Chapter 2

Some days, the walls of his room seemed to assault him, leaving him short on breath, and pacing through the house to find a room with enough space to keep him from going insane. Other days, his bed in Sirius's old room felt like his only safe place, the only place to hide him from the shadows. Then there were days that he just didn't feel anything at all. There were days that the nightmares were too much, and he would only stare at the ceiling, willing sleep away.

Today was one of those days where he couldn't be bothered to leave the bed. His hunger had died down long ago, leaving him with a stomach feeling just as empty as his soul did. The reality of the losses of the war finally seemed to have hit him. No more Remus with his words of wisdom and his warm embraces, or Tonks to cheer him up with a snout or a different hair color. They had a son. Their son was an orphan now, and after some thinking Harry remembered that little Teddy would be in Andromeda's care now. Although often plagued by guilt, he realized that meant he had some time to pick up the pieces that were formerly known as one Harry Potter. There were a lot of pieces.

He could even use one of Snape's snarky comments now. "The Chosen One, loitering in bed all day, feeling sorry for himself. Even I expected more than for you to stoop this low."

As always though, the thought of Snape brought him back to that last vial of memories the man had left Harry with. And Dumbledore… Harry squeezed his eyes shut, driving his fingertips into his eyeballs until he saw stars. No, not yet. He hadn't quite overcome the fact yet that Dumbledore had lead him on like that for such a long time. Every time he had spoken to the man, he had known. And yet, he had always been given bits and pieces of information, never enough to figure out the whole picture. Dumbledore had left him with a snitch and a missing sword, which Snape eventually had gotten to him, he realized now. The facts of his apparently dreadful relationship with a man he had always looked up to brought him a wave of nausea.

Harry suddenly got up and started pacing the room, the space too small for the amount of poisonous thoughts feasting on him. Had the man ever cared for him at all? Had his own worries and fears and grief been justified, knowing now that he had been nothing more than a tool to win the war to this man? He halted. Unknowingly, he nails scraped at his bare knees, leaving angry red streaks across his skin, some starting to bleed. It was too much. Everything was too much. In his building rage, he slammed his fist into a wall, some of his knuckles splitting. Blood was spilling from his hand, but he didn't notice. Drained, he sagged against the wall, sliding down, and curling into himself on the floor.

000

Hours later, or perhaps it was mere minutes, Harry woke up. Sense of time was something that had abandoned him quite a while ago. He had no need for it anyway. Realizing that his limbs were a mess, he slowly stretched them one by one and moved to get up. Wincing when he used his knuckles to push himself up. Thirsty. He moved to the closest restroom to drink some water. Then he dragged himself back to the bed, and slumped down on it. He didn't bother to cover himself up with the blankets that were a heap at the foot of the bed.

000

Sometime later, he woke up again. This time, he realized, it was dark. It was a tapping sound which had woken him, rather than waking up from being thirsty. His senses turning into something more alert, attempting to take in his dark surroundings. He found he didn't even have his wand on him. When was the last time he had held his wand? Startled, he realized that he was completely vulnerable like this. He mumbled a quick, wandless, accio. Unsure if it would work at all, as he'd never actually tried to summon a wand without a wand. Shaking his head, he waited and listened again. It seemed to be more of a scratching sound now, coming from one of the far windows of the room.

Harry almost jumped when his wand finally flew into his hand. Yes!

With a new burst of energy coming from his little success, he jumped and rolled over behind the drawer, and peeked over it. The curtains were drawn, he couldn't see a damn thing. Cursing inwardly, he flicked his wand to move the curtains away, ready to blast the window out if need be.

A bird! A bloody fucking bird.

He cursed at himself for being on high alert for a damn sodding bird tapping at his window, and moved over to open it. At the same time, he felt all the pent-up energy leaving his body all at once. His shoulders slumped, and he had to put his shoulder to work to actually manage to open the window.

After that straining task was done, the bird flew towards the bed, perching itself up on the wooden railing of the headboard. Sighing, Harry moved towards it. Probably one of Hermione's letters, he thought absent-mindedly, not recognizing the bird.

He grabbed the letter, and flopped down on the bed.

Potter,

Can we talk?

- DM.

The letter didn't say anything else, but Malfoy's tear-streaked face immediately appeared in front of him. How long had it been since he'd seen Malfoy? Weeks? Months? Once again his sense of time had abandoned him, and he signed irritably.

Did he want to talk to Malfoy at all? What would there even be to talk about?

Great seeing you again, Malfoy! Probably not much going on for you now since you haven't been able to cozy up any Dark Lords lately, have you?

He shook his head, reprimanding himself for such thoughts. Malfoy appeared to have been as much of a victim of circumstances as he'd been. Harry couldn't blame him for his choices, even though they had been mostly the wrong ones. They both had been under pressure, being put upon them by their surroundings. Harry was put into the role of a savior, while Malfoy had been put into the role of a Death Eater, a murderer even. The fact that he didn't actually seemed to have killed anyone, was admirable in a way.

Was that good enough a reason to agree to meet him, though? Harry contemplated again what Malfoy could possibly want to talk to him about.

What if they were planning on locking him up?

Immediately, a block of ice seemed to have settled in the pit of Harry's stomach. What if Malfoy needed his help? Did anyone even know that Malfoy wasn't a killer? Harry had always screamed on the top of his lungs that Malfoy was up to something, after all.

He couldn't let Malfoy get locked up.

Quickly, he grabbed a crumbled old quill and scribbled a reply on the back of the parchment. He gave it back to the patient bird who had been following his every move since settling down. As soon as it had the letter attached to its leg, it flew back out of the window. He watched it disappear into the night.

When the bird was no longer visible, Harry slumped back on the bed, curling up in his familiar fetal position once more. This time however, his thoughts worked at full speed. If he would have to defend Malfoy in a case against him, he had better start thinking of the times that the git had actually helped him instead of working against him. It wasn't going to be an easy task explaining his actions.

Harry didn't realize it was the first time in weeks that he had no intention whatsoever to cut off his train of thoughts.

000