The Existence Between the Essence and the Descent

Hermione showed up at his door on a Thursday evening.

Harry knew it was Thursday because she'd brought Professor Flitwick with her. The tiny man barged into Harry's room, smile beaming even as his nose wrinkled. He got his wand out and had cast a dozen freshening charms before Hermione's soft treading steps even reached the top of the landing.

The sanitising spell burned as it flashed across Harry's skin—Harry grimaced on reflex. Suddenly, he smelled of fir trees and lemon zest. "Was that needed?"

"Exceptionally so," Flitwick chirped back. "Now, tell me Harry, why haven't you been answering your letters?"

As much as he though shrugging would be a fitting response, Harry knew Hermione wouldn't be satisfied with that. "I'm tired," he tried to explain. "It seemed like a lot of effort to write, 'Hello, I am tired, yours truly'." He ran his fingers through his hair, sighing when they snagged on a tangle of knots—cleaning spells weren't meant for personal grooming.

Flitwick hummed as he casting a few diagnostics, followed by a Cheering Charm.

Despite lying in bed, Harry very nearly fell over from the magic's surge through him.

"Merlin's mother's moustache, what was that?"

He recognised the wand movement of the charm, it had been one of the spells he'd taken weeks longer than the rest of his class to learn. Remus had made him practice with a blank wand until he could do it just right, and to this day Harry hated Cheering Charms.

"Don't answer that," he added, just as Flitwick was opening his mouth.

Harry felt like he had been plugged into an electric socket. He jumped out of bed, and this time he actually did fall over.

"Everything is very bright," he observed, pulling himself up onto his chair. "What letters did you want me to answer?" He looked at his desk, had the pile really gotten so big?

The calendar on his wall still showed him June. "What's the date?"

"Your aunt said you've been unwell for a week."

Less than a month until Hogwarts. That wasn't so bad. "Did you come to take me to St. Mungo's? Because I feel fine now."

He felt better than fine. If he wanted to, he could run to the moon and back. Would Aunt Petunia let him visit the man on the moon? Perhaps it would be better to write first, check if he was welcome, it wouldn't do to turn up like a bad smell.

"Harry, are—are you alright?" Hermione said. Her face looked worried.

Harry reached out, withdrew his hands to wipe them on his shirt, then moved towards her again. With his index fingers, he gently pushed the corners of her lips up.

"Half an hour ago I was dead, but now? I've never been so alive!" He skipped, tripped over his socks, and clattered to the floor.

It was almost comfy. He spread out his arms and smiled as Ratty climbed onto his hand. He could barely make out the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling against the glaring of the light. "Scorpio protects me from Orion, you know," Harry explained. "Otherwise he will come and sic his dogs on me, and then—" with his free hand, Harry mimed a wand pulled across his throat.

"He's not okay," Hermione said. She'd turned to Flitwick as if Harry wasn't right there in front of her.

Harry wondered what she'd gotten him for his birthday. He remembered a fluffy barn owl with a Stern Look that Petunia would have wilted at. "What did you write to me, Hermione?" he asked.

His bestest friend turned and peered down at him. Harry beamed at her, ever so pleased by her attention.

"I asked you to come visit m-m-me."

Oh. Oh, that was lovely. Harry pictured himself sitting in her home, likely full of books and with a telly that showed nature documentaries all day. There would be good food and warm blankets; Hermione seemed like the type who enjoyed good blankets.

"I'd love to," he said, the truth of it echoing inside his chest until he felt like he'd explode. "I love you."

Hermione collapsed into his chair as if standing upright had been a great effort.

Meanwhile Flitwick was stepping over Harry's arm towards the door. "Excellent. I shall go and make the arrangements."

xoxox

They were apparated to Hermione's home in three jumps: her, Harry, and his trunk. By that point Flitwick was looking rather tired. "Why don't you give us a moment, please, Miss Granger?"

Harry watched her withdraw into her house, feeling a little wistful. It looked gingerbread-like with its picturesque lit yellow windows and bright blue door.

His professor looked rather out of place standing on a muggle pavement in a muggle neighbourhood, wearing a striped top hat, and adorned by a silky moustache.

"May I touch your moustache?"

Flitwick sighed. "You're not well, Harry. We do need to have you seen by a healer."

"Now?" He'd only just arrived. It seemed like a sore welcome to dump his bags and leave, horribly rude like Marge would be.

"Tomorrow, Harry. I'll make an appointment and come for you then."

"Alright. Good night, Professor." He could feel his stomach sinking, though he wasn't sure if it was the normal or the abnormal kind of weariness.

After a spot of supper, the Grangers assigned Harry their guest room with its thick velvet curtains, and stucco on the ceiling. The bed was too hard. Harry would jolt back to full awareness every time he moved, worried he'd accidentally fall off without the familiar protection of a dip worn into the mattress.

At some point late into the night, the Cheering Charm wore off completely. It felt like the world was plunged into darkness at the flip of a switch.

There was no room for terror left. Harry stroked his cloak where it lay across his chest as if it were an animal—he'd long come to believe the Hallows were sentient, and it seemed to enjoy the action these last days.

He didn't worry himself trying to sleep after that. Ironically, he was too tired for it.

Dawn crept in through the gap atop the curtain-rod eventually, projecting a miniature world on the ceiling.

A few cars drove past. Harry watched a woman walking her dog, pixellated by the plaster.

The household began to wake up. He listened to water moving through pipes, taps and drains, heard a voice humming in the shower. Downstairs there was the clicking of a gas stove, then a kettle began whistling. In this strange place with its hard furniture and foreign people, at least the sounds were familiar.

Hermione's parents left the house: a key jingled, car doors opened and shut.

There was a knock at the bedroom door. "...Come in," Harry said, once he realised he was meant to respond.

Harry noticed Hermione was wearing pale pink pyjamas under her bathrobe. He'd never pictured her in nightwear before, but he'd been expecting something less...unicorn-y.

"They were a gift," Hermione explained, folding her arms across her chest.

"I like them."

She un-frowned accordingly. "We can make our own breakfast. Come on." Her slippers looked like something out of Transfiguration class, almost coming to life as they plodded down the stairs.

It took so much effort to get out of bed, but Harry didn't want to disappoint his friend. He heaved himself up from under the covers, promising himself a good cuppa and a nice chair to nestle into once he reached the kitchen.

Hermione soon realised how boring Harry was in his current state of non-being. While she pondered what electives she'd be taking come third year, Harry examined the panels on the kitchen cupboards, letting his eyes run in loops over the complicated pattern of trim.

Sometime after lunch, Flitwick arrived with a healer in tow.

"I heard you haven't been well, Mister Potter," the woman said, a kind smile stretched across stern wrinkles.

"I know you!" It was the same healer as the other time in the hospital, when he'd been restrained in bed for strange muggle reasons.

The woman looked pleased. "Indeed, I'm quite familiar with your case. My name is Healer Pringle."

Thus having reached the limits of her bedside manner, she began to cast furiously, the string of diagnostics spanning an uncomfortable silence.

"Why don't you tell us what happened, Harry?" Flitwick asked.

Harry was tired of questions he couldn't answer. "I turned twelve, and then…" he shrugged. "I think I stopped being alive." It was the truth, in so far as death and life were opposites. For a metaphor, he thought it was well done.

"You're not wrong," said Healer Pringle. She also cast a Cheering Charm at him, though this one was much more controlled than Flitwick's had been. "Mister Potter, I'm prescribing you a particular charm, you'll need to have it administered every other day by a trained medi-witch or -wizard."

"Will that cure me?" It seemed doubtful. The Hallows had staked their claim, and they weren't letting go. A lifetime of Cheering Charms wouldn't fix that.

"It will treat your symptoms to a manageable level."

"That do-doesn't an-n-nswer the question!" Hermione said, fighting the words on their way out.

Healer Pringle cast several diagnostics on her too, before nodding definitively. "Ah, the stutter is psychosomatic, otherwise we could do something about it."

Newly beholden, once again, to the full range of human emotions, Harry felt fury blaze through him. "Hermione's a person. You should treat her like one!"

"Oh dear," said Flitwick. "Let's all calm down, yes?"

Harry did not want to calm down, he was only getting started. He drew breath, and then—

He deflated. It was all gone. The world returned to greyscale, and Harry slumped back onto his previous seat.

There was something ugly in Healer Pringle's face. "I am the best head-and-brain healer this side of the pond and you will mind your place, boy."

She hadn't even raised her voice as she said it. Harry could picture her being friends with Snape. They'd walk through Hogwarts after curfew laughing in shared glee as they assigned detentions. Or on a Hogsmeade weekend, they could put every visitor of Madam Puddifoot's off the scones, souring the cream just with their presence.

Pringle waved her wand, and then the feeling was back in Harry's fingers and toes. Black-and-white turned red-green-blue.

It was treating his symptoms to a manageable level. It also left Harry entirely vulnerable to Finite Incantatem. This was little more than a stop-gap, spackle patched over a hole.

"Thank you, Healer Pringle," Harry said to her shoes. He wanted her to leave him be. She might understand healing spells better than anyone this side of the pond, but she clearly knew nothing about actual health.

They left.

"Are you al-l-lright, Harry?" Hermione asked.

"I'm scared," he answered. The Hallows had taken him and twisted him until his limbs and head were facing the wrong way. For a moment he was reminded of the Dark Lord pinned to the back of Quirrell's head, trying to cast magic through his host's body and core.

Quirrell had died right in front of them, Harry had realised. Something about his touch had killed a man, and nobody had even thought to ask if he or Hermione were okay.

"The things I'm feeling now, they're not real." But it was just a charm. His emotions were magic-made, an illusion, fog mirrored on the surface of the black lake. When the spell wore off he'd be just as broken and listless as before, and he knew already that it was no way to exist, to be. "I don't know what I should do."

"We could go to the library?" Hermione suggested.

It was an excellent idea. Muggles were so much more sensible and astute when it came to matters of the mind. He doubted they'd have a muggle equivalent to living death, but it'd be a nice distraction. Maybe he could get around to reading another Tolkien novel, or something about the Hubble in a back copy of a National Geographic.

"Brilliant, as usual," Harry told her with a smile.

Two days later, Madam Pomfrey stopped by the Granger household to administer Harry's Cheering Charm before leaving back to wherever she spent her summers.

Harry and Hermione whiled away the weeks finishing their homework, pouring over Hermione's new textbooks, going through the local branch of the public library—they even tried their hands at a round of baking. It was delightfully purposeless and meandering way to pass a summer holiday.

Using what he knew of enchanting, Harry tinkered with some of the Grangers' household appliances. He fed Ratty more shortbread than was healthy. Every day after lunch, he sat down and watched whatever he wanted on the telly, learning about Mesopotamian architecture, indigenous Australian plants, or sulphur mining in the Philippines.

Somehow the world beyond the British Isles—and the stars—had never really existed in Harry's imagination. It was refreshing to be reminded of his own limits, to learn things for which he had no context. He would forget half by the next day, while the images stayed with him in a series of impressions: onion domes, each gilded more brightly than the next. Spiders the size of dogs. Fires burning bright like bluebell flames in the night.

He dove into the section on myths and legends at the local library, now that he was finally allowed to read whatever he wanted. There was even a book in Latin which the librarian let him check out without so much as a raised brow. Compared to Hermione's light reading, it was a tame and age-appropriate choice.

And then there were Sundays, when the Grangers were home and so Hermione and Harry went out to the park in an attempt to appease her parents' urges to have them play like normal children. All in all, it was a summer of moments, carried aloft from one Cheering Charm to the next.