Summary: Slash, Remus/Harry Despair is a bitter thing and, although the War is over and his duty as hero is done, even Harry Potter can't help but fall prey to the grasping emotion. Unable to shake the depression and the continuing cries of the Wizarding world, Harry needs someone to turn to. Enter Remus Lupin, who just might be able to help Harry in ways no one has ever been able to before.
Author's Note: 'kay, guys, someone's slacking. :-P I've had a bunch of hits for the entire story, but no one's leaving any reviews. I'd love to hear your feedback, no matter how simple. Whether you liked it or hated it, I'd love to know. Because, if you guys don't tell me what I'm doing wrong, I won't be able to fix it, hehe. So, please review. It makes me a very happy woman. Also, I'm very sorry for the delay. RL stuck its nose in like you wouldn't believe, and finding the time or the energy to write has been an impossible task as of late. Hopefully, I'll have future chapters out to you guys much sooner.
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Harry, Remus, Sirius, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Bill Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Snape, Tonks, Dumbledore, McGonagall, various Order members. Remus/Harry, Ron/Hermione, Charlie/Tonks, brief mentions of past Harry/Draco.
Warning(s)/Story Note(s)/Disclaimer: angst, AU (ignoring several elements of book five and completely ignoring book six), violence, language, alcohol abuse, slash, het, brief mentions of sex. Anything I've forgotten? Please, leave a review and let me know. :-) I do not own Harry Potter, any of the characters within this story, and do not claim to. No profit is being made from this work of fanfiction.
Overall Rating: M, for Mature, just to be safe.
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Heal Over, Someday
III.
Chapter Two
In the battle between the river and the rock, the river will always win. Not through strength but by persistence.
Confucius
x
There's a woman screaming, and it's a horrible sound; he's heard it before, over and over again until the scene changes and there are words, panicked, racing instructions, before green light and nothingness. Harry knows he can stop this, knows he can close both his ears and his heart against the noise, but there's something inside of him holding him back—he wants to hear this sound, needs to hear it because it's the only time he'll ever get to hear these voices again, and before he knows it, he's relishing in the screams, and enjoying them almost languidly.
It takes him a moment to realize what he's doing and, before he can sputter in disbelief, there's bile in his throat as he backs away and trips through a Veil that threatens to drag him down and pull him under into eternity. It had already taken Sirius; it had no qualms about taking him, too.
Harry's falling through the mist and the silky fabric of the Veil is caressing him gently, lowering him down into the throes of passion and heartache, and the moon is full above him. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear Remus screaming, his transformation taking him from mild mannered man to man eating beast. Harry briefly wonders if Remus knows what fear tastes like from the inside out before he's being caught, and Sirius is whispering in his ear, voice cracking and breaking beneath a thin bubble of blood. "I've got you, Harry. I've got you."
But, suddenly, it's not Sirius, and Harry is looking up into Voldemort's crimson gaze, which flickers briefly to the bloody, broken form of a man behind him. Harry knows it's Hagrid, can feel that it might be Cedric, too, and before he can open his mouth to scream, Voldemort is pressing a rotting finger to the lightning scar on Harry's forehead. Hot, searing, mind-numbing pain and a brief flicker of completion, of pleasure, before Harry's pushing Voldemort away and crawling over to Cedric. There's a blank look on his features, and Harry begs the moon to bring him back, to let him breathe.
There's a voice on the wind, and it's Ron's voice, it's Sirius', it's Remus', it's Hermione's and it's Voldemort's. It says, "It's alright, it's not your fault," before whispering a thousand horrors and touching him gently. He's gathered into darkness, and he screams—
"Harry, wake up. Stop fighting me and wake. Up."
Harry woke with a gasp, fighting the scream in the back of his throat and blindly pushing against the hands trying to hold him to the bed. In his half-asleep state, those gentle hands felt like vices trying to press him back into his nightmare, and his stomach lurched violently. With a soft cry, Harry managed to free himself for a moment, before he was being shaken, words washing over him waveringly until they grew in strength; Harry's heart pounded fiercely as he inhaled through his teeth, trying to open his eyes and not quite managing it until he realized that it was Sirius speaking to him, tone soft and slightly exasperated, as though he didn't really have a clue as to what he was doing but was going to try anyways.
"No," Harry moaned softly, pressing back into his pillows and covering his face with his hands. Sunlight streamed in between his fingers, and he had a moment to wonder what time it was before his body woke completely and reminded him, powerfully, that it was in pain and in great need of care. He groaned again, turning his face away from the bright light and into his pillow, which smelt of sweat, fear and smoke. It smelt of death and magic and if he had had the energy to get up and shower, he would have done it when he'd first come in; as it was, Harry could barely move under his own power; and now that the pain potions had worn off, he was completely incapable of it.
"'bout time you woke up, kiddo," Sirius murmured somewhere to his left, hand still resting on Harry's forearm. Harry welcomed the touch, using it to ground himself in the here and now, using it to pull himself from the remnants of his nightmare. His godfather sounded tired, but pleased, and Harry tried cracking open an eye to look at him, as he hadn't seen the man up close since he'd been brought in; out there, on the battlefield, two days ago…Sirius had been nothing more than another number, another injury added to the ever growing list, and it had pained Harry to leave him lying in the field, but he'd had to get on with what had needed to be done.
He resisted the urge to draw Sirius into a fierce embrace and tentatively lowered his hands from his face, wincing when the brilliant morning sunlight filtered through completely, leaving him momentarily blind. Sirius looked ragged but whole when Harry's sight finally adjusted, and he felt tightness somewhere in the vicinity of his throat; the man was smiling, he looked happy, something Harry hadn't seen Sirius do or be in a very long time.
"Pomfrey left you some potions," his godfather said by way of greeting, jerking his thumb to Harry's bedside table, where the unopened vial of dreamless sleep potion sat glittering next to an array of bottles of all different colors and shapes; there were at least twelve. Harry recognized a few, but wasn't sure what they were for.
Throat tight and heart still pounding rapidly in his chest, Harry didn't trust himself to speak and nodded, settling his hands into his lap and trying to avoid looking as unnerved as he felt. Despite his attempts to drag his mind away from the nightmare he'd just had and focus on Sirius, Harry's mind kept straying in that direction, to that touch and those voices, and he shivered, despite the heat the sunlight was providing; it was mid-summer, but to Harry, at that moment, it felt more like late autumn, or early winter. Sirius must have noticed, because he reached out, but drew back when Harry shook his head. He didn't want any more contact, no matter how tempting the physical comfort may be.
To deter any questions or statements of how bloody horrible he knew he looked, Harry swallowed and motioned in Sirius' general vicinity with the hand he didn't have clenched in the bed sheets. "Um, how are you?"
The question fell flat between them; Harry's voice a shadow of its usual self, but he was genuinely concerned and he hoped Sirius would see that. Leaving his godfather lying, hurt, in the middle of a fucking field during a raging battle hadn't exactly left him feeling that great; it weighed heavily on him, knowing that he could have prevented a lot of damage to Sirius' person, if he'd simply stuck around longer, or arrived earlier.
Knowing that he could have saved a lot more people if he'd simply been stronger.
Sirius shrugged, slightly lank hair falling into his face with the action; he looked as though he could use the shower Harry wanted desperately. "I've been better, Harry, but I'm okay. Still a bit sore."
He was so nonchalant about it that it made Harry smile, glad to see that some things just didn't change in the face of war. Sirius wasn't one to stay down for long; Azkaban may have beaten his godfather, and being on the run may have broken him a little bit further, but Sirius was going to pull through like the stubborn bastard he was, each and every time. Sirius looked at him, gaze suddenly sober, his eyes bright with something Harry couldn't quite name. His smile died on his face, and nearly became a grimace before Sirius asked, "And what about you? Are you all right?"
The question pinned him on the spot and looking away was an option he briefly considered but didn't follow through with. Sirius deserved the truth, if no one else did—but Harry couldn't bring himself to answer the man truthfully. Harry wasn't all right, he'd been better, but life went on—even for him, supposedly. There wasn't any need to bother Sirius with whatever problems of his that might be lingering with him.
"I'm fine," Harry murmured after a moment, shrugging as much as his body would allow. "In desperate need of a shower, but I'm all right."
Sirius did touch him, then; patting at Harry's wrist for a moment, a relieved grin broke out over the older man's handsome features. "You can have that shower, as soon as you take a few of these potions. Pomfrey said you'll need them for a while yet, if you're going to be up and about."
Harry glanced at the bottles again, wondering what half of them were for, when it occurred to him that no one had really explained to him what in the hell was wrong with him; the obvious, he'd been able to surmise on his own. He'd cracked a few ribs and hit his head but, other than that, he hadn't the faintest clue as to what was wrong with him; his shoulder ached fiercely and his vision swam every little bit, for reasons he couldn't quite name.
He supposed his vision might be swimming from a concussion, which made sense. He'd hit his head pretty fucking hard on the way down; the only thing cushioning his fall had been his arm, which he vaguely remembered Madam Pomfrey saying had been broken. It ached slightly when he flexed it, but what worried him was his shoulder; looking down at it and shifting aside the fabric of his hospital issue pajama top under Sirius' watchful gaze, Harry's fingers met bandage and he looked back up sharply. He didn't understand; he didn't remember hurting his shoulder, didn't remember it being bound…didn't remember a lot of things from the battle, to be honest, but Harry was sure that this warranted remembering.
The bandage was pretty big, he realized as he trailed his fingers over it. Laying his hand flat over the wound, Harry asked Sirius, "What happened?"
"I'm, ah, surprised you don't remember," Sirius replied, looking down at Harry's shoulder, where the skin of his hand made for a sharp contrast against the white of the bandage. He looked, for the barest of moments, as if he didn't want to answer Harry, but the moment passed and he looked back up at his godson, meeting his eyes with the barest of smiles. "When you and Voldemort…went down, it was a while before any of the Order members could get to you. You were hit with a few stray curses, but your shoulder bore the brunt of it. You weren't exactly…visible."
Harry remembered falling, remembered rolling, remembered coming to a halt against something before blackness overtook him and shuddered at the memory, blinking quickly to dispel the images. "I'm not surprised that I don't remember," Harry answered after a moment had passed. "There's…quite a few things I can't remember."
"I know what you mean," Sirius muttered darkly, reaching over to the bedside table to grasp several of the potions bottles in hand. "You need to drink these as soon as possible, Harry. I'd rather eat hippogriff shit myself, to be honest, but Madam Pomfrey said you had to down all of them and I'm here to make sure you do."
He looked properly apologetic, and Harry eyed the bottles in his hand and on the table warily. Harry knew that if Madam Pomfrey said he needed them, he probably did. He didn't doubt that they were necessary in the slightest, either; if the messages his body was delivering had any relevancy, it'd be best to take those potions as soon as possible and heal whatever damage he could.
"Any particular order?" he asked, reaching for a crystal bottle in Sirius' hand, wondering what it was for, why it wasn't labeled.
Sirius shook his head. "She didn't say anything, but I'm sure they're bloody awful, no matter what order you drink them in."
"You're probably right," Harry laughed softly, uncorking the bottle gently and ignoring the twinge in his shoulder and arm at the action. He brought the bottle to his nose, sniffed delicately and attempted to tell his stomach that it was pumpkin juice in a bid to convince himself that this couldn't possibly be as nasty as it smelled. Because it smelled horrible.
"Down it in one go," Sirius suggested, watching him with a mild grimace of his own. "It's easier that way."
"I know," Harry muttered, wincing as he put the bottle to his mouth and tasted the first bitter dregs of the potion. His throat tried closing itself against the liquid as his head snapped back and he tipped the potion back quickly; throat working against a gag, Harry brought the bottle back down and immediately covered his mouth with his hand.
"Disgusting?" Sirius asked, reaching for the glass of water on Harry's bedside table. He handed it over, waiting patiently as Harry took a few seconds to wipe away the water streaming from his eyes.
Harry shot his godfather a look that clearly said what he thought of it; disgusting was a mild term, compared to what he thought of that particular potion. Harry took a few cautious sips of the water and willed his stomach to calm; he had quite a few more potions to take, and would have to do it all over again if he got sick. He didn't think Sirius would appreciate being thrown up upon, either.
He didn't feel any different, Harry realized after a moment had passed; whatever the potion was, it either had no immediate effects or was helping him in a way he couldn't quite pinpoint. Either way, it made him wonder what he was taking them for; looking at Sirius, he knew he wouldn't get any answers from the man beside him and instead glanced down the rows of beds to see if he could catch Madam Pomfrey.
His stomach churned at the sight; Harry couldn't believe the amount of beds stretched out around him and he paused in raising the glass of water to his mouth. This…this many people, over half of whom Harry didn't know, had risked their lives so he could finish a job that had been left to him at the tender age of one. So many people…so many injuries, so many deaths, all here today because of some fucking madman and Harry's inability to think in a crisis. If only he'd been faster…if only he'd figured it out sooner—there was no waiting in War. There wasn't any time to stop and check on every fucking person you came across; there was barely any time to fight, much less heal wounds on the battlefield.
Sirius followed Harry's line of sight, looking out over the expanse before him, and he frowned. "It isn't your fault," he supplied knowingly, after a long moment had passed between them. "Most of them will be fine. The others…they're going to be sent to St. Mungo's for extra care, soon. Dumbledore, included."
It occurred to Harry, then, looking over to the headmaster's bed, where a partition had been placed to offer the dying man some privacy, that he didn't know what had happened to Dumbledore, to Remus, to Tonks, to quite a few others that Harry had seen on the battlefield but hadn't seen coming in. He had meant to ask Hermione the day before, but Hermione had been in such a daze, had been so tired and upset, that he hadn't had the heart to. But now, looking into Sirius' worn but whole features, Harry had to know.
"What happened to him?" He asked softly, watching with great interest as Madam Pomfrey bustled her way through the aisles towards the headmaster's bed.
"No one really knows, but McGonagall is pretty sure he was under 'Crucio' for quite a while. Remus…Remus told us that he saw the headmaster being hit with two unidentifiable curses. I—"
The mention of Remus' name made Harry start; he hadn't heard anything, anything at all, of the man. He hadn't even seen Remus out on the battlefield; it'd been days since Harry had spoken to him.
"Remus. Is he…is he okay?" Harry found himself interrupting, eyes scanning the room for some sign of the older man. He had looked for him when he had first been brought into Hogwarts, when he'd been looking for Ron and Tonks as Madam Pomfrey had patched him up and fed him potion after potion, but hadn't seen anything. There had simply been too many people; too many faces to sort through and searching through them all had been impossible—especially while Harry had been swimming in and out of consciousness.
"Remus is fine; he was banged up a bit in the fight. A few cuts and bruises but nothing too bad. He's…in the library, with Hermione, I think; Professor McGonagall sent them up to see if they could figure out which curses Dumbledore and a few others had been hit with." Sirius sounded relieved, glad, and Harry knew that losing Remus had been something he'd been quite afraid of; Remus was one of the only things that Sirius had left—as Sirius was one of the only things Harry had left. He understood completely, and sat back in his bed with a sigh, relief flooding through him.
Remus wasn't dead, he was very much alive, according to Sirius, and that was…important. Harry hadn't wanted to add the man's name to the ever growing list of people who were now gone, people Harry hadn't been able to save. He meant a lot to Harry, had come to mean a lot to him over the past few years, and losing him would have been like losing Ron, Hermione, or Sirius.
It was something he couldn't bear thinking about. Harry looked at Sirius and found the man holding out a few more vials of potions, jerking his head in Madam Pomfrey's direction; the matron was looking towards him with a distinct frown, and Harry knew that they were both in for a sound tongue lashing if Harry didn't down the bottles Sirius was holding out to him with a frown of his own.
Resigned, Harry reached out and took the bottle nearest him, and uncorked, sniffed, and drank it quickly. It burned on the way down and, almost immediately, his shoulder started to sting and burn softly against the fabric of his bandage; hissing softly in pain, Harry took the offered glass of water from Sirius and accepted the fact that this wasn't going to be any more fun than the last three days had been.
xxx
Harry drank thirteen potions in total, not including the vial of dreamless sleep potion that Sirius insisted he down in an effort to get some more rest; the way he'd said it implied that Harry would need it later and, ignoring the lurching of his stomach, he drank the tiny vial in one go, feeling the effects almost immediately. Harry fell into a deep, dreamless sleep in seconds, Sirius' swimming face the last thing he saw before he fell back into his pillows.
He woke, hours later, to the soft murmur of voices somewhere in the near vicinity, and listened for a few moments, not quite sure what was going on until his brain caught up with what was being said and his eye lids snapped open briefly, struggling to lift completely. His body, still heavy with sleep and the aches leftover from the fight, fought against him valiantly. For a couple of minutes, Harry lay and listened, heart pounding all the while and wishing his body would listen to him and just wake up.
"We can't be sure, the reports aren't conclusive and I'm afraid that one or more of our contacts have died, but…we suspect that Lucius Malfoy escaped custody this morning." That sounded like Professor McGonagall; her voice was weary, soft. It echoed gently in the large room, and Harry flinched at the implications.
Malfoy, escaped from the Aurors, meant that the remaining Death Eaters had a rallying point around Voldemort's second in command. If anything, Malfoy would lead an effort to rebuild Voldemort's army and attempt to take the school, again; something they had been afraid of from the start—Lucius had been a top priority prisoner when he'd been captured during the battle against Voldemort, and if he was free, that meant his guard unit was dead.
That meant that Bill and Percy Weasley were possible casualties. Harry's stomach clenched at the thought. Reaching blindly towards the bedside table, Harry felt for his glasses and slid them onto his face with an aching arm; he'd have to find out if what McGonagall had said was true. He didn't look forward to getting out of bed, but he had to know. He had to know if Bill and Percy had been killed, if anyone else he knew had been part of that high security guard that had been sent with Lucius Malfoy to the Ministry of Magic.
Rolling over onto his side and prying his eyes open slowly, Harry took inventory of the room before him, the late afternoon light more than enough to highlight the deep wrinkles of stress etched across Professor McGonagall's face as she stood beside Dumbledore's bed. The headmaster was awake, and propped up, but his face was pale and his hands were shaking violently as he repeatedly lifted and lowered a glass of water to his bluish lips. His eyes, from what Harry could see, were bright, but his face was lined with pain; despite the ragged image, the sight of the man made Harry think of calmer days, when a simple visit to the headmaster had made everything all right.
Groaning softly with the effort it took to move his aching limbs, Harry brought himself into a seated position, eyes fixed on the pair a few beds down. McGonagall was standing beside the headmaster, looking as though she'd give anything to sit and relax, but the set of her shoulders told Harry that she had work to do and wouldn't allow herself rest until it had been done. Neither had noticed him moving, and that was good, because the past few months, Dumbledore had been trying to shield him from as much as possible; Harry didn't remember what started it, but it had been the source of many problems.
Dumbledore had told him that he needed all of his focus elsewhere, on killing Voldemort, and not on what Voldemort was doing—Harry had tried explaining that it didn't matter if he was going to kill the bastard or not. He still had a right to know who was dying, how, when, where…why. Harry felt he had the right to know what he was fighting for, because, at times, everything felt like a colossal joke put together to strip him of his sanity.
At times, it had almost worked, too.
"What contacts do we still have?" Dumbledore was asking, voice wavering only slightly. He had set his hands in his lap, looking as distinguished as one possibly can in a hospital gown, bruises littering his arms and scrapes on his hands. Harry followed the line of one cut from elbow to wrist, and, judging by the amount of tape had been used to hold the pieces of flesh together, he knew that to be the mark from Malfoy himself. Harry remembered that flash of light, the burst of anger in his chest when he realized that the situation had been leaving his control and Lucius was starting to look elsewhere for his fun.
He remembered blasting the fucker a few feet back with a particularly powerful Patronus.
"Susan Bones is the only person I've been able to speak to, at the moment, and Remus mentioned that a few of his contacts might still be alive; he's up in the owlery now, writing out a few notes. Susan was the one to inform us of Malfoy's disappearance; his guard never arrived at the Ministry, where she and her aunt were waiting for them."
"I'd like to see Remus, when he's finished," Dumbledore murmured, reaching for the glass of water on his bedside table, turning slightly and meeting Harry's eyes. He smiled after a moment; it was a ghost of its former self, but a smile nonetheless, and Harry felt himself smiling softly in return, despite the circumstances.
Shifting on the bed and drawing his legs over to the side, Harry sat and took several deep breaths, ignoring the pain in his ribs as he called softly, "How are you feeling, Headmaster?" hoping to call attention away from the fact that he had been listening in. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to walk the entire span of the three beds between them and idly looked around to see if Hermione or Sirius were around to help him up. Ron was sprawled across a bed two rows over, red hair start against the white of his pillow, but Hermione wasn't in sight, and Harry could see the gently wagging tail of his godfather's animagus form draped over the foot of Tonks' bed. Tonks was asleep, looking rather worse for the wear, but Harry felt something loosen in his chest at the sight. She was alive.
Standing with care, Harry kept eye contact with Dumbledore and braced himself on the bedpost; his legs were shaking, but Harry was sure that was more from lack of use in the past two days than from any damage.
"You shouldn't be out of bed, yet, Harry," Dumbledore admonished after a moment had passed, but he made no move to tell Harry to stay where he was; Harry took that as an invitation and hobbled slowly over to the headmaster's bed. Professor McGonagall eyed him critically, but said nothing, and fetched him a chair when he wavered, attempting to seat himself onto the bed beside Dumbledore's. She took his elbow, easing him down gently, and Harry flashed her a grateful smile.
"I'm, ah, afraid that I don't follow the rules all that well, Headmaster," Harry replied, fussing with the edge of his pajama top and nodding to Professor McGonagall when she offered, "I'll speak with you later, Albus. Harry, take care," before disappearing down the rows of beds, making her way across the room slowly, answering the occasional question from a patient and eventually seating herself down in a chair next to a sleeping wizard Harry couldn't remember the name of.
"I have noticed that, my dear boy," Dumbledore answered him with an indulgent smile that did nothing to hide the pained look that was stretched across the man's features. "I see that you were listening to the Headmistress and I. I'm terribly sorry, Harry; I wish we knew more."
"I…you knew I was going to ask, about Bill, and Percy," Harry stated. It wasn't surprising, that Dumbledore would know, he always knew. Slumping in his seat, Harry stared at the floor, at the stream of colors the sun was painting across the faded white tiles; he felt Dumbledore's eyes on his face and refused to look up and meet that gaze, because he felt tears pricking at the backs of his eyelids. This complete loss of control over who lived and who died bothered Harry. So far, he'd been lucky enough to not lose anyone close to him, but if Bill and Percy were gone…that was family. The Weasleys were family, the only family he'd ever known.
"Minerva was just informing me of details she'd only found out about, herself, just mere hours ago. Since the battle two days ago, our contacts are scattered and information is scarce. I do not know about the Weasley boys, but we do know that Voldemort is gone for good; and sadly, most of his followers seemed to have slipped away. Without the evidence of their Dark Marks, we'll have quite a difficult time of tracking them all. Unfortunately," Dumbledore added after a second had passed. He sounded increasingly tired, and Harry hated that; hated that Dumbledore was going to be a casualty of this war, that his time was limited—something Harry could see in the simple set of the man's face, in the tension between his shoulders and the shaking in his hands.
"I didn't know their Dark Marks had disappeared," Harry answered awkwardly, looking up to meet Dumbledore's eyes, blinking away the tears that were still threatening. And that was the truth; he hadn't known. He hadn't heard anyone say anything about it, but he supposed that the only people who really would know would be Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape. The latter of the three was someone Harry hadn't seen since yesterday. And even then, it was only briefly; he and Snape tended to avoid each other like the fucking plague.
"Yesterday, I believe; Severus informed me this afternoon. His has faded significantly and should be no more than a memory by morning. We're left to wonder if Voldemort had planned this, to protect his followers. But the mere idea of Riddle protecting those he used for his own means…it's contradictory, to say the least." His voice faded into silence, and Harry was left with that mystery to puzzle as he scanned over the rows of beds, over faces he did and didn't know, listening to the soft hush that always seemed to be present in this particular room.
The idea of Voldemort protecting anyone's identity in the face of his death was…laughable. Harry had to wonder if it was simply something the bastard had overlooked during the creation of the Dark Mark itself; anything was possible. Voldemort had had a way of surprising them over the past few years—and Harry also had to wonder if he had even thought himself capable of death. If he had been able to contemplate that final end. Harry hoped he was rotting in hell, if he still had a soul to send into hell; fuck, Harry'd settle for knowing Voldemort was stuck in some horrific limbo. Anything that meant he wasn't here, alive, killing.
Harry ran a hand through his hair, wincing at the greasy feel of it, and looked back up at the headmaster, who was watching him with bright, pained eyes. Eyes that made Harry realize, suddenly, that Voldemort was, indeed, gone. And that it had cost quite a lot, but he was gone. Soul sealed to a body that had been blown to fucking pieces.
But…it wasn't over. Voldemort might be finished, but there were still Death Eaters out there, loyal to the cause. Lucius Malfoy was, quite possibly, at this very moment, free. That alone was enough to damn them to more battles, more dead comrades, more injuries, more damage. None of which Dumbledore would be able to control, because he wasn't going to be there.
"This is going to be pretty hard without you, sir," Harry muttered quietly, trying his best to keep the man's gaze and not quite managing it. He couldn't bring himself to face this particular reality in the face just yet, although he knew it was only a matter of time. A short matter of time, at that. Losing Dumbledore was going to bring an entirely new kind of hurt into his life, and he didn't know if he'd be able to handle it with as much grace as the headmaster seemed to think he would.
"You'll be fine, my dear boy. You'll be fine."
Harry…didn't quite agree. He stared down at the headmaster's shaking hands and wondered how long the man before him had, how long it was going to take, how he was going to die…how Harry was going to cope. It was selfish of him, but Harry feared that as soon as Dumbledore passed, that the remainder of the War would fall to him, onto his shoulders. Harry didn't want that. His job was done—he wanted to be free, wanted to live quietly and knew that it wasn't going to be possible until the Death Eaters that had escaped them were captured; that it wasn't going to happen until Lucius Malfoy was back into custody. But he didn't want to be the one people looked to for answers; he couldn't…do that.
In the end, he chose not to reply, chose not to make his opinion known and instead asked the Headmaster a question of happier times, that led the man to tell him a story of socks, Harry's parents, of tenpin bowling and the merits of music. Harry couldn't help but feel that Dumbledore was saying goodbye; that he was making up for something, apologizing all in the same shortened breaths. It hurt to listen to, but Harry passed the rest of the afternoon away slouching in a chair that made his entire body ache; he couldn't tear himself away and shook his head when Madam Pomfrey asked if he'd like to head back to bed.
Some things, Harry decided later, lying in bed, staring at the darkened ceiling, wishing he had the energy to shower, were worth listening to, worth hurting for.
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