Warnings: Minor gore, self-harm reference
Written for the Quidditch League Season 9, on the team Caerphilly Catapults.
Round 10: Oh(TP) No!
Thanks to my terrific betas: S L Blake, Aya Diefair
Using prompts:
Chaser 2: One half of your OTP doesn't support their partner's dreams and goals
(word) romance
(quote) "Your memory feels like home to me, so whenever my mind wanders, it always finds its way back to you."- Ranata Suzuki
(setting) St. Mungo's
Word count: 2090
My nose twitched at the stink of disinfectant. I wished I had the willpower to glare at him.
"We wouldn't be discharging him if we didn't need the beds, of course," the Healer said to me. "He'll be back to full health in a few days after taking the potion regiment."
"We know," I replied. "The discharge papers?"
The Healer passed me the forms, a look on her face that questioned my impatience.
"Not the first time I've done this," I said.
The Healer must have read something in my eyes because she looked away, unsure of what to say. Other Healers had tried in the past, but nothing they had to say brought me any comfort.
"Harry," I said, nudging him after shrinking and putting everything in my bag. "It's time to go home."
His eyes cleared a little, battling the battery of potions running through his system. He looked up at me and his face brightened into a smile that had stoked my heart back in the day.
Today, it made my heart crumble to ash.
He saw, and his face fell.
"I'm sorry," he said.
And the ash formed into spikes and tore through the rest of me.
"I know." I ran a finger gently over a wound that ran up the side of his face, purple around the cut from whatever curse had inflicted it.
"It was a group, necromancers, experimenting with an offshoot of Inferi," Harry explained, trying to sit up too quickly. My hand found his shoulder, stopping him from hurting himself further.
"Stop," I said. A justification wouldn't help; it never helped.
I blinked quickly. I'd trained to stop the tears from showing.
"Katie, I had to. It's not just my job; people will die without what we do."
I met his eyes and he only held them for a moment. This conversation was already choreographed.
"And you'll die for what you do," I said. I'd trained the reproach, the blame, anguish and fear out of my voice as well. The Healer probably thought I was cold, an awful, bitchy woman.
Maybe I was, now. Maybe I had to be heartless to survive this.
Harry climbed out of the hospital bed slowly, slipping limbs out one at a time as he prepared himself to stand, bracing himself for the agony. One of his legs was streaked black, a mix of burns and bruises so bad that there was probably less skin than blood. His breath came out in short, wheezing and painful bursts. He coughed and blood appeared on his lips.
I'd seen him in worse states. They were sending him home after all.
I made a game with myself. I gave myself a point for every second I could last, watching him struggle, alone, before I gave in and helped him.
His bare foot thunked to the floor, toes lacking nails stretching on the cold hospital floor. I felt my throat constrict, picturing the nail splintering curse that they must have already healed.
One Point.
His other foot reached the floor, aggravating a scar on his leg. Blood splattered on the floor. I imagined my heart hitting the ground at the same time, blood spilling out, the organ twitching arrhythmically.
Two Points.
He twisted on the bed, winced, reaching to his side. We both tried to hide it when we hurt, knowing the other couldn't bear it. I wanted to scream at him, but that would just hurt us both more.
Three Points.
He leaned forward, preparing to stand, and I saw the vein stand out on his neck. A familiar vein, a non-verbal greeting from his familiar agony. I watched as a beat from his heart raced up it. My heart beat too. My stupid, worthless, awful heart. How I wish I could get rid of it.
Four Points.
Harry tried to stand, his legs shaking beneath him. More blood dripped despite the care that had already been given to his wounds. Then his legs gave out, and he dropped back onto the bed.
I had always thought it cruel how many beds there were in St Mungo's when it was anything but restful for us.
Five Points.
He looked at me, his eyes pleading for help and I folded.
Only five points. Nowhere near a high-score.
I sat beside him on the bed, my arm slipping beneath his, snaking across his back before my hand rested on his shoulder. We stood together, one organism, a bitter taste in my mouth from what would happen to him without my support.
We limped down the length of the ward, slow enough that people had enough time to spot Harry Potter, Auror extraordinaire, be struck speechless by his presence, notice his wounds, pity him, pity him some more before finally losing interest.
I doubt anyone even noticed me, not that I would want them to.
We reached the elevator and I pressed the button for the ground floor. Harry took the chance to catch his breath from the exertion of the length of a single ward, but unfortunately for him, the elevator ride only took a minute.
The walk from the elevator to the fireplace was slower still.
My arm ached from carrying him. That would fade, temporary just like his injuries, but it would come back soon enough.
I wondered how many times I'd slow-walked him across the ground floor of St. Mungo's, this bloody, beaten and broken man I loved.
Maybe I was dead. Maybe this was my purgatory. An eternal, perpetual penance.
We reached the fireplace and I threw some Floo Powder with my free hand. We appeared in our living room and I brought Harry to the couch.
The first few times, I'd put a sheet over the couch. After all this time, I didn't bother anymore. The couch was patchy with red marks that I doubt would ever scrub out.
He stretched out and almost smiled.
"Home again," he said.
That couch was more a home to him than the house that surrounded it. A place to lay until his wounds healed before he could go out to get torn apart again.
Not for the first time, I wished I was the one bleeding. Maybe there would be release in it, if how Harry treated it was anything to go by.
"Your potions," I said, placing them on the floor next to him. I turned to go to our bedroom so I could shatter out of sight.
"Katie," he said. His voice trembled, pleading.
"You know I can't forgive you," I said.
"I'm sorry," he apologised anyway.
I sighed, the breath trembling.
"I can't do this," I said. "I can't survive this. I need you to stop."
"Stop?"
"You have to. You won't be able to survive this forever. You won't be lucky forever."
"What I'm doing is important. Essential. The Aurors keep everyone safe."
"What about you?" I asked. I took a step back after realising I'd already started raising my voice. I took a breath. "You— you're not safe."
"This is what I'm good at, Katie. What I'm meant to do, what I have to do." Harry closed his eyes, rolling onto his back. "It's who I am."
"No, Harry. It's who everyone expects you to be," I said. "The war is over."
"I know it's over."
"Do you? You're still fighting."
"There are still monsters out there."
"And you still have a life to live. We still have a life to start together."
Harry opened his eyes.
"What are you saying? Being an Auror is a big part of my life."
"This isn't living, Harry. Dragging home the nearly dead body of the man I love every other week isn't any way to live."
Harry sat up, focusing more of his attention on me. He did it too quickly and yelped, reaching to his side.
"I can't sleep at night, not knowing if I'll get an owl saying you're in St Mungo's. If I'll get one from you saying you've got to work late on a case. If I'll get one from the morgue."
He opened his mouth to make a promise I knew he couldn't keep.
He stopped himself before he could say it.
I loved him because he would never lie to me.
I hated him because he would never give me any hope.
He closed his mouth again, searching for words. I saw the moment when he discovered that there weren't any words that he could say, that he couldn't think of a way to express himself.
"When you go quiet, I hate myself," I said, sinking to the floor. What could I do, when we couldn't talk, when I couldn't stop him from getting hurt, when my life was this never-ending fear for him.
He didn't say anything, because of course he didn't.
"You're my world, Harry. When it's past the time you should be back, this place doesn't feel like home. You're my home. You should be my future," I said. I wished I could sink lower, that the ground beneath me would part and swallow me up. Consume me, everything I was, until I was nothing but a memory.
"I should be?" Harry asked, voice broken.
I knew what I had to say. The words were impossible to voice.
"You're not going to be, Harry. I'll lose you before that can happen," I said instead.
Harry hesitated, almost making that promise again. He stopped himself once more. I knew I had to stop him before he tried a third time, before he made me another broken promise.
"Tomorrow is the future. I'll still be here," Harry said. An offer, a compromise.
"That's not enough, Harry. It's not even close," I said. "You know that too, that it isn't fair to us."
A sob broke free from my heart, racing up my lungs, stealing my breath. My throat constricted, trying to catch it, but it moved too quickly, escaping out of me and into the world.
Harry pulled himself off of the couch, breaking himself just a little more at my pain. He crawled towards me, achingly slow, and wrapped me in a hug.
He was perfect, everything that I could ever want, soft and brilliant and the only thing that made me feel safe.
If this moment could be the tomorrow that he promised, if it could be stretched out into forever, I would take it.
But I knew that wouldn't be the case. He'd heal, and he'd go out again and we'd be back here again soon enough.
"You'll be here tomorrow, Harry," I said. "But, I can't be."
He pulled back, his eyes meeting mine.
It was the first time I had ever seen him scared.
"If you can't stop, I have to get out. I can't survive this," I said.
His eyes flooded with pain. I'd dealt with so much of his pain.
I could bear this last little bit.
"You don't— don't—" he said.
I knew what he was trying to say. What he was thinking. His history with family, how much he had lost, how little love there had been for him.
"No, Harry, I do. I love you," I said. "This isn't anything about that. The romance isn't dead." I smiled behind watery eyes. "Maybe if I was a bit more interesting in bed you wouldn't ever want to leave the house."
He laughed and cried simultaneously. That was my Harry; so very alive, energetic, running as fast as he could towards his grave.
"Let's get you onto the couch. You need your rest," I said. I was pretty sure I was shaking, my body quivering with grief, but my mind was clear.
When he was laid back on the sofa again, he asked, "You'll stay tonight?"
"For tonight," I promised.
For one more night, Harry Potter was in my care.
He slept restlessly. I didn't sleep, but on nights like this one, I rarely did.
When dawn broke, I packed my bags.
After that, I had a glass of water. I was dehydrated from crying. I thought that I'd got a handle on this a long time ago.
I set another glass down by Harry, along with food and whatever else I thought he might need. He slept more peacefully now.
It would be so easy to stay, make sure that he got better one last time.
I kissed his forehead and walked away from my home. I hoped, for both our sakes, that this pain I felt would heal in time.