this is my first fanfic, so be nice to me! constructive criticism is always welcome, and encouraged. Lots of mature themes, discretion advised. HP/DM in later chapters.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of JK Rowling's characters. I only wish I did.
Harry woke up on the morning of September 5th earlier than he had woken up all summer. This hadn't been his intention. He had decided that if he had overslept, say, til noon, which wasn't unusual for him these days, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.
In fact, he might have been happy never to wake up again. He rubbed the sleep out of his emerald green eyes, and tried to remember where he was. Taking in the saggy mattress, the dingy white sheets, and the carpeting with an uncountable number of stains, he realized he was in a muggle hotel, in the countryside. He had stayed in dozens of hotels since the great battle, trying to evade the swarm of owls carrying letters from Ron and various Weasleys, Hermione, Professor McGonagall, and only one which was in a envelope bearing the St. Mungo's logo, that Harry assumed was from Hagrid. It made him sick to think that Hagrid was in the hospital, along with others. Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Not that, he couldn't think about that. He got up, and went to wash his face, and brush his teeth, and as soon as he was finished, he crawled back into bed, exhausted from the effort. He closed his eyes, and was just drifting off, when he heard a loud rapping on the door. He decided it was probably maid service, and it would be easier to get up and tell them to come back at a reasonable hour than to let them bang on his door incessantly. He opened the door to yell at whatever unsuspecting woman was cleaning today, and froze. Standing in the doorframe was Professor McGonagall.
"Potter," she said, "Harry…we need to talk."
Harry nervously flattened his spiky black hair and said, " There's really nothing to talk about, professor."
"Harry, it's normal to be upset. So much happened that night, no one will ever forget it. You should be proud of what you did!"
"Professor, this isn't really the best time…" Mumbled Harry, trying to come up with any feeble excuse to get her to leave. Professor McGonagall stormed past Harry, into the room, sat in the lone chair and motioned for Harry to have a seat on the bed, which he did, reluctantly.
"Now..." McGonagall said briskly, "why have you not been answering your mail?"
Harry's eyes traveled over to the wastebasket where yesterday's batch of five letters sat, and McGonagall's eyes followed his.
"Harry, I understand how difficult this has been, but you must go back to school. If we hurry, we'll be able to get all your books and supplies, and still make it to the start of term feast."
Harry stood up. " You expect me to go back to school after what happened? To bloody look all those professors, those students, even the fucking caretaker in the eye?" Rage filled his body, and he stood still for a second, digging his fingernails into his hands until he drew blood, trying to gain control of himself, but the rage won, and he picked up the bare bulb lamp on the rickety bedside table and threw it at the wall. "YOU WANT ME TO GO BACK TO THE PLACE WHERE JUST LAST MONTH, I SAW…" He pushed the small table over and kicked a hole in the wall, "I..." And he collapsed on the bed, and covered his face, feeling the ever-familiar tears coming closer.
"I'm so sorry, professor, I didn't mean to…it's just… I can't go back there."
"You have to." Professor McGonagall stated, very calmly for someone who had just seen a hotel room halfway destroyed "because it is your responsibility to the wizarding community-"
Harry cut her off. "I don't owe them anything, because I gave them everything!"
"Let me finish speaking! It was Dumbledore's request." She sighed, and rubbed her temples, "When Dumbledore left you on the Dursley's doorstep, he requested that you finish all your schooling, no matter what. Potter, will you do it, for Dumbledore?"
Harry stood up and walked into the bathroom, grabbing some jeans and a shirt off the floor on the way.
Once inside the bathroom, Harry leaned over the toilet, scared he was going to throw up. He hadn't seen anyone from the battle since the day afterwards, and seeing his transfiguration teacher brought back all the pain and all the things he had done. He stood up, and reached into his night bag, rummaging around for his razor. He found it, and started twisting and pulling it until the blades popped out. Shaking, he picked up one of the blades, and held it to his right wrist. Inhaling slowly, he dragged it across his pale skin and then gradually cut deeper, going up towards the crook of his elbow. Watching the blood flow freely, he slid to the floor, and drifted into unconsciousness.