Harry stared at his reflection in the mirror of the bathroom, rivulets of water dripping down his face and soaked fringe and still feeling no more awake than before.
He sighed, a weighed down thing, and wiped his face off on the sleeve of his shirt, turning to leave the bathroom on steps both heavy and tired.
Dark bags underscored his eyes like bruised shadows, and his lips were downturned at the corners despite his face being completely void of any expression.
He hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, not that he'd expected to, and what little shut eye he'd managed was interrupted as it usually was by adrenaline-inducing night terrors, leaving him feeling more exhausted than if he'd gotten no rest at all. He'd have liked to have taken a Dreamless Sleep potion, but he'd already taken three in a row, which was pushing it if he didn't want to become addicted or lose the ability to dream entirely. Not that the latter thought didn't draw in some appeal to him.
His eyes caught on the pack full of Luna's last possessions for him that were sat innocuously by his bedside, and he swallowed heavily, forcing his gaze away and slowly plodding over to his wardrobe. He pulled the doors open with a weak tug, arms feeling heavy on his shoulders and world seeming to sway below his feet. It took him far too long of just staring blankly at his array of clothes to settle on a typical black robe along with a dark undershirt and pair of slacks, and he got dressed one time-consuming item at a time.
He left his sleep clothes strewn about across the floor at his feet and shoved on a pair of shoes, heading for the living room without a backwards glance, head feeling just about ready to fall off his shoulders.
He gave a terse roll of his neck that had it giving a harsh, satisfying crack, and he closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep, evening breath in a halfway successful attempt at steadying himself.
He knew he had to head out. The likelihood was that, the longer he stayed holed up at home while he wallowed, the less likely it'd be that he'd ever go back out at all. Which was something that just wouldn't do considering how much he had to prepare for his trip in under two week's time.
So he found himself standing before the floo once more, in a mirror of just yesterday, and he nearly mustered up the energy for a bitter smirk.
Instead, he only grabbed a handful of floo powder and hoarsely commanded, "Gringotts," as he stepped through the sudden burst of roaring green flames.
.
Griphook gestured for Harry to take a seat as he did so as well, raising an eyebrow as he flicked a hand to ward the office door for privacy.
Harry followed along easily, seating himself on the large, plush chair across from the goblin and interlacing his fingers in his lap, letting a layer of tension slough off his shoulders now that he was once more ensconced in a shroud of seclusion.
"How may I be of assistance, Lord Potter?" Griphook questioned as straightforwardly as usual, tapping his sharp nails against the wood grain of his desk.
Harry tilted his chin up, giving a slow, placid blink as he organized his idle thoughts. "I'd like to withdraw the entirety of my funds from the Potter and Slytherin vaults," he drawled, able to manage a faint twitch of his lips through half-lidded eyes at the expression that crossed his bank manager's face.
Griphook squinted his eyes down to thin slits, and his tapping came to a slow halt as he stared Harry down, teeth clenching together with an audible grind.
A couple years ago, the reaction may have - no, would definitely have - had Harry sweating into his seat, but, now, he simply leaned back in his chair with a confidence that, for the most part, characterized his sentiments.
He and Griphook had held quite a good rapport since Harry had learned of his lordships, as, unlike the vast majority of wizards, Harry had put his faith in the goblin for making investments on his behalf instead of turning to a fellow wizard. The sign of trust - or, well, lack of trust in other wicca - had definitely gone a long way in instilling a modicum of respect from the wily goblin, and Harry hadn't been let down on the profit end, either.
So, now, although Harry could very well comprehend Griphook's disbelieving, incredulous sneer, he didn't falter nor correct his words.
"You would like to remove…" Griphook glanced down at a paper that'd suddenly appeared in his hands, "well over six million galleons from your vaults?" he questioned dubiously.
Harry gave a tired grin and a blasé shrug, giving a single nod of his head.
Griphook glared at him for a moment longer, then scrunched up his features in a twisted scowl that smoothed out as he let out a long, long sigh that was so drawn out that Harry inwardly wondered how the goblin had the breathspan to manage it.
"Very well." Griphook replied shortly. He snapped his fingers, and a deceptively small pouch popped into existence, landing onto the table with a thud and the jingle of coins. "A bottomless bag, as you may recognize, filled with your vault's earnings. I've taken the liberty to place them in a pouch layered with several protection, tracking, and personal key charms to it - for a fee, of course," Griphook tacked on.
"Of course," Harry echoed with a wry look, reaching out to take the pouch and fastening it to the inside of his robe.
Griphook gave him a terror of a grin and clasped his hands together, narrowing his eyes when Harry made no move to leave. "Will that be all for today, Lord Potter?" Griphook questioned sharply, raising a sparsely haired brow.
Harry hesitated. "No," he said slowly, picking at one of his nails as he pursed his lips. "I'd also like to… remove all artifacts and other such non-monetary items from all of my vaults and for them to be placed into a separate pouch."
Griphook blinked, then pinched the bridge of his nose.
Harry had never seen a goblin pinch the bridge of their nose, and he took a small kernel of delight in having caused such a blatantly done reaction in his bank manager.
"Oh!" he suddenly jolted upright with more energy than he thought he still possessed, giving a halfway apologetic look as Griphook scowled and stopped from snapping his fingers to call upon what Harry had asked for. "Do you think you'd be able to have someone organize everything into uses and such first?" he questioned, then tacked on, "For a generous fee, of course."
Griphook huffed, jerking his head in an affirmative nod. "I will do so myself," he said, tone sounding far too grudging, and Harry withheld a snort. Of course the old goblin wouldn't give any profitable task away to another.
"Thanks, Griphook," Harry said with a twist of a smile, rising to his feet to signify the end to his discourse. "Should I come later today to pick it all up?"
Griphook gave a brisk nod, also standing and making his way around the desk. "It will be ready by three," he informed Harry.
Harry nodded in acknowledgement and gave a dip of his head in a small bow, farewelling, "May you make all the moneys, Griphook," with a quirk of a smile and lilt to his tone as he swiftly made for the exit.
He heard Griphook sigh explosively behind him and mutter something in a harsh growl under his breath before the goblin irkedly replied, "And may all your enemies be vanquished, Lord Potter."
.
Diagon Alley was just how it'd always been: crowded and buzzing with how filled it was with a vast array of robe-clad, wand-carrying witches and wizards.
Harry let out a heavy exhale through his nose, tugging his robe's hood further down and ducking his head low.
Occasions such as these were one of the few times Harry didn't truly mind his stunted height, as it prevented most others from being able to easily peer under the low shadow of his hood.
Though, at this point, he wasn't quite sure if it'd matter if people caught only a sideways glance at him, anyways.
After all, his appearance was quite different from how it used to be.
He'd let his hair grow out until it was cusping his shoulders - long enough to tie up with a string or to use well in covering his forehead. Not that he needed to do much for covering his scar anymore; after the battle, the cursed lighting shaped mark had finally begun to fade as it should've eons ago, leaving behind only a faint, silvery impression of itself that he could easily cover up.
On top of that, with all the spare time he'd had in which he'd buried himself in books, he'd come to learn quite the interesting fact: optometrists were apparently also a thing in the wizarding world, and he ought to have been taken to one on multiple occasions during his tenure at Hogwarts.
Surprise, surprise: he wasn't.
He corrected that fact relatively quickly, and, the following day, he'd stepped out of the office down a pair of glasses and back up to perfect, 20/20 vision.
All of this to say that Harry didn't quite look much like himself from two years past.
Yes, his features remained more or less the same except for some sharpening of his jaw and narrowing of several of his other traits, but the fact that the key, physical qualities people recognized him by had all but vanished aided him in remaining undetected on his rare bouts of public excursions. Honestly, one would think people could see past the scar, Potter hair, and 'iconic' glasses, but that was quite obviously not the case.
The only noticeable part of him that'd stayed exactly the same were his vibrant green eyes - a feature that he was more than happy to keep. He'd always been a bit too attached to them, if he was being truthful. Petunia had let it slip once when he was quite young that his eyes were just like his mother's, and he remembered spending nearly a month thereafter constantly staring at his eyes in any reflective surface he could find. She'd tried sneering over them on a countless number of occasions, but it never got to him; it only served as a reminder of his connection to his mother that he knew nothing else about for several more years to come.
A child let out a quite unintelligible shriek from somewhere behind him, and Harry couldn't help the minute twitch and tightening of his shoulders. He quickened his pace; it was doubtful that they'd recognized him from the back, but like hell if he was going to risk being caught out so early on in his trip.
The first shop on his list came into sight, and Harry hastily pulled the door open, slinking inside with a quiet jingle of the storefront bell.
"Welcome to Silvia's Suitcases!" a chipper voice called, and Harry winced at the pitch, giving a brisk nod in reply as he headed towards the towering stacks of packs, suitcases, and other such items.
For a moment, he felt a bit lost for what he could buy, but then he gave a loose mental shrug and the careless thought of, to hell with it.
If Luna wanted him to be well prepared for this trip - no, over prepared - then Harry was going to take her words and raise them to the absolute limit.
He gave a relatively quick perusal of the shop, mentally ticking off his choices as he went along, and then headed over to the register where a woman with deceptively deep crow and laugh lines was waiting with a bright smile on her face.
"How can I help you today!" she exclaimed, giving a little bounce on her toes as she leaned her weight on her palms against the counter so she could lift off her heels.
Harry found himself feeling a mixture of faint amusement and - to no fault of the woman's own - utter repelancy at her practically glowing aura, and he just barely managed to bring up his own grimace of a smile. "I'd like to make several purchases," he replied stiltedly, gesturing behind himself.
She nodded widely, rounding behind the desk and practically skipping past him as she went towards the items for sale. "Of course, sir! Simply tap with your wand on the baggages you'd like to buy, and they'll be transferred to the register!"
Harry nodded silently and did as asked, selecting several bottomless pouches that ranged from about the size of the one holding his coins to full on burlap sacks, five trunks that held a vast array of expanded storage compartments including those with specific charms such as the cooling and preservation ones, and a couple completely over-the-top suitcases that held entire, fully-furnished, two-bedroomed apartments inside of them along with lofts.
The attendant's eyebrows had crept higher and higher up her forehead as his listings continued, but she looked delighted rather than dubious despite clearly not having recognized Harry or having affirmed if he truly had the wealth to support his cart.
"Brilliant!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together and racing back to the register, clicking away as she rapidly tallied the costs together. "That'll be… thirty two thousand and forty-three galleons!" she surmised, nearly blinding him another beaming grin.
.
The next stop ended up being… right next door.
He'd inwardly debated over the merits of purchasing anything from it, but, in the end, he decided that preparedness was preparedness, and he might as well be prepared in every regard.
Which ended up with him entering the camping shop that he was quite sure was partnered with the luggage one he'd just been in next door - a suspicion that was most assuredly affirmed when he spotted the witch behind the register. She appeared to be a complete, mirror copy to the witch from before - the only difference being an obvious lack of creases in her skin.
"Welcome to Caspy's Camping Supplies," she droned, picking at her nails and not bothering to glance up.
Harry coughed to cover a surprised snort, ducking his head in a nod as he brought a fist to his mouth.
It was quite abruptly clear to him now why this second witch - Caspy, if he understood correctly - was missing the laugh lines that her twin had.
His thoughts strayed to Fred and George, and his mood rapidly soured into something soberingly bittersweet, expression closing off as his lips went back over his teeth and his hands shoved themselves deep into his robe's pockets.
He gave himself a moment to himself by starting at the back of the store this time around, where the most expensive items were, before he began his tour around the shop.
He wasn't particularly well versed in camping equipment, and the variety that the store held was quite vast, so it took him more time than he expected to bring all of the items that he'd selected to the register.
He'd ended up purchasing something from practically every section under the sun - or, well, roof.
Obviously, he'd gotten a tent - several, in fact, that were adjusted inside to be expanded similarly to how his suitcase was, though he had gotten a couple that seemed more or less normal unless the charms were activated for in the case that he was in the muggle world. Not to mention that a few of the tents were specially customized for different climates, as one was for below freezing temperatures and another was for mosquito infested lands.
He'd also gotten sleeping bags, hammocks, magically powered lanterns, a portable stove and tea maker, tarps, overladen multitools, eating/cooking utensils, plates, bowls, mugs, coolers, food and water storage containers, navigation guides, hiking boots and clothes, toiletry kits, combs, first aid kits, antiseptics, sun and bug repellent, and several dozen more items that he tacked on for the hell of it.
Similarly to her sister, Caspy's eyes were wide and her eyebrows were to her hairline, but she didn't comment on the absurdity of Harry's purchases - either cost wise or simply over the expansiveness to it all.
Instead, she just motoned, "That'll be fifty thousand, six hundred eighty two galleons and thirty four sickles," with a jut of her chin and a flick of her hand.
.
Harry dropped in on several more shops after the first pair, amassing a plentiful array of items that, for at least a good quarter of it, he doubted he'd ever find uses for.
Now, he continued his path down the street, and, despite feeling as if his feet were weighed down by lead boots, he didn't abhor the task he'd been set upon in and of itself. Truthfully, Harry had yet to find his excursion to be much of a chore except for in the basest definition of the word.
In fact, in some not-so-secret, holed away portion of himself, he quite enjoyed the task - collecting an entire, vast array of products that would secure his means regardless of whatever events may possibly come to pass.
Harry could admit that this was likely due to the fact that he was somewhat of a practiced hoarder and had been for most of his life.
He'd always had things hidden away just in case he'd need them.
Before Hogwarts, he'd stuff whatever nonperishables he'd managed to obtain into a slot between the metal or wooden pieces in his cupboard under the stairs, and he'd kept a chipped mug he'd been ordered to throw away in the backyard instead so that he could drink from it whenever Petunia locked him outside. Later on, at Hogwarts, he'd begun to ask favors from Dobby and the other elves to help him put loads of food under stasis and temporary shrinking charms so that he'd have adequate food for the summer, and he kept medical supplies - both muggle and magical - at hand in case he needed them, which he did more often than not.
That wasn't to say that Harry was always practical with his holing away of items, no. As a child, this meant that he often secreted away broken bits and bobs from Dudley's second bedroom; the bent and warped toy soldiers that he often entertained himself with were a testament to that. As he grew older, he started keeping things that he thought may have an off chance at being useful to him. For example, after Dobby had stolen gillyweed for Harry for the second task of the Triwizard tournament, Harry had kept the portion he didn't consume literally until it'd gone bad. There had been no point to keeping it at all considering that, at the time, Harry knew practically as much about potions as a well-informed first year, but he'd done so anyway.
Suffice to say, Harry had always been a little too much of an avid fan for preparedness. Though, the quality did serve him well now.
He picked up his pace as a sudden breeze blew down the street, whipping at his long locks and tugging lightly at his hood, which he reached up to pull further down once more.
His next stop was the potions store, and he idly wondered whether the store owner would be furious or delighted with Harry's plan to more or less buy out their entire stock.
.
As it turned out, they were somewhat of a mixture of both, though not exactly in the way he'd predicted. The wizard hadn't believed Harry could afford to back up his statement at first, scoffing and gesticulating angrily for Harry to shoo out, but, upon Harry somewhat reluctantly revealing his identity to speed up the process, the man had gaped at him for a good minute or two before hastily beginning to ring up his purchases with a disbelieving smile and a merry look in his eyes.
Harry had a feeling that the man would be drinking well tonight, especially considering that Harry had shelled out more cash there than at all of the previous stores combined.
At this point, he didn't have many other shops left in the district that he'd like to visit before heading down Knockturn, but he figured he'd stop by Madam Malkin's first so that she'd have time to fix up his bulk order before he set out for home.
Already, he could feel the toll his excursion was taking on him. His exhaustion sat like a heavy pit in his stomach, weighing down on his bones, and his mouth was perpetually curled downwards.
It wasn't the fact that he was out and about that was making him feel such a way; he exercised at least somewhat regularly at Grimmauld Place, as there was a training room specifically constructed for just that.
It was, however, in part due to his lack of sleep as well as how he had to constantly exert a portion of his energy in disguising himself, both with his low hooded robe and the faint notice-me-not spell that he'd activated. He'd have liked to place more power behind it, but such a thing didn't often work out well in largely populated spaces, so he'd had to minimize it to what it was.
The more substantially affecting factor, however, was that his dearest friend - family - and closest confidant had died not even a full day before.
Harry's teeth grit, and he forced his head down, staring hard at the ground as he blinked his eyes rapidly and scowled harshly to will away the burn that'd invaded his eyes. He gave a sharp sniff and swallowed heavily, shaking his head slightly as he set about in a brisk walk once more.
As stupid as it was, he'd been trying not to think about it. Something that was impossible, really, seeing as to how his entire excursion was with the sole purpose of fulfilling Luna's last Seer-like request of a wish for him.
Still, he'd tried, and, for a single moment for every few hundred others, he'd manage to convince himself that he was out shopping for the both of them. That they would be traveling off for a final journey together. That they were leaving it all behind like they said they would, and that there was no obstruction in the way of their set plans.
Those moments were quickly slashed through like a thin fog by a meaty fist, and he'd find himself shoved back into reality as quickly as those passing idealizations came, and it left him more and more bone weary with each false start he had. With each thought of flooing in to Luna's and teasingly complaining to her over all the supplies he'd had to purchase simply because of her says-so. With each contemplation of which types of tent or what colors of potions Luna would like. With each wondering over whether Luna would appreciate him purchasing one non-essential or another.
With each realization that none of that held any basis to reality anymore, at all.
And then a voice called out to him from behind, and his shoe scuffed harshly against the concrete with his abrupt stop.
"Harry!"
He turned quickly on his heel, giving a surreptitious glance around to find that the sidestreet that he was currently on was quite devoid of other pedestrians except for his now apparent pursuers, and he felt his muscles bunch with tension.
"What." Harry gritted out, keeping his voice low and staring down none other than Hermione and the Weasley crew - made up of Ron, Molly, and Ginny.
"We haven't seen you in forever!" Hermione exclaimed, throwing her arms out wide, a gesture he wasn't sure if was an emphasis to her words or an attempt to have him come in for a hug - as if he would.
That was by design, Harry thought darkly in response to her words, giving the witch a blank look as he exhaled heavily through his nose.
"Yeah, mate; it's been years," Ron added on, face twisting into an almost comically offended expression while his hands opened and closed in a claw-like manner as if he couldn't decide whether or not to clench them into fists.
"It's been a year." Harry corrected shortly, eyes flickering over to the pair who'd yet to speak.
Molly's lips were pursed so tightly that the skin around them had turned white, and Ginny's eyes were red rimmed, her chin trembling minutely. Harry had an inkling of a suspicion as to why they were there, and he wasn't a fan of it in the slightest.
"Yes, Harry. Ron was just exaggerating," Hermione noted - rather condescendingly, as was her norm. "But you must admit that that has been quite a long time," she reasoned, eyes wide and imploring.
Harry resisted the urge to rap his shoe impatiently against the ground, eyes narrowing at the group. He'd only had two more - rather explosive, on their parts, at least - interactions with them since the time at Grimmauld after the last battle, and he didn't have the energy nor the patience to go through another confrontation with a level head. "Brilliant," Harry replied, tone bordering on the edge of being mocking.
Ginny finally let loose the sob she'd so clearly been working up to, and Harry impressed himself by not rolling his eyes into the far recesses of his skull, instead throwing back his hood and raking an irritated hand through his hair. His other hand thumbed at his wand from where he'd dropped it out of its holster at the sight of Ron's darkening expression.
Molly stepped closer to her daughter and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, shifting to rub gentle circles into her back as she murmured a few soothing words to the young woman who was acting as anything but.
Harry, inwardly holding himself together by what couldn't be more than a fine strand of hair, managed to not rub a peeved hand over his face, instead keeping quiet, deciding to let the group get out whatever utter nonsense they wished to say first.
He didn't want to have them chasing after him for the next two weeks while he prepared in their vain hopes at gaining something from another confrontation. Therefore, he thought it best to cut things off at the bud here and now, as, clearly, attempting to speak civilly the times before had failed to get his meaning across through their thick, putrid skulls.
Ginny seemed to pull herself together as best she could, and she gave a wet, snotty sniffle, looking up at Harry through her trembling lashes as she warbled, "What happened to us?" in a broken voice as she rubbed at her glistening eyes.
Harry blinked, and his incredibly shortened temper abruptly snapped like a branch brutally rent in two, and he barked out a scathing sound that could hardly be categorized as a laugh. "Us?" he questioned with an incredulous sneer of a scoff, gesturing between himself and her as if to further attempt at clarifying.
Ginny opened her mouth as if to reply, but Harry didn't let her, continuing on with a straightforward, deadly efficiency.
"There was never an 'us,' Ginny," Harry seethed, taking an unholy, ragefully incandescent delight in the entire group's gaping, shocked maws. "There was a sickeningly short and rotted portion of my life in which I spent with you, and, even then - under enough love potions to make my mind fucking melt - I still ended our 'relationship,'" he snarled, spitting out the final word like the insult that it was. "What do you think that says about your complete and utter lack of appeal, you greedy, pug-faced whore?" Harry hissed, the last part so heavily lined with a thick layer of vitriol-laced parseltongue that he was only half sure he was fully understood.
Apparently, regardless, his meaning was well enough portrayed, as Ron's face turned a color so purple that Vernon would be proud, and Molly was practically spitting fire alongside Hermione as Ginny gaped at him in pure, shocked outrage, hands balled up into shaking fists at her sides.
"HARRY JAMES POTTER, you take that back!" Hermione shouted, hair poofing out as if she'd been electrocuted and hand fingering at her wand a tad too closely to be acceptable.
"And here I thought you were a supporter in all things true," Harry said mockingly, lip curling at the witch.
Ron let out a wordless shout and had his wand in hand in the next moment, lips pulling back to no doubt blast a spell at Harry.
"Petrificus Totalus," Harry coldly cut in, and Ron dropped to the ground like a stone, arm still extended and mouth parted open as he landed heavily on his stiff back.
Ginny screamed and Molly tried to yell something but was covered up by her daughter's shrill noise.
Hermione raised her wand, and Harry flicked his wrist in a silently cast 'stupefy,' knocking her unconscious as he turned to face the Weasley women.
Molly was practically trembling from head to toe, cheeks and nose a bright red as she pointed at him while wearing a look of such searing, angry disappointment that Harry had no doubt Ron or Ginny would've been cowed.
Seeing as to how Harry was neither of those people, he simply coolly gazed back at her without a care for her overly flared dramatics.
She shook her head at him, voice trembling but hard as she spoke. "I've treated you like my own son since you came into our lives, Harry. I've…" she swallowed and looked away, hastily dabbing at her eye. "You've been family, to me - to all of us. And to see you treat us like this now…" she shook her head with a look so forlorn and self-pitying that Harry had half a mind to slap it off her.
Instead, he smirked darkly, lips twisting the expression into something caustic. His tone, when he spoke, was so thick with contempt that it was dripping with it. "You sicken me," he said slowly, drawing out each word as if he were pulling teeth and leaning in towards the woman. He tilted his head in a bird-like manner and began ticking his fingers off as he spoke. "You claim the role of my maternal figure because - what? Twice a year you've given me knit sweaters that, half the time, are a ploy for me to be matching with Ginny, and you've let me stay at the Burrow once for half a summer?" He scoffed. "Congratulations, 'Mrs. Weasley,'" he detestingly emphasized, looking down his nose at the woman in a fashion that reminded him of Draco in its complete assuredness of his superiority to the gorm before him. "You've officially done just about as much as any fucking mother of their child's friend. You're not my parent; you're not my family." He shook his head slowly, the motion laden with derision. "You're just a dreadful, old woman who's had nearly as much of a hand in my suffering as Dumbledore and is just as much of a gold-digging, she-devil of a wretch as your daughter clearly has become - " he paused, then gave an ugly smile and an exaggerated spread of his hands. "Congratulations; it seems that the apple truly doesn't fall far from the tree, regardless of how rotten," he reviled.
Molly seemed to be halfway into a state of shock, looking as if she'd have been less stupefied if he'd spat directly in her face, and she stuttered out a few, "I- I-" 's before her daughter cut in, looking near feral.
"Is this because of that Luna bitch?" Ginny spat, stomping her foot and baring her teeth.
Harry's mind blanked into buzzing whiteness, and he came back to the sound of a scream.
There was a thin cut that spanned the width of Ginny's neck, and, as he watched with faint, detached surprise that he hardly felt under his roiling, bubbling fury, a thin trickle of blood trailed down from the flesh wound.
His emotions likely had lashed out without his conscious say, and it made a brutally justified sort of sense that his magic would strike directly at his intended target - specifically at the place from which her rage-inducing words had emanated from.
Regardless, Harry didn't let either of the witches in front of him gather their wits, taking a threatening step forward that had them both stumbling several steps back.
When he spoke, his voice was nothing more than a whisper.
"Speak her name again - or speak to me ever again at all - and I will ensure that your next words are your last," Harry softly said, looking both women in the eyes in turn as he felt his own wide and empty ones glow with the threat of a promise behind his words.
"B-" Ginny started, but, as soon as Harry's bright, Avada Kedavra eyes swiveled back to her with an eerie, menacing intensity, she cut herself off with a click in the back of her throat, swallowing heavily and placing a palm against her bleeding neck.
"See to it that they" - Harry gestured at Ron and Hermione with a look of cold detachment that belied his scornful tone - "understand the same," he ordered darkly, and, then, without a by your leave, he apparated away to the sound of a solid crack that had both women flinching and cowering like the sniveling, Pettigrew-like creatures that they were.
.
His breaths came out through uneven gulps of air from his thickened throat, and he stood leaning heavily against the back alley beside Borgins and Burkes, his chest feeling tight and his lungs aching as though compressed.
He raised a faintly shaking hand to his chest and clenched the fabric over his heart, head bowed low and eyes squeezed shut as his face contorted itself into a grimace. He pressed his forehead against the cool brick of the darkened alley wall and swallowed heavily as he slumped further against the foundation.
He hated them. He hated them.
The people he'd trusted with his very life. Who he'd believed he'd actually been family to. And who turned out to be nothing more than greedy pigs who only favored him for his usefulness while subduing him with compulsions and potions in order to keep him secured under the very dirt lining their boots.
Half of him - a portion likely larger than that, really - simply wished he could go back and let loose on them as his wrathfully resentful emotions willed him to, but he held himself back by the skin of his bared teeth.
He held no doubts that he would revel in their returned suffering in the heat of the moment, but he doubted that he'd feel much else besides being sickened after the fact. It wasn't that he thought they didn't deserve it - not in the slightest. Truthfully, he thought they deserved much more than a simple, quick death, though he wouldn't be repelled by the latter idea.
The true crux of the matter was that, compared to him, they were utterly, undeniably weak.
As in, defeating them would be thrice as easy as subduing them moments before had been, and he loathed the very idea of it.
A few years ago, before he'd left the Dursleys, he'd seen something on the telly once, about how people who had been abused had a significant risk of turning into abusers themselves. He'd been suitably horrified by the concept before promptly swearing to himself that he'd never become like that, as the very idea of turning into what the Durselys were to him for someone else was sickening enough to have him near retching.
This issue with his former… 'friends' was clearly different, of course, but it still felt too much the same for him to simply reject the undeniable parallel of it.
So he wanted them punished, yes, but, as much as he loathed to put it as it was, he wouldn't be doing it himself. Even though he knew he had every right to and that his thoughts were admittedly misaligned, he couldn't help but feel as though attacking them as the dark part of him wished to do would make him no better than they were.
Not to mention that, even if he went through with it, it would only be a temporary fix to the deep rooted pain that'd originated from a place nestled within his heart that'd been forcefully ripped out, leaving a gaping hole in its place in which his trust and faith had once been held sturdy and strong.
Really, finding out the truth about them had so systematically torn through every emotion and sentiment that he considered a quality of his to hold that it felt as though the revelations had left both barren expanses and deep cracks in their paths that encompassed the entirety of himself as a whole.
His trust and faith, as he'd mentioned, were practically crumbled to dust, only his already present attachments to Luna, Neville, and George remaining, albeit somewhat weakened for the latter two.
That was without mentioning the other multitude of other traits that, in the past, he'd quietly prided himself for.
His empathy, for one.
He used to give it so freely that he'd practically been overflowing with it.
It didn't matter whether the issue was large or small: Oh, Seamus missed lunch? Harry gives him one of his snacks; he'd hate for his roommate to have to go hungry, even if only for a little while. Oh, Sofia lost her mother? Harry comforts her in the seclusion of the staircase to the Owlery, softly telling her secondhand stories of his own parents and admitting to her that, although she'll never not feel the sorrow, it will fade with time.
Harry was one to easily give empathy because there were so many tough subjects that he understood. That he'd personally dealt with and didn't wish others to have to go through as well - at least, not alone.
Now, though, he kept that empathy tucked away deep inside of him, rarely letting it flutter free to comfort another in whatever manner he could find himself able to.
No, his care had been abused - worse, manipulated. His sympathies had been twisted so that he was forced to let others rely on him despite an insurmountable weight of pressures already having been placed straight onto his back, and he never received anything other than a backhanded thanks in return - if even that.
Like hell if he'd so willingly allow himself to be trapped into such a pitfall so soon after escaping free. People were so quick to throw themselves at the first person that seemed dependable without even asking if said person was comfortable or felt able to be depended on in the first place, and Harry knew it'd be a hundred times worse for himself since people already viewed him as the 'hero' that they had a right to readily rely upon.
There were more things, too. More emotions and sentiments. Like his ability or willingness to form attachments, his readiness to follow or lead.
Things that were both specific yet broad. Personalized yet qualifiable to more than just his unique life experiences.
And it was the Weasleys, Hermione, and Dumbledore that had ruined Harry of practically every quality that made him who he was.
Not that he could be sure who that person would be, exactly, since he'd likely been under the control of compulsions for the better part of a decade, if not longer.
Merlin, how could people be so… evil, while simultaneously preaching for the 'good,' he'd never know.
Not to mention how the governmental system that they 'abided' by was hardly any better, seeing as to how none of the group had been punished despite Harry discretely handing evidence to both the Wizengamot and the Minister - Kingsley - himself. No, it'd all been swept under the rug, and Harry had been given 'compensation' in the form of a couple thousand pounds. As if he was short on galleons and his only purpose for having attempted to testify was for some petty, forgettable matter.
All of it - Hermione, the Weasleys (the greedy wretches among them, he meant), the magical government, the so easily swayed public - all of it utterly disgusted and wholly repulsed Harry, and he wished he could go back to when he'd first gotten his Hogwarts letter and throw it directly into the bin without a second glance. God knows his life couldn't have been much worse if he hadn't gotten involved with the magical world at all.
Well, with the Dursleys, one could never be too sure, but he would've chanced it. At least with them, he'd have been able to get out of dodge at eighteen - at the very latest. He had highly reasonable doubts that his 'family' would've willingly put up with him for that long.
But, here, in the magical world, at twenty years of age, he was still chained down by the weight of expectations despite how often he evaded them, and he couldn't find a moment of pure peace that was wholly his. Every time he was seen, he was badgered, and every time he avoided as much, he received notifications regarding a barrage of blocked letters - often made up of more howlers than he thought anyone had a right to generate - that'd attempted to be sent his way.
Now, though, Luna's recommendations and ticket to him might finally give him a chance at fully escaping everything.
Merlin knows for how long he's wanted to, and, now... well.
Now, he truly had no more attachments left to keep him tied to England at all.