Harry woke to the sound of a low hoot.
He let out a quiet groan, turning to press his face in his pillows for a brief second before tilting his head to the side, his eyes blearily blinking open as he tried to get his bearings.
It was still somewhat dark outside, only the faintest glimmers of sunlight having risen over the horizon, and he had the not-so-mild urge to simply fall back into his - for once - undisturbed slumber. Another insistent hoot, however, had him sighing instead, and he pulled himself up into an slumped forwards position with more effort than it likely should've taken, warm covers falling to his lap.
He squinted over to his window, where a brown-feathered owl was tapping its beak impatiently against the glass, an envelope visibly enclosed in its talons.
Delightful.
Well, there weren't many people the letter could be from, really, so it could possibly be. Delightful, that is.
Maybe.
Harry simply didn't get much mail anymore, helped by the fact that he'd blocked mail from most people who were still trying to send it, and he didn't mean just the usual fan mail or detailed death threats either - the two of which were rather evenly sent at this point.
No, he meant the others.
The thought of them had his lip curling faintly, but he was too tired to do much more than the half-hearted sneer, a thick, coalesced emotion throbbing dully in his chest.
It'd now been nearly two years since he'd defeated Voldemort, a time after which he'd been thrust forwards into a harsh reality that he had no other choice but to see.
He'd been exhausted, both physically and mentally, after the battle, having prepared himself for his own demise only to have to continue forwards thereafter with the fight to the end. So he thought it was reasonable to let himself have some respite, going back to Grimmauld Place and simply living - resting, mostly, with breaks for food and the occasional exploratory peruse through the remaining books of the Black Library.
He was resting, yes, but he was mourning too.
They'd lost... so many. Too many.
He'd lost too many.
Fred, Tonks, Remus - hell, even Snape.
Not to mention how he'd hardly had the chance to ever truly mourn Sirius, and now it was all coming back to him, sucking Harry into a near spiral as he drowned in the overwhelming pit of despair and uncomprehending denial over the losses.
But, in a way, despite the pain it caused - feeling as if it was rending his heart into unsalvageable pieces - finally being able to take a moment to actually come to terms with it all did help. It let him grieve them properly instead of burying it all once more until his jam-packed and bottled emotions would've inevitably erupted in a scene that would've likely been horrific, at the very least.
It didn't even take a full two days for his tentative peace to be interrupted.
.
Harry gave a start as the front door to Grimmauld was slammed open with a bang, his head snapping up to meet the eyes of none other than Hermione Granger.
She looked positively irate, not to mention practically dripping with disappointment, and Ron was hot on her heels and red in the face.
"Harry! - Have you been here this entire time?!" Hermione exclaimed in a mixture of shock and intense disapproval, hands placed solidly on her hips.
Harry's brows furrowed in a minute frown, bemused and somewhat flustered. "...yes?" he replied, tilting his head as he peered up at the duo.
Hermione shook her head, nose scrunching slightly. "Everyone needs you, and you're at home relaxing?" she said disbelievingly, Ron looking down with a palpable air of condescension from beside her.
Harry felt as though he must've left his brain behind in another room for how little it seemed to be processing what was being said, and he cautiously rose from his seat, not understanding or seeing where this conversation was going. "The battle was the day before last, Hermione," he said slowly.
She huffed. "Exactly," she enunciated, jerking her hand through the air in a sharp motion. "Don't you know how worried everyone has been?" she disparaged.
Harry took a minute step back.
He knew he probably should have told the others where he was headed after the battle, but it's not like he had many options with his living situation. They should at least know that he wouldn't head to the Durselys if he had the ability to make the choice himself - which he now did. And, other than there, Grimmauld was the only place he could go to without having to pay.
"Worried?" he repeated.
Ron scoffed while Hermione huffed exasperatedly. "Obviously," she stressed, rolling her eyes. Harry couldn't help but note a faint trace of derision underlying the action. "And you're not even there to support them in return," she scolded reprovingly.
"Support them… in return?" Harry echoed, feeling particularly thick. Another emotion, something he couldn't yet name but had bile rising in the back of his throat, began to coalesce inside him.
"Yes, Harry," Hermione sighed, shaking her head, the action making Harry cringe away in remembered ashamedness of the - rather abundant - amount of occasions upon which he was found in some way lacking by the witch. "We all care; it'd be nice if you showed that you cared too," she chastised.
It almost felt like they were having two separate conversations, with how little Harry was able to comprehend what was occurring, his disbelief becoming practically palpable. "I just bloody killed Voldemort, Hermione," he said incredulously, raising a hand to cut her off as he continued, "I walked to my death - two days ago. How in the world does that not show that I care?"
Hermione's expression twisted for a moment before clearing, and he noticed how she subtly placed a hand against Ron's wrist as if to hold him back from speaking. "That's not what I'm saying, and you know it," she rebuked. "We were all there, Harry. We all fought. But you're the only one hiding yourself away when the world needs us most," she finished, voice gentling in an attempt to get him to understand.
It felt more as if she was talking down to him like he was a misbehaving child, and he felt an intense spark of righteous indignation flare up inside him. "Now the world needs me most?" he exclaimed disbelievingly, throwing his arms out widely.
Ron made an aggravated noise. "You're being a right prick, Harry," he spat, stepping forward to shove a finger against Harry's chest. "You honestly think that just because you're a rich ponce and the so-called 'Savior' that you have the right to leave the rest of us out to dry?" he shouted, spittle flecking off his lips.
Harry blinked, flinching at the touch and doubly so at the words, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. "What are you trying to say?" he whispered sharply.
Hermione slapped a hand against Ron's chest, cutting her partner off as she gave Harry a placation. "He's just worried about you, Harry. I mean, look around you," she pointed out. "You're hardly taking care of yourself locked up in this dreadful place, and you haven't even bothered to consider your friends. Think about how we - and how Mrs. Weasley must feel," she said sensibly.
Harry felt a hot flush rise to his cheeks over every single aspect to that statement. Yes, he knew that they all had less than ideal memories of Grimmauld Place, but it was his home. It was all that he had left and the final piece he had been given from his godfather. Her so clearly disparaging it rankled him more than he thought it would - or could. Not to mention how she went about how him secluding himself - taking care of himself - was hard on the others without her even bothering to see how he was doing himself.
He took a few more steps away, placing the dining table between himself and the pair.
"I've needed time - I still do," he said quietly, not meeting their eyes lest he feel another hot lance of anger lace up past his throat and out his mouth. It felt wrong, arguing with them the way he was. He couldn't remember the last time he had such an intense feeling of righteous anger against them - not since the locket, and, even then, that'd just been with Ron and it hadn't truly lasted.
"We all need time, mate," Ron said, words understanding if not for the callus way that they'd been spoken. "But you don't see us moping around."
"I-"
Ron cut him off again, voice rising. "My brother died," he spat, suddenly slamming his fist against the wall as he audibly ground his teeth, seething out, "but you're the one who gets to hide about like a fucking pansy?"
A stone lodged itself in Harry's throat both at the suddenness of the outburst and the words themselves, and a bubbling mixture of equal parts shame and resentment flooded through his veins. Hadn't it been Ron and his parents who'd constantly told Harry that he was family to them? Hadn't Harry been as close to - no, closer to - the twins than Ron was? Hadn't he lost Fred too?
The sentiment fled from him almost as soon as it came, though, and the shame won out, making his shoulders sag.
It would be utterly selfish of him to say as much; the words sounded horribly conceited enough in his own head.
It didn't matter what was said or done on their part; blood was blood.
"Ron, I - I'm sorry-"
Ron interrupted him again, scoffing. "Yeah," he said disbelievingly, turning around and stalking out the room towards the entrance of the house. "Then bloody well act like it," he sneered over his shoulder, the sound of the front door slamming shut causing Harry to flinch and curl in his shoulders.
There was a pause between them wherein neither spoke, and then Hermione let out a quiet sigh, making Harry glance up at her through his fringe.
"Ron means well," she said quietly, looking quite abruptly tired far beyond her years. The sight sent a tug of empathy through Harry's heart, though it wasn't enough to cover the acrid emotions underlying it.
"I … I know," Harry managed to get out, the words sounding thick and false on his tongue.
Hermione didn't seem to notice, giving him a faint twist of a smile. "I'm glad," she said softly, then paused in a brief moment of uncharacteristic hesitation. "Just…" she started, letting out another breath. "I hope you'll be able to think of others soon, Harry. They truly do need you," she whispered, not meeting his eyes, looking hurt and defeated.
He swallowed, and his arms hung limply at his sides, his head hanging low as he gave a jerk of a nod in reply.
"I'll see you soon?" Hermione questioned softly, and Harry gave another silent nod, steadfastly gazing at the polished floor between his socked feet.
Hermione didn't verbalize another response - if she did give one at all - leaving without another word, the door closing with the faintest click behind her.
Harry felt… numb. Numb and - bitter. Uncomprehending. Disbelieving. Confused. Hurt. His chest felt like it was slowly yet inexorably crumpling in on itself, a steady pressure cramming down on his ribs and crushing his dully throbbing heart.
He had had plenty of time to think in the silence thereafter.
.
Now, he sighed, rubbing a hand harshly against his face and blindly groping for his glasses with his other, finding them easily enough on his otherwise empty nightstand and shoving them onto his face.
The owl once more rapped its beak again against the glass, and Harry shifted his legs to the side of the bed, standing with a slight stagger to his disorientated step as he headed for the window, trying to pull himself out of the last dregs of his insomnia-forgotten sleep.
He was truly was being honest about the letter; he could count on one hand the number of people it could've come from.
He didn't think that it was from Gringotts; they'd sent him one just the other day, so he should be up to date with his bank statements and what few Lordship duties he'd taken on - and those had certainly been quite the shock. Color him surprised to find out he was the heir to not one, not two - thanks to a certain godfather of his - but three lordships. Meddling old coot.
Yes, hadn't that been quite a shock.
He'd been running low on funds, and he hadn't been sure where to find his key since it seemed that one person or another always had their hands on it instead of him, so he'd gone to Gringotts in hopes of either finding out who had it or possibly just getting another copy of it.
.
"Pardon me?" Harry said dumbly, staring blankly at the goblin as the words stumbled out of his mouth with the well-worn practice of fear-instilled politeness.
Griphook sneered - a quite terrifying look with how it caused his lip to curl above his jaggedly sharp teeth - but, for once, the goblin didn't seem irate with Harry himself. "You mean to say that you have not received a single letter from Gringotts, at all?" he reiterated, claw-like fingernails clenching down on the edge of the mahogany table, scratching the wood.
Harry eyed the hands warily, giving a lost shrug. "I don't really see why I'd get any letters anyways, sir. I have the trust vault, but I don't believe that warrants statements or anything of the such. It's not like I have a credit card - muggle thing," he clarified at Griphook's look.
The goblin let out a sharp exhale, numerous frown lines deepening into thick wrinkles as his lips pursed tautly. "Your parchment should be prepared by now. Look." he commanded.
Harry startled slightly, having forgotten about the paper that he idly held in his hands. A few minutes before, when he'd first been directed to his bank manager, he'd been processed forwards by letting three drops of blood from a prick on his finger spill against a blank parchment. It was supposed to guarantee he was himself as well as to show relevant information.
He glanced down at it, and, sure enough, it was now covered in black, fresh ink, his name - Harry James Potter; Age: 18 - written boldly at the top.
Then his eyes slid past it, and he was sucked into all that was written.
...
-Relations:
-Father: James Potter [Deceased]
-Mother: Lily Potter (née Evans) [Deceased]
-Godfather: Sirius Black III [Deceased]
-Godmother: Alice Longbottom [Unfit]
-Heirships:
-Potter Line (by blood on father's side)
-Black Line (by will of previous lord)
-Slytherin Line (by right of conquest)
-Abilities:
-Parseltongue
-Parselmagic [unblocked ~ 2/5/1998]
-Dragontongue [unblocked ~ 2/5/1998]
-Animagus Form
-Natural Legilimens [unblocked ~ 2/5/1998]
-Natural Occlumens [fully unblocked ~ 2/5/1998]
-Wandless Magic [fully unblocked ~ 2/5/1998]
-Maladies:
-Curse Scar {Horcrux} [healed ~ 2/5/1998]
-Potions Overdoses {repeated}
-Compulsion Magics {multiple} [healed ~ 2/5/1998]
-Malnutrition [long term effects]
-Other injuries [healed/scarred]
-Vaults:
-Potter:
-Vault 230 [Trust Vault]
(250,473 galleons, 49,430 sickles, 1,248 knuts)
-Vault 621[Family Vault]
(weapons, heirlooms, family books, potion ingredients {under
stasis}; 3,584,983 galleons, 72,984 sickles, 10,482 knuts)
-Black:
-Vault 762 [Family Vault]
(books on dark magic, Black artifacts, 849,390 galleons, 79,542 sickles, 5,387 knuts)
-Vault 831
(259,398,031 galleons, 540,924 sickles, 138,928 knuts)
-Slytherin:
-Vault 915
(Parselbooks, artifacts, creature ingredients {under stasis} ; 2,383,850 galleons, 54,390 sickles, 493 knuts)
...
And it went on, and on, and on, the rolled up parchment in his lap extending further and further as he read in blatant shock.
"What in the bloody bludgering fuck is this?!"
.
Suffice to say, Harry ended up spending much longer at the bank than he'd intended to, but, now, he shook his head, once more pulling himself free from his remembrances.
Regardless of them, he didn't think the letter was from the bank, especially considering that they used Eagle Owls, which the diminutive bird holding his letter was most certainly not.
He doubted it was from Longbottom, either; the recent graduate and his wife had left to take an extended vacation somewhere in Western Europe, and the two were still deeply entrenched in the honeymoon stages of their marriage, enamoration for one another clear as day. So it wasn't likely that Harry would receive anything from the infatuatee anytime soon, to say the least.
As for the remaining two - Luna and George - it was a toss up as to who it could be.
The owl gave a rather angry sounding hoot just as Harry reached the window, and he hummed out a raspy placation of, "I'm here, I'm here," as he opened the latch and pulled in the frame, letting the owl hop inside with a delicate click of its talons against the polished wood.
He was quick to reach out and unravel the parchment from around its ankle, snagging a piece of dried jerky from where he'd kept it by the windowsill for situations such as these and feeding it to the irritated thing somewhat distractedly. His attention was rather caught on the letter in his grasp; the sender was, as he'd halfway guessed, Luna.
Seeing her name had a piercing throb jab at his aching chest, heart tightening near painfully in a sensation that seemed to hardly dull even with the admitted passing of time.
Less than a couple of months ago, his friend had somewhat gently but no less directly informed him that she'd been diagnosed with a terminal disease - similar to cancer but for magicals - and was given a less than inspiring prognosis. She hadn't told him exactly how much time she had left, just that it was under a year, and she was surprisingly adamant about not letting it affect the way she lived for as long as she could.
In fact, she'd delved deeper into her work if anything, and Harry was quite sure that she was almost finished with her book, one which outlined an unbelievably large quantity of magical creatures. It was quite heavily inspired by Newt Scamander's work, but Luna had added on several more beings which Newt had not delved into, such as her much loved Nargles, Blibbering Humdingers, and Crumple-Horned Snorkacks - to name a few.
It'd only been half a year since she'd graduated from Hogwarts, and Harry knew she'd had hopes of apprenticing with a Magizoologist in her desire to become one herself. He never had the chance to mention it to her, though - not now with her condition completely eliminating the possibility of her dream.
Not that he had much time around her as of recent to mention much to her at all.
He'd find it disheartening - well, more so than he actually did - that she didn't allow him to stay by her side during these few, scant months she had left, but he - completely and utterly grudgingly - understood her reasoning: She wanted peace. Peace and normalcy. She wanted to continue forward as she always had been, and Harry hovering over her shoulder like the distraught friend that he was certainly wouldn't help with that ideal.
Which led to him instead ensconcing himself in Grimmauld Place like the complete and utter hermit that he was.
Considering that he and George were the only ones still keyed into the wards, his statement was more accurate than he'd like it to be. Doubly so since George was currently off visiting Charlie at the elder's dragon sanctuary in Romania.
Yes, of course over half of Harry's friends were on the other side of the continent all at once, and the remaining one was firm in their insistence for space.
That statement would likely be more impressive if Harry had more than three true friends, but, alas, it was still true.
Brushing aside his musings for the moment, Harry opened the letter and pulled out the piece of parchment from within, Luna's distinct, slanted yet loopy handwriting clearly inked on the page.
Dearest Harry,
I hope you are doing well, despite what I know; I haven't seen as many Nargles nearby as of recent, so I thought it'd be best to warn you in case they're headed your way.
Harry barely withheld an annoyed but ultimately unsurprised sigh. It seemed like he would be catching another wave of the others' harassments sometime soon.
The weather today seems promising, so I do recommend a visit to Diagon Alley - and Diagonelly as well.
Harry snorted, amused and hardly even shocked that she somehow knew about his rather unfortunate incident of mispronouncing the Alley's name during his first attempt at using the floo. As for why she recommended him visiting Knockturn - possibly Burgin and Burkes in specific - he wasn't entirely sure; he didn't make a habit of going there, even knowing he had the ability to protect himself from the majority of the ne'er-do wells that were a part of its fold.
You see, I must be honest in that I don't have much time left at all, though I do believe I will see to it that my book is published first!
Harry's heartbeat stuttered in his chest, and he felt a burn rise at the back of his eyes.
Nevermind that, though.
Harry let out a wet snort. Not bloody likely.
Harry, you're not well here. It isn't right, what the others have done to you and what all the rest continue to do. I know you know you owe them nothing, but I worry that their constant flabbergating and blubberdoing will get under your roots if it continues as it has.
Harry pursed his lips, blinking rapidly to clear the previous film that'd formed over them. He didn't imagine he'd be bending to the will of his former friends or the masses anytime soon - especially now that he wasn't under literal potions and compulsions to do so - but he could bitterly admit that her words weren't sprouted from nothing. After spending nearly half his life happily - well, as much as he could be while constantly facing near-death experiences - under Dumbledore's thumb, being manipulated and hardly realizing it, it was impossible to deny. It was part of why he was secluding himself now; every instance that he was caught in public, he was hounded after for some reason or other, usually about how he ought to do his 'duty' and become an Auror or something of the sort.
As if he hadn't done enough.
He chewed on the inside of his lip and read on.
I heard America's nice this time of year. The Blubbering Humdingers seem to be migrating to the South East of the states, and I suspect the Dabberblimps won't be too far behind.
Harry blinked. The USA?
He wasn't entirely sure of the names of the states based on where they were, but it certainly seemed as though Luna was suggesting he should head over to them in her typical roundabout manner.
Though there does seem to be a grave storm approaching, unfortunately, so I recommend preparing accordingly. You can never be over, over, over, over prepared, after all!
(And whoever said materialism was wrong obviously lived in a time without a need for it; materials certainly are a thing of the present, and even more so of the future!)
Well, that was certainly suspect, Harry thought, eyebrows raising to his hairline. And it was almost - well, in a very loose meaning of the term - straightforward compared to how she usually was in times where she was distinctly giving advice.
Because this most certainly was advice from her: 'America.' 'A grave storm.' 'Prepare.' 'Materialism.'
What the bloody hell was out there to prepare for, and what on God's Green Earth was she trying to imply by encouraging being materialistic?
For the first part, he immediately and harshly struck the thought that she was sending him off to fight another war from his mind. No, he trusted Luna with his very life, and with that he trusted her with his heart. He knew she wouldn't crush the sentiments he'd shared with her by trampling over his overwhelming, unadulterated sentiment of never being forced into the position of leading the way to battle once more.
Not to mention how she very clearly emphasized preparing - what, with four 'overs' written out on the parchment with the final one both bolded and underlined?
It was possible that that could be construed as preparing for a fight, but it didn't seem as though that was the main focus of the preparedness she indicated, at the very least.
From there, there were only a few short lines left:
Computers are so difficult to work, Harry.
Harry couldn't help a short bark of laughter at that. He knew for a fact that she'd never used a computer before - not before this apparent incident, at least. Of course they'd be bloody difficult to use for someone who'd never had to navigate a single electronic in their life.
His smile faded as he read the last part, though.
I don't believe we'll have time for another visit, my dearest friend, but know that you will be carrying my love with you and I hold yours close in my heart.
~ Luna
And, as if it had been timed for his finishing of the letter, a smooth slip of paper that he hadn't previously noticed slid out from behind the parchment, fluttering onto the ledge of the windowsill. He snapped it up quickly before the wind could take it, and his mind seemed to judder to a halt as he blinked stupidly at the slip.
It was a ticket.
An airplane ticket.
To Atlanta, Georgia.
And the plane was set to leave in just under two weeks.