bigger.)
He rubs his forehead as Ron and Hermione try to soothe him. He manages a strained smile for them. The smile soon becomes real when a tiny owl carrying a letter arrives.
He is fourteen, and he is responsible for the return of Voldemort. He is responsible for the death of Cedric Diggory. He is responsible for a lot of things, but these two events hit him the hardest.
He spends his days on edge and cut off from the only part of the world that matters to him. There are no letters with "It's not your fault" or "How are you" written inside; Hermione and Ron have only written vague letters with a promise to talk later.
The curling fear of being attacked at any moment is constantly upon him. He pretends that memories of the graveyard aren't overtaking his thoughts. He is fine; he just needs news.
(The crack is long and deep now, ready to completely break.)
His mind keeps going back to Cedric who had a whole life ahead of him, an innocent victim to Voldemort's cruel schemes. Truly a perfect lamb, his mind whispers.
He is fifteen, and he has unwittingly killed his godfather.
Crucio
Sirius is—
Crucio
His godfather is—
Crucio
It'shisfault—No,it'sherfault—WhySiriuswhy—
His Cruciatus Curse on Bellatrix fails. Voldemort shows up in dark, deformed glory, and Dumbledore arrives to save the day. It's too late, he thinks. He is beyond saving. Voldemort possesses him and tries to crush his soul.
A warm light that shines like the sun fills him when he thinks of Sirius, and in the end, it is the memory of his godfather that saves him.
(It doesn't matter. He shatters into thousands of little pieces. He is broken.)
He rages and screams. He learns about the prophecy and screams some more. Everyone thinks he'll be okay given enough time and space. It's almost hilarious at how little everyone seems to care about his emotional well-being.
He wonders if he was ever "just Harry" to anyone.
He is sixteen, and he has a job to do. Dumbledore is dead; it's probably his fault. Still, he can't bring himself to hate Malfoy the same way he hates Bellatrix. His anger towards Draco and Snape are more of a temporary thing, nothing like the sheer fury that fills him when it comes to Bellatrix or Voldemort.
It's probably not healthy to feel this way, but aside from Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, rage is probably the only thing keeping him going at this point.
(His friends don't realize he's broken, no one does.)
He makes his plans with the Order and his other set of plans with his best friends. He grips his wand tightly with a grim face. He's a soldier now; he fights for the only things he has left.
He is seventeen, and he dies.
For a moment, he is free. Onwards beckons him in exhilarating splendor. Then the faces of his friends flash before him. The memory of Dumbledore gives him a knowing look.
His bonds tether him to the world of the living, and he still has a job to do. The train station disappears in warm, soothing light. He wakes up.
(There's something there, lurking among the shards. He wants to face the sky, but it's not possible at this moment.)
He kills Voldemort, finishing the job. He buries a Hallow and uses the remaining one to hide away. It's a long week filled with cleaning up and burials.
He waits for his normal life to begin even as Ginny begins planning their life together. He waits even as Hermione and Ron leave to find her parents.
He waits for life to have meaning as the Wizarding World recovers. He gets kind of desperate when Ginny starts planning their wedding, and he still feels empty. When not even Teddy gives him something to hold onto, he knows there's something wrong.
It's Luna who sheds light on the problem.
"You're at a crossroads. The fire is burning you to ash. You will either blow away in the wind or turn into glass," she tells him with wide, sorrowful eyes.
Desperate, he looks up at the sky, unable to meet her gaze any longer.
He wants to deny that he's dying—not in body but in spirit—but the words don't come. He feels the light smoldering in the pits of his soul, beautifully, warmly, and devouring.
"What do I do?" He asks, licking his suddenly too dry lips.
"Live," is all Luna says.
She doesn't say anything more than that, choosing instead to talk about Ron and Hermione's impending wedding.
Luna's never let him down before. He takes her advice and talks a surprised Ginny into an early marriage. Their wedding takes place exactly a year after the end of the war amongst well-wishers and exasperated relatives.
He loves Ginny; he knows this. He is the happiest he's ever been in a long time.
And yet.
The party outside the Weasley home is loud. He thinks he can hear the sound of a dragon roaring. He wishes he could go check and see if there truly is a dragon, but he's being forced to wait in Ron's old room until the ceremony actually begins.
Thankfully, Ron has decided to keep him company with all the fluster of a big brother who can't seem to decide whether to grin or to scowl.
It's kind of funny, really. Ron flutters between threatening him, congratulating him, and threatening Ginny without even realizing it.
He fiddles with the watch given to him by his soon-to-be mother-in-law as Ron goes on another teary-eyed rant. He traces the face and thinks,
I just need more time is all.
