Chapter 19: PART II

.

"Excellent speech, Mr Potter," an exuberant voice said, touching him on the shoulder as he walked past.

Harry flinched, drawing back and seeing a face he didn't recognize grinning at him. He moved his mouth into a smile shape.

"Thanks," he said, and continued walking down the hallway.

"Harry," another person called, to his left, "I'm glad I caught you. You left before the press got any good shots. They're asking for you to return. Didn't you get the message?"

Harry nodded, pointing ahead of him, vaguely.

"I'm just… office. Be right back."

Two more people touched him, saying words he didn't catch, before he reached his door, unlocked it, and closed it firmly behind him.

Re-locked it.

Set up hefty wards that would keep out anyone—

Not anyone.

He held his breath. Counted.

He slid down the door to the floor. Kept counting.

A knock startled him and he gasped, but his wards kept him safe. He could take a few minutes to breathe before he had to go back out there and celebrate the dead body of Lord Voldemort.

You mean nothing to me.

Harry bit his cheek, closing his eyes and wrapping his arms around his knees.

Three months. Almost. Eighty-one days.

And no word. Not a clue as to what the man had been up to, where he had gone, who he was with. It was like the whirlwind of their reunion was a dream. Even the marks the Dark Lord had left on his neck were gone.

He was gone.

Harry pulled in a deep breath. He didn't have much time to hide in here. Ginny was waiting downstairs with their friends and Harry was supposed to be out there with them, swapping stories about what an asshole Voldemort had been. What a relief it was that he was dead.

Only Hermione understood, insomuch as she could, not knowing, of course, that Harry had rescued the man and that he was actually alive. If Harry had not been so certain of the man's immortality, he would worry that Voldemort was indeed dead. Why else had there been no recent uptake in casualties caused by the BDE? Why had he not come forth and proclaimed that he was back?

Was he hurt? The thought of him in danger kept Harry awake on the nights he wasn't busy staring at the walls, working overtime, entertaining Ginny, or letting random Muggle men punish him for his stupidity.

Save yourself, Potter. That is what I am doing.

Which had been easy for Voldemort to say, but for Harry, he wasn't sure if he even cared to anymore.

Harry banged his head back against the door. He had to go back down. They would be wondering where he was.

He stood and made to leave, but something incongruous on his desk caught his attention.

It was a box. Small, wooden, and stained black.

He walked towards it, his wand suddenly in his hand. Looking down, he tried to decide how it got there. He kept his door locked, as did all the other Aurors with offices. He doubted anyone could get in without him knowing. Not even Ginny.

He cast a few detection charms and the box read as harmless. No curses, nothing sinister.

A juvenile hope flickered in his chest. He doused it.

Placing his wand on the desk, he recklessly picked up the box and removed the lid.

Inside was just a small piece of parchment, folded and innocent-looking. Harry opened it without hesitation.

.

Harry,

This box will open for none but you.

I am over 1,000 miles away and still, news of your amorous escapades grace the tabloids. Dismiss the redhead and perhaps, one day, I may visit.

Enjoy the party. Congratulations on your victory.

.

Harry read the note four times. He tried to explain a way for it to be from anyone else. There was no signature, but he didn't need one.

Bloody bastard.

His legs betrayed him and he fell to the floor.

Three months and no word. The man had left him, had disappeared and taken Harry's equilibrium as well, and now he was issuing ultimatums? He somehow disapproved of Harry being with his fiancée when Harry had literally thrown himself at the man's feet and been undeniably and callously rejected.

And where was he, one thousand miles away? That could be almost anywhere in Europe!

Anywhere but here.

Enjoy the party, indeed. Voldemort must be laughing his arse off at all the duped Ministry officials and all the public who were celebrating the Dark Lord being dead— with proof!— as he sipped a damn glass of wine or something, sitting comfortably one thousand miles away somewhere.

Harry crumpled the letter in his fist. Standing up, he threw it unceremoniously into the wastepaper basket and turned to leave.

Paused.

"Motherfucker," he muttered to himself, and bent to retrieve it.

He crushed the paper into a tight ball, put it into the pocket of his dress robes and went back down to the party, his hand turning numb from the strength of his grip.

.

.

Harry pulled the chair out for Ginny and she smiled appreciatively at him before seating herself. He took the spot to her right, grateful to see Hermione and Ron had already ordered them drinks. The Firewhisky went down easier than it should, but it was a skill he'd practiced these last three months.

When he set the empty glass down, Hermione frowned at him.

"Sorry we're late," Ginny said, and Harry turned to look at her. "Kingsley caught Harry before we left and they talked for ages."

She rolled her eyes. Ron laughed.

"Working, even on your own celebration day, eh?"

Harry grimaced.

"That's me, slave to my job."

Ron signalled to the waiter.

"What did he want?" Hermione asked.

"Oh, you know. Congratulations. Thank you. Better start working hard again to prove that you deserve all this."

Ginny and Ron laughed, but Hermione didn't.

"He said that?"

Harry shrugged.

"Pretty much." He picked up the menu. "It's true, anyways. I'm hanging by a thread."

"Nah, he gets it," Ron argued, putting down his own menu. "Things are tough, especially on a day like today. For everyone else, the Battle of Hogwarts was a shining moment in the history books but for us, who were actually there…"

He trailed off and Harry's imagination finished it for him. He saw Fred, and Snape, and little Colin, and the castle so broken apart, and that huge body, so light in his arms, as he carried him, red eyes closed—

Harry gripped his robes under the table.

No.

Not here, not now.

He moved his fingers to trace the comforting outline of the wad of paper in his pocket.

"Ah well," Ron said, after the waiter left with their orders. "If the idiot fires you, it's his loss. I honestly don't know why you're staying there. You hate that job."

"No he doesn't, he's made for that job," Ginny argued, putting a hand over his under the table.

Harry tried not to cringe. As if he wanted to be made for catching criminals. He realized, sardonically, that the last criminal he'd encountered he had actually set free.

Maybe it was time to quit.

Harry listened vaguely to his friends talk, letting his mind go blank. He wanted to close his eyes, but knew he'd never get away with it.

When the meals arrived, Harry ate, seeing the fancy food but tasting nothing.

"Harry?"

Hermione was sitting next to him, her hand on his arm. Harry looked around and realized that Ron and Ginny were gone.

"Sorry," Harry said, getting to his feet, but Hermione pulled him back to sit.

"They're paying. Harry— we need to talk."

He shook his head, heaving a sigh.

"I'm fine."

"Don't lie to me. Why have you blocked your Floo? Why do my owls keep coming back with their letters undelivered? Why—" she paused, taking a breath then speaking quieter. "Why are you hiding from us?"

Harry leaned back.

"I'm not hiding. I'm sorry."

"You are and stop being so damn sorry!"

Hermione had banged her fist on the table when she'd said that last word and it had startled him.

"I won't talk about him if that's what you're afraid of," she whispered.

Harry drew in a breath, locking his eyes on hers for the first time during this conversation.

Him.

Hermione watched his reaction and Harry worked to control it. The man was supposed to be dead and Harry, relieved. Or, as it was Hermione, he was allowed to be sad, but surely if he showed her the yawning crater the man had left, she would worry.

And he was fine.

He stood, making his way to the front where Ginny was waiting impatiently. He could hear Hermione close behind him, but he took comfort in the knowledge that she would not create a scene to halt him.

Outside, the four of them stood together in painful silence that Harry could not break. My fault, my fault.

"I'm sorry," Harry muttered, wishing he could be the person they all wanted him to be or else that they could just let him go, drop him like the dead weight that he was.

"Don't be daft," Ron said, at the same time Ginny replied, "That's alright."

Harry nodded his head awkwardly.

"Can I come by?" Ginny asked in a small voice, and Harry wanted to run.

"Ah," he said, casting about for an excuse.

"Let him be," Ron answered, and when Harry managed to look up again, it was just Hermione standing there.

"I don't know what to do for you, Harry," Hermione said, taking his hand in hers and leading him away from the restaurant.

They were walking together down the pavement, holding hands, and Harry could only think about how unfair it was that he couldn't do this with the man he…

Oh fuck.

"I think Ron is right, Harry," Hermione said, as Harry began to internally scream in horror. "You should think about quitting."

It wasn't true. Whatever he felt, he wasn't so fucked up as to feel that way for the bleeding Dark Lord Voldemort, of all the godforsaken horrible choices of men out there in the world.

He wasn't.

He didn't.

Sure, he was a complete wreck since the man had left. He was barely holding it together, was drowning in memories and feelings and the damn fucking hopes he'd had that were all shattered now.

But that was all to be expected because of that bloody great Soul Hole the bastard had blasted out of him. It wasn't his fault, and it certainly wasn't—

"Harry?"

Bugger. He wasn't alone.

"What?"

She was frowning again, but this time she looked concerned too.

"Did you… Did you hear me? At all?"

Harry didn't even bother to pretend.

"Nope."

She squeezed his hand, stopping them both and facing him. He grudgingly realized he'd have to look at her now, really look. He took a deep breath.

She had tears in her eyes, damnit. He looked away, but she pulled him back.

"I think you should go to St Mungo's. I'm really worried about you."

"I'm f—"

"Harry, stop!" Hermione shouted, releasing his hand and shoving him on his chest.

He was pushed back two paces and he stared at her, utterly shocked. She'd shoved him! Her eyes were unapologetic, still furious.

"Stop saying you're fine! You're falling apart!"

She threw up a privacy ward and Harry flinched knowing they were going to talk about—

"Voldemort is dead, Harry! He's not coming back and you need his magic or his soul or whatever it is and you can't have it! So what's your plan now? Are you going to kill yourself?"

She froze, then slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide and terrified.

"Oh Merlin, Harry, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said that. That's— That's not—"

"Maybe."

Hermione shut right up. Harry looked away.

"I mean, I don't have any plans and I don't really want to die, but…"

He trailed off, not knowing why not. He wasn't a quitter, that was true, and as long as Voldemort was alive, there had to be hope, right? Yet every day was harder than the last and Voldemort had been right, that there was no way they could be together, so, really, what was the point in anything.

"Oh Harry," Hermione said, and then her arms were around him, holding him, burying her face into his neck.

He felt her crying and Harry had a sudden, pathetic hope that maybe Voldemort was watching from somewhere and would grab him back from this embrace in his jealousy…

But then, the man had never intervened on any recent occasion when Harry had been getting fucked over a bathroom sink, or on his back in someone's car, so the chances were basically slim to none.

"Can I ask you something?" Hermione inquired, pulling away, but Harry didn't meet her gaze.

"Sure."

She hesitated.

"Well, it's about when you got hit with the Killing Curse. You never really answered me and I couldn't seem to figure out how to ask—"

"If I was immortal?" Harry laughed at Hermione's shocked face. "Yup. Mental, eh? I was the one to kill the infamous, immortal Lord Voldemort because my immortality trumped his."

Harry rubbed a hand over his face. It was wet. When had he started crying?

Hermione touched his arm and Harry accidentally looked back at her. She looked horrified.

"You killed him? Merlin, Harry, I didn't know, why didn't you tell me?"

Harry shrugged, looking away.

"It doesn't really matter. I can die any time I want, I just have to figure out how to get the Hallows to change their allegiance."

Hermione made a gasping sound and Harry realized she hadn't known that either. He started laughing.

"What a bloody mess, right? Maybe I should kill myself."

Hermione grabbed his arm and shook him. He looked at her, surprised.

"Now you listen to me, Harry Potter. I am taking you to St Mungo's right now and we are getting you some help."

Harry groaned.

"Hermione, I'm fine—"

"You are not fine! Am I supposed to just ignore you saying you're going to kill yourself?"

"We've been over this." He pointed at his chest. "Master of Death. I can't kill myself, even if I wanted to. Which I don't."

Not really, anyways. Certainly not until I figure out what the hell is going on with the letter currently in my pocket.

"Harry, I'm scared for you. You've lost weight. You've blocked all forms of communication from your friends, you're back to being like a zombie… You had to kill a man you were starting to have feelings for. All of that is extremely traumatizing, not to mention the war and all of what Dumbledore and the Ministry and… he put you through. And now you're talking about suicide."

Harry scoffed.

"Joking about it."

"Who jokes about suicide?" Hermione shrieked. "Please, Harry. Come with me. Talk to someone."

Harry was pissed. Like it was that easy.

"I was there for ages, Hermione. They had no idea what was wrong, they sent me home. The only thing that helped me, the only reason I got better was because of him."

Hermione tilted her head.

"But… how? You were at St Mungo's, then you went to the Ministry to… kill him. When could he have made you better?"

Harry did some quick thinking.

"Just seeing him for those few hours. Being with him. It was enough. My magic… my soul, whatever that is… It needs him. And now he's gone and there's nothing I can do. So going back won't help. Nothing will. I don't want to be studied and tested and questioned about why I'm falling apart."

"They're doctors, they have to keep your confidentiality—"

"This is Voldemort we are talking about! You think they're going to ignore that he has been alive for over a decade despite what the Ministry has been saying? Of course not! And I'm not going to be the one to drop that bomb."

Hermione looked defeated.

"Come stay with us, then. We'll make sure you eat and sleep and keep you company."

Harry sighed.

"I don't need that. You've got your own life to live."

"Don't be stupid. We love you and the kids would love to have you over."

Harry didn't know how to tell her that that sounded like hell.

"I just want to go home. Please. I'm—" He caught himself before she shoved him again. "I'll work on being fine. I'll… open up my Floo. Okay? I'll come out to dinner more often."

Harry could feel her eyes on him. He tried to seem sincere. Which, he wasn't.

"I'm coming by every few days, for tea," she threatened. "And you'll let me in, won't you?"

Harry nodded, not meeting her eyes.

She pulled him into another hug and this time Harry let himself melt a little against her.

"I love you, you know," she whispered into his ear, and Harry was suddenly reminded of his newest, horrific epiphany.

He tensed and Hermione pulled away.

"Sorry," she said. "I keep forgetting that you're not comfortable with hugs anymore."

Harry frowned.

"What?"

"Oh. Just… Since… he died. Whenever I hug you… Like that time at your place when Ginny's magic became erratic, and you kept flinching and jumping away whenever someone touched you. And lately, you kind of… avoid being too close to anyone."

Harry considered this. Although the situation with Ginny had been rather more complicated, it was still true what had she said. He shrugged.

"I'm just tired, 'Mione."

She nodded.

"Okay. Let's go home, then. I'll tell Ron we'll be seeing more of you from now on."

Harry tried to smile, but he was sure it came out more like a grimace. She blew out a breath and then quickly pressed a kiss against his cheek.

"See you soon."

And she Disapparated.

Harry watched where she had disappeared from for long minutes, listening to the sound of Muggles nearby, cars driving past, and his own pounding heartbeat as he accepted the impossible fact that he loved Lord Voldemort.

.

.

A few weeks later, Harry sat on his sofa, third glass of Firewhisky in hand, and contemplated the box. A few times a day he would open it and check inside. No new letters appeared and every time, he cursed himself for hoping. For being disappointed.

He opened it again and sighed, tossing it lightly back onto the coffee table.

Weekends were hard. He hated being alone. He also hated being around people. Mostly, it seemed, he was just destined to be unhappy with whatever he was doing.

Harry had been careful lately not to be outside where the press could photograph him. Not since that bastard's snarky remarks. Ginny wasn't thrilled about it, but she accepted that this was just another of his weird rules. When he did consent to going out, he would only travel to Muggle locations. It was so similar to last time, to before, where he'd become a recluse and slightly agoraphobic.

His fame had exploded since the unveiling of Voldemort's 'body' and with the surge had come all the worst parts of celebrity again. The sycophants, the media, the scrutiny, the touching… Everyone suddenly had so much to say to him, but ignored whatever he responded with.

Like, no. Or stop following me. Or I have a fiancée.

If there was ever a time for Voldemort to be jealous, it would be now. Although useless at his job, unable to bring himself to shower or shave more than once a week, and although he looked sickly and pale whenever he dared to look into the mirror, he was more pursued and groped now than ever.

It was maddening. He had stopped participating in field duty at work because whenever someone saw him, they would create a scene and whatever his team had been attempting to do, would be thwarted. So now he only moved from his haunted flat, to his office at work, and then back home. Occasionally he would see his friends or Ginny. Otherwise, it was just him and his aching, debilitating, desperate misery.

Longing.

It was agony to think of Voldemort, thousands of miles away, relaxed and immune while Harry was falling apart. Each time he re-read the letter, Harry resented how blasé the man had been. As if he didn't know Harry was suffering. As if he didn't care.

And that thought was just preposterous, because why in hell should the Dark Lord even give a shit that Harry Potter was sad?

He burned to write his own damn letter. See how the prick liked it. Make it casual. Disinterested. Maybe mention how much sex he was having, the fantastic quality of it, and how there was no rush for that visit. Perhaps he could fake a wedding invitation and send it his way.

Call him Tom.

No, that was too cruel, even for his revenge fantasy. He didn't want to hurt the man. He just wanted to show him how ridiculously inadequate that letter had been.

Maybe I should send a letter.

That convenient box may just work both ways. It was worth a try.

Harry necked back the rest of his drink, poured himself another, and Summoned a parchment and quill.