DENIAL AND ITS SIDE EFFECTS

HashtagMC

So, here you have the nightmares mentioned in the summary! I'm glad you liked the song I wrote for the Sorting Hat, I was a bit anxious writing one that made sense andrhymed. This chapter contains more dialogue than the last one, which was more a Prologue-II sort of chapter, introducing the post-war-Hogwarts. Also, here are the first, slightest hints to Dean/Seamus.

Thanks goes to Kigen Dawn and Zatsune D. DrarryFan for pointing out mistakes to me!

— Hashtag

CHAPTER 3 – TROUBLE AHEAD

When Harry woke up, he felt rather sick. Not the physical kind of sick, as in, catching the flu or something. More like… more like something terrible had happened, something that he didn't remember.

Harry furrowed his eyebrows and tried to remember. Yesterday evening, he had finished some homework for Magic History (after Hermione had urged him and Ron to do so), exchanged a few friendly words with Dean, Seamus and Neville, brushed his teeth and gone to bed. Nothing unusual so far. He remembered to then lying awake for maybe an hour or two and hearing the others one by one stepping into the dorms and going to bed as well, first Neville, then Ron, then Dean and Seamus (those two were really connected by the hips, even more so after their reunion during the battle). Harry couldn't quite pinpoint the time when he'd fallen asleep – maybe one or two o'clock?

He was pretty sure he'd dreamt something bad, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what exactly it had been. All which was left were glimpses, images in the corner of his mental eye, but when he tried to focus on them, they disappeared, slipping through his fingers like the Golden Snitch during a bad Quidditch match. The images always stayed just out of his reach. Harry groaned in frustration. He was sure that this was something important – he'd never felt so down after a bad dream, unless it was one of his Voldemort-visions – and the sheer feeling of being powerless and unable to catch whatever it was drove him insane. Angrily, Harry punched his mattress, pretending not to see the look Ron send him.

Harry briefly considered to talk to Ron and Hermione about this, but he quickly discarded the idea. Ron would either declare him mental, or write it off as post-war-stress – the muggles called it PTSD, right? – and Harry had no need to see St. Mungo's Mental Ward from the inside. He was completely sane, thank you very much. Meanwhile, Hermione would probably bury herself, and Harry, in books about dreams, their meaning, and whatnot. He didn't need that either. Books could only solve so many problems, and one day, even Hermione would understand it.

'—ry? You okay, mate?'

On the sound of Ron's voice, Harry's head snapped upwards, causing Ron to flinch. 'Are sure you're okay, Harry? You've just stared into nothing for like, five minutes?'

'Didn't get enough sleep,' Harry shrugged it off. That wasn't even a lie. He had definitely not slept enough recently. But this wasn't the answer to Ron's unspoken question –what's wrong?

'If you say so,' Ron shrugged before turning his attention from Harry towards Dean and Seamus. The two were happily smiling at each other as they made their way towards the common room, a content silence between them. Harry envied them. They had been best friends from the day they'd met, but unlike him and Ron, they almost never argued. Dean had not approved of Seamus behaviour towards Harry during their fifth year, and the air between them had been a bit tense after Seamus' argument with Harry, but that was all. Seamus had been quite pissed when Dean had dated Ginny because that meant his quality time with his best friend was reduced to precisely nothing (to be honest – Harry had been more than pissed, though for different reasons), and Seamus had comforted Dean back then after Ginny broke up with him just to shamelessly snog Harry (in retrospect, Harry realised that he could have been a tad more considerate of Dean's feelings). The two best mates got along wordlessly. Dean had the unique ability to calm Seamus down when he was throwing a tantrum, and Seamus was the only one who could calm down Dean when he was having a nightmare about the time he'd been hiding from the Death Eater-controlled Ministry and eventually got caught by them. Most times, Dean's nightmares ended with him waking up in tears, and Seamus wordlessly crawling into the bed next to Dean, the two best friends then falling asleep in each other's arms. If it weren't for the nightmares, it would be rather adorable.

— Denial and its Side Effects —

'Harry,' Hermione said, 'you look like shit. What has happened?'

Harry pointed towards the chalkboard, where the new DADA teacher was talking about curses. 'I think we should pay attention to the lesson,' he said in an obvious attempt to change the subject. Unsurprisingly, it didn't work.

'…the Bat-Bogey Hex was invented in the middle of the 20th century by…'

'Harry James Potter, don't dare to "I think we should pay attention" me. I know perfectly well that you don't give a dam about this crap,' Hermione retorted, her annoyance about Harry's failed attempt to distract her clearly audible in her voice. Harry snorted. 'Who are you, and where's the real Hermione Granger? You never say "crap" about classes.'

'Bullshit,' Hermione shot back. 'Bat-Bogey Hexes? We've learned those when we were fifteen, Harry. You can't pretend that you really care about this. And even if you've forgotten about them, you can always ask Gin—' She suddenly stopped and took a sharp intake of breath. 'Shit, sorry Harry. Didn't mean to bring this up,' she apologised. Harry shrugged. 'I told you, it was harder for her than for me. You don't have to apologise every time you mention her name.' He glanced at Ron. 'No offence, mate.' Back to Hermione, 'really, we're still talking to each other, aren't we? It's not like it ended in tears – well, it did, but not mine anyway—'

From his right, a fist collided with Harry's jaw, and another one with his nose. 'Fuck you, Harry. Just fuck you,' Ron hissed, furiously glaring daggers at Harry. Judging by the blood Harry could feel running down his face, and the pain in his nose, it was broken. He tentatively moved his jaw, and immediately winced, but at least it wasn't broken as well. With a start, Harry realised that the whole class had turned their heads towards the little scene he and Ron had caused, and even the teacher had stopped her rambling about the Bat-Bogey Hex.

'Um, I guess I'm going to the Hospital Wing,' Harry said, gesturing towards his nose with his free hand, the other hand collecting the blood that dripped from his nose. He sent the teacher an apologetic look before stepping out of the classroom.

'Bloody fuck, Ron,' Harry muttered under his breath as he strode through the empty hallways of the castle. He knew Ron's bad temper, and okay, he should have chosen his words a bit more carefully, but he had just tried to make Hermione understand that she didn't need to walk on eggshells around him whenever Ginny's name was mentioned. He was over her – in fact, the part which had hurt most was the knowledge how much their breakup hurt Ginny.

Harry was so lost in his thoughts, he didn't pay attention to his surroundings until he bumped into someone. Unfortunately, said someone was Professor McGonagall.

'Shit, sorry Professor!' Harry said as he got up from the floor.

'Language, Mr. Potter,' Professor McGonagall scolded him. 'Do you mind to enlighten me where you are headed? As far as I know, you should listen to Professor Jones right now.' Hestia Jones, member of the former Order of the Phoenix, had been the only one willing to take over the vacant job of the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. A big part of the Order had died or got injured during the war, and many people still believed that the job was cursed.

'I'm on my way to the infirmary, Professor,' Harry replied. 'Somebody broke my – I mean, I had an accident and broke my nose,' he lied. No need to drag Ron into this, even though his best friend could be quite a prick from time to time.

Professor McGonagall's look told him she knew exactly what he had been about to say, but she didn't pry any further. 'Well, go ahead then, Mr. Potter.' And gone she was.

— Denial and its Side Effects —

'…figure you won't tell me who did this, Mr. Malfoy?' Harry froze at Madam Pomfrey's voice as he pushed open the doors to the Hospital Wing.

'I'm afraid I will not,' came Malfoy's voice, the same polite yet cold tone he sported ever since he had returned to school. 'Somebody was trying to get back at me, that's all I can—' he caught Harry's face in the mirror, and immediately flushed. 'Were you eavesdropping, Potter?'

'I wasn't!' Harry defended himself, completely aware of the fact that his face was red as well, and embarrassed upon being caught, even though he had only overheard the last words when he'd stepped into the infirmary.

Malfoy snorted, and for a moment, Harry saw a glimpse of the old Malfoy. 'Sure as hell you weren't, Potter! You were totally not sneaking around and listening in! Of course not! The noble Potter would never do such a thing, now, would he, Potter?'

Just then, Harry noticed the blood on Malfoy's wrists and palms. 'You're hurt,' he said, feeling dumb for stating the obvious. Malfoy bared his teeth. 'I always knew you weren't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I never knew you were this stupid. Of course I am hurt, Potter! What do you think why they call it the Hospital Wing?'

'What happened?' Harry blurted out before his mind could stop him. Malfoy looked confused. 'What?'

'You wrists,' Harry supplied. 'What happened to them?'

'Stinging Hex,' Malfoy muttered through gritted teeth. 'Madam Pomfrey was just about to heal it when you walked in.' Much to Harry's delight, he didn't say eavesdropped – maybe the new, civil Malfoy had taken over again. But still, it was obvious that the old Malfoy, the one who snapped at people and insulted them, was still there.

Harry patiently waited for Madam Pomfrey to finish healing Malfoy's hands, letting his gaze wander through the room in the meantime. Not much had changed. The room was back to the clean hospital it used to be, including the white ceiling, which had been the first thing Harry saw after waking up, on too many occurrences to count them. And Harry knew every single detail of this room. All he had to do was close his eyes, and unasked for, the image of the room would appear in front of his eyes. Luckily, by now he'd halfway managed to get the image of this room filled with all the war casualties out of his head.

After Harry had left the Hospital Wing with a mended nose and a sip of painkiller potion for his jaw and nose, he decided to skip the rest of the DADA class for today. Hermione would scold him for this later, sure, but it wasn't like he'd be missing much, neither time-wise nor subject-wise. 'Mione was right, Bat-Bogey was no challenge at all. Not for DA-veterans, anyway. Heck, if necessary, Harry could have applied for the job of a DADA teacher. He had spent his whole, goddamned screwed up life fighting the Dark Arts! He was more than capable of defending himself, thank you very much. He knew the incantation of the hex by heart, he knew the inventor (Miranda Goshawk), and he was sure he knew the year of its invention as well, if he'd think about it for a moment. And yes, if he needed to, he could always ask Ginny – the Bat-Bogey was one of her specialities.

That didn't mean that he could skip homework, of course. Hermione would make sure he wouldn't.

— Denial and its Side Effects —

For the umpteenth time that evening, Harry tried to focus on his Potions homework, but he just was too tired. Even Hermione had to understand that he couldn't write about the invention, brewing, and effects of the Alihotsy Draught if he was dog-tired. Maybe tomorrow. Unfortunately, ever since he'd lost the book of the Half-Blood Prince, Professor Slughorn's respect for Harry had rapidly decreased. And although he wasn't Snape, Slughorn had recently discovered Malfoy's admittedly exceeding abilities in Potions. Which meant that Harry no longer was his favourite. Of course, Harry didn't demand special treatment – he wasn't Malfoy – but he had enjoyed being the one favoured for a change.

Groaning, Harry stuffed his schoolbooks and the half feet of parchment he'd written on so far into his satchel and closed it. He would do it tomorrow, right? He certainly wasn't postponing this essay to the latest possible date since two days. Not at all.
Okay, so that's exactly what he was doing.
Maybe he could ask Hermione for help tomorrow. If he and Ron managed to look pitiful enough, they might be able to persuade their friend to write the essay for them. Especially Ron, right?

Tired as he was, Harry fell asleep pretty much the very second his face made contact with his pillow. He didn't even hear Neville step into the dorm one minute later. But as soon as he fell asleep, he remembered why he had felt like utter shit this morning.

Hogwarts in ruins. Smoke rising from the burning leftovers of the Quidditch pitch. Roofs and walls ripped open, revealing the innards of the venerable castle. Giant holes gaping in the buildings, rubble and debris lying around basically everywhere. The battle has taken its toll.

The inside is even worse. Places he used to know and love are in ruins. Books from the library, centuries old, and containing invaluable knowledge – ripped and destroyed, hit by curses, hexes, jinxes. Sacrificed for the greater good, piles of them used to provide cover or blown up as a distraction, bookshelves used to hide behind, or toppled over to fall onto unsuspecting enemies.

The Room of Requirements, sanctuary to hundreds of students during hundreds of years – damaged beyond repair, by a mindless young adult with the mental abilities of of a dayfly. The Great Hall, place of gathering and communication, a place where speeches are delivered, feast celebrated, and deaths mourned – filled with shattered glass, splinters of broken wands, blood-soaked rags of what used to be school robes.

The worst place is the Hospital Wing. Lines and lines of dead bodies. People fussing over in which order the dead shall be placed – by age, by house, by name? What does it matter? They are dead, nothing and nobody is going to change that, because nothing and nobody can.

Some of the dead have been cleared, the blood wiped off their bodies, making the wounds and injuries visible all the more. Cuts, holes, scratches… it is a terrible sight, what wizards can do to each other. Maybe the whole word would be better off if all wands would be broken, all books of charms be burned… it is understandable why the Muggles used to fear those who possessed powers beyond their understanding. Sometimes, the use people make if this powers is beyond his understanding, too.

The dead stare at him, expressions blank, but eyes accusing, and he knows it is his fault. All of it is his fault, and has always been. He shouldn't have come here in the first place, he shouldn't have encouraged these people to rise against their oppressors, he shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't have. He leaves the room because he can't stand it anymore. He of all people, who is the cause of their deaths, should not be allowed to mourn them.

He can see people frantically searching the ruins for relatives, friends, lovers. People they care about, people who care about them. Every now and then, a happy cry disturbs the deafening silence, when families are reunited, couples are reunited, friends are reunited. He hasn't got any of this. Who cares about him? All people who ever cared about him died protecting him – his parents, his godfather, his father's best friend. All of this battle was about protecting him, buying him time. The Slytherin brat was right, they should have turned him in when they had the opportunity to do so. It would have saved their lives. What's the point in dying for the greater good? He certainly is neither great nor good.

And suddenly, as if reading his mind, people agree with him. They don't say a word, not yet, but he knows they will, sooner or later, if they have to endure his presence any more. People who are passing by, their robes classifying them as fellow students, their faces blurry and unrecognisable. He cannot see their eyes, his eyes failing him whenever he tries to focus on their faces, but he can feel the accusing glares, the silent question how he could allow this to happen, the looks blaming him for the losses of loved ones. He doesn't have an answer. He knows he shouldn't have let this happen.

Somebody stands out of the crowd. The pale face, the grey eyes, the white-blond hair, the green insignia on the black and grey robes. He is watching from the sidelines. His eyes show no hint of accusation, and why would they? He hasn't lost anyone. He owes him his life. But he doesn't do anything to keep them from accusing him. He only watches and lets them do as they please.

The crowd is getting closer and closer, the silence deafening him. Their glares, still invisible but clearly there, are piercing his body, and he can almost feel their eyes rip pieces out of him and reduce him to what is left of the ones they cared for. They are pressuring him, burying him under them, and he feels like suffocating.

He knows he deserves it.