AN: This is a dark fic that tackles depression, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, feelings of worthlessness, grief, guilt and disordered eating. If any of that triggers you, I recommend turning back now.
The air in Mrs Figg's fireplace shifts slightly, a sign of an incoming arrival through the Floo Network. With a loud whoosh, Harry Potter tumbles out of the fireplace, his glasses askew and soot smudging his clothes. He pulls himself to his feet, blinking rapidly as he dusts off the ash.
"Harry," Mrs Figg says, moving forward with open arms. But he steps back, not out of disrespect but caution—a caution that speaks not just of her but of everyone and everything beyond this moment, beyond these walls.
The anger is sharp in his gut, a bitter pill forced down by circumstances beyond his control. Hidden away for his own protection—that's what Dumbledore had said. But there's no protection from the memories that replay in the cinema of his mind: the Department of Mysteries, a dance floor for the macabre ballet of battle; Sirius, falling through the veil, his laughter turning into a scream that still echoes in Harry's ears. And then... Voldemort. Standing tall and terrible, hatred burning brighter than any spell. Until Harry, pushed past all limits, does the unthinkable.
Avada Kedavra—the words had torn from his throat, raw and desperate. Green light flashing, rebounding, striking down the most feared Dark wizard in history. Just as it had once struck an innocent baby, leaving nothing behind but a scar and a story.
Victory should be sweet, a cause for celebration. But not this time. Not when the taste turns to ash on his tongue and the weight of what he's done—and what he's lost—presses him down into the cold ground. Any relief that Voldemort is gone is eclipsed by guilt and grief that follow Harry like Dementors, sucking away any warmth or hope.
When he closes his eyes, all he sees is green—the flash of his curse, the final act of war. He can still feel the rush of power, dark and deadly, coursing through his veins. It's a sensation he never wants to remember, yet one he knows he'll never forget. He opens his eyes quickly, afraid that if he keeps them shut for too long, he'll be consumed by the darkness within him.
Now, even the mundane task of leaving Mrs. Figg's house seems momentous. The journey back to Privet Drive—a route he has walked countless times over the years—feels alien under his feet. What was once a symbol of normality, a stark contrast to the magical world, now feels strange and suffocating.
The houses loom larger than before, their sharp edges cutting into the grey sky. Their colors, once vibrant, appear dull, as though they too are mourning a loss. As Harry nears number four, his heart clenches. This place, which was never really home, feels even less welcoming now.
"Boy," Vernon Dursley begins, his voice gruff with barely concealed contempt. But Harry doesn't respond, doesn't even glance at the man who has made most of his life miserable. Instead, he continues towards the stairs, each step seeming to amplify the silence that follows him.
"Boy," Vernon starts again, his voice booming through the house, "I said—"
But his words echo unanswered; the only reply is the sound of the bedroom door closing with a soft click, sealing Harry away from their world.
Petunia's lips press into a thin line, her eyes narrowing as she looks toward the staircase where Harry has disappeared. Her fingers twitch, reaching out to adjust the doilies on the back of the couch—even though they're already perfectly aligned. It's an attempt to bring order to the unease, to smooth out the wrinkles creeping into the fabric of their ordinary life.
"Something's not right," she murmurs, more to herself than to her husband.
They're used to Harry's quietness when he arrives for the summer, but it's always been a sullen silence, one punctuated by the clatter of dishes or the scrape of a chair. A silence that speaks volumes about the tension between two worlds colliding under one roof. But this... this is different. This silence is absolute, leaving no room for anything else.
And so, the Dursleys sit, unnerved by the absence of sound from above. They strain their ears, listening for any indication of what might have caused such a change in their unwanted relative. But there's nothing—just the tick-tocking of the clock on the mantelpiece, counting down the seconds until the unknown becomes unbearable.
"What if something bad happened to him?" Dudley ventures, his voice barely more than a whisper. His parents shoot him warning looks, but there's a flicker of concern in his eyes—the same worry that's knotting itself tighter in their chests.
"No," Vernon huffs, though his certainty seems to waver as the silence stretches on, unbroken by the usual sounds of Harry's return. "It's another of his tricks, no doubt. He probably got himself into trouble and had to come home early."
Upstairs, Harry Potter sits alone in his bedroom, devoid of emotion. His glasses rest abandoned on the bedside table, casting distorted shadows across rumpled sheets. In the dim light, his scar is a stark reminder of a past he can never escape—a future now clouded by uncertainty.
His thoughts race, circling around events too recent, wounds still raw. Images flash before his mind's eye: Sirius falling through the veil, Bellatrix's triumphant sneer, Voldemort's cold fury... and then green light, blinding and final. Each memory sends a fresh wave of pain crashing over him, threatening to pull him under.
The walls close in with every breath, the weight of guilt pressing like a physical thing upon Harry's chest. If only he'd listened—listened and not been so quick to play the hero, to rush headlong into danger. Maybe then Sirius would still be alive. Maybe then Harry wouldn't have blood on his hands, wouldn't be the murderer they all feared he might become.
And isn't that what the prophecy said? That he was destined for this path, to kill or be killed? It had been laid out before him by those who claimed to guide him, yet they had done nothing to prevent it, nothing to shield him from this outcome. Instead, they left him alone, isolated, bearing the burden too grim to comprehend.
Downstairs, the Dursleys are silent once more, each lost in their own thoughts. The ticking clock is their only company, its rhythmic heartbeat a cruel counterpoint to the unspoken questions hanging in the air. What next? How much longer?
The nightmares begin on the first night as soon as Harry's head hits the thin pillow in his bedroom. Images flash before his eyes, too vivid to be mere dreams but too painful to face as memories.
Sirius falling through the veil, his laughter echoing in the cavernous room of the Department of Mysteries. Voldemort's red eyes glowing with malice, a feral snarl twisting his lipless mouth. The green light of Avada Kedavra bursting forth, followed by the crushing silence of death's finality.
Over and over again, Harry sees Sirius stumble backwards into the archway, hears his own voice screaming for him to hold on. But it's no use; each time, Sirius disappears behind the veil, leaving nothing but an empty space where he once stood.
Then there's Voldemort—his chalk-white skin stretched taut over high cheekbones, his nostrils flaring with each ragged breath. In these nightmares, Harry doesn't just see the Dark Lord's fury—he feels it, raw and relentless, seeping into his very bones until all he can taste is the bitterness of their shared hatred.
These are not the fleeting dreams of a troubled mind; they are relentless spectres that haunt Harry's sleep, turning every moment of rest into a battleground. Night after night, he wakes drenched in sweat, heart pounding against his ribs like a caged bird desperate for escape.
Sleep becomes a torment, a cruel mistress who beckons with promises of respite only to ensnare him in her web of terror. With each passing day, Harry grows more exhausted, his body craving the oblivion of unconsciousness even as his mind recoils from the onslaught of visions waiting in the darkness.
He lies awake for hours, staring at the underside of the stairs above him, tracing the familiar knots and grooves in the wood with tired eyes. He knows that closing them will bring relief—from the stifling heat, from the dull ache in his muscles—but it will also unleash the demons lurking at the edges of his consciousness, ready to plunge him back into the depths of despair.
His mind races, searching for a solution, a way to make the images stop. But there is none—only the relentless march of time, dragging him further from the light and deeper into the abyss.
The Dursleys pay him no mind, their indifference a constant reminder of how little they care for his well-being. They leave him to his suffering, too wrapped up in their own mundane lives to notice the storm brewing within their nephew.
But it's not just the nightmares that haunt Harry—it's the guilt, too, heavy and suffocating. The knowledge that Sirius died trying to save him, that his godfather's life was snuffed out because of a mistake, a trap... It gnaws at his insides, leaving a hollow void where warmth once resided.
He clings to these thoughts like a lifeline, letting them consume him until there's nothing left but raw emotion. Pain becomes his solace, an anchor in the tumultuous sea of grief. And so, without realizing it, Harry begins to seek it out—not just mentally, but physically as well.
It starts innocently enough, with a small cut on his finger while peeling potatoes for a dinner he won't eat. The sting of the blade against his skin brings a momentary reprieve from the chaos inside his head, focusing his attention on something concrete, something real. He watches, fascinated, as a bead of blood wells up, bright red against his pale flesh.
The relief is fleeting, but potent—the physical pain grounding him in a reality far removed from the horrors of his dreams. For a few precious seconds, Harry feels something other than the crushing weight of loss.
And so, the seed is planted—a dangerous idea taking root in the fertile soil of despair.
Every night thereafter, when the house falls silent and the world outside fades away, Harry reaches for the tiny shard of glass hidden beneath his mattress. Its edge is sharp, unforgiving—a perfect reflection of the turmoil within him.
With trembling fingers, he rolls up his sleeve, exposing the thin canvas of his forearm. His heart pounds in his chest, a staccato rhythm echoing the gravity of what he's about to do.
"Forgive me," he whispers, though he's not sure who he's asking—Sirius, perhaps, or maybe himself.
And then he presses down, hard enough to break the skin but not deep enough to cause serious harm. A line of red appears, stark against the pallor of his arm, followed by a rush of pain that takes his breath away.
For a moment, everything else recedes—the guilt, the grief, the fear—all replaced by the sheer intensity of sensation. Harry closes his eyes, riding the wave of endorphins as it crashes over him, washing away the darkness if only for a heartbeat.
When he opens them again, the world seems a little less oppressive, the shadows a bit softer around the edges. He looks down at his arm, at the evidence of his transgression, and feels a strange sense of calm.
This is wrong, a small voice in the back of his mind warns, yet the relief it brings is all too real. Each shallow cut is a lifeline, tethering him to the present, anchoring him amidst the turmoil.
Harry knows he must hide the marks, cover them up before anyone can see. If the Dursleys were to find out... well, he doesn't want to think about what they would do. So he wraps his arm in an old rag, securing it tightly to stem the bleeding.
In the dim light of his bedroom, Harry cradles his injured arm, tracing the bandage with his fingertips. The fabric is rough against his skin, a tangible reminder of the secret he now carries.
Days turn into weeks, and the pattern continues—nightmares plaguing his sleep, guilt consuming his waking hours, and the sharp bite of glass offering temporary release. With each new scar, Harry sinks further into the grip of despair, losing pieces of himself along the way.
There's a perverse comfort in the ritual, a familiarity that dulls the edge of loneliness. In those quiet moments, when the rest of the world seems a million miles away, Harry finds a semblance of peace—an illusion of control in a life dictated by forces beyond his comprehension.
It's a dangerous game he's playing, one that threatens to consume him whole. Yet he can't stop, won't stop, not when every cut brings a measure of relief, however brief.
As the summer drags on, Harry retreats further into himself, withdrawing from the world behind walls built of sorrow and regret. He barely eats, even when food is offered, his body growing weaker with each passing day. But it's not the hunger that pains him most—it's the isolation, the silence that amplifies the echo of his thoughts until they're deafening.
His clothes hang loosely from his frame, a stark reminder of the meals missed and the nourishment denied. His skin is pale, almost translucent, stretched tight over the jutting bones beneath. There's a hollowness to his eyes that wasn't there before, an emptiness that mirrors the void within.
The lack of proper food takes its toll, sapping him of strength and leaving him perpetually fatigued. Sleep offers little reprieve, marred by nightmares that have him waking in cold sweat, clutching his scar as if it might burst open any moment.
Each new wound is a testament to his suffering, etched into his flesh like a cruel tapestry of pain. They're hidden beneath long sleeves and quiet resignation, but their presence lingers—a constant reminder of the price he pays for moments of respite.
Once, he was a beacon of resistance, standing tall despite the odds stacked against him. Now, he's a wraith, a shadow of the boy who dared to face Voldemort and live. The change is gradual, insidious, eroding his resolve until all that remains is a shell hollowed out by despair.
He moves through the house unnoticed, a ghost drifting amidst the living. Every step is measured, every breath calculated to draw as little attention as possible. For the first time in his life, Harry Potter feels truly invisible—and it terrifies him.
The isolation grows with each passing day, a chasm stretching between Harry and the world outside his bedroom. It swallows him whole, consuming every thought until there's nothing left but silence—a silence so profound it drowns out even the faintest whispers of hope.
Harry cuts himself off not just from the Dursleys, who hardly notice his absence, but also from thoughts of Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the wizarding world. The idea that they might care, that they could offer comfort or understanding, feels like an affront to the suffering etched into his skin.
"Better off alone," he murmurs, tracing the outline of a fresh scar hidden beneath the fabric of his shirt. The words are a mantra, repeated over and over until they lose their meaning and become nothing more than the rhythm of his heartbeat—steady, sure, unyielding. "Don't deserve them... don't deserve anyone."
His voice is barely a whisper, carried away on a breeze that rustles through the crack in his window. But the sentiment lingers, heavy and oppressive, filling the small space with its weight.
With each passing moment, the darkness closes in, feeding on Harry's despair. It wraps around him like a second skin, offering a cold comfort that chills him to the bone yet somehow soothes the ache within. And as the shadows deepen, so too does the sense of detachment—the feeling that he's drifting further and further from reality, lost in a sea of sorrow and regret.
Outside, life goes on. Cars pass by on Privet Drive, their engines a distant hum against the backdrop of suburban normalcy. Children laugh and play under the watchful eyes of their parents, oblivious to the boy locked away in the house at number four. To them, the world is still full of wonder and possibility, untainted by the pain that festers behind closed doors.
A faint rustling sound breaks the monotonous silence—a noise so foreign to the suffocating stillness that it jolts Harry from his stupor. His eyes snap open, darting around the small space as he tries to locate the source.
The sleek barn owl perched on the edge of the desk is incongruous amidst the clutter and grime. It holds out a leg, a small roll of parchment secured by a red wax seal—a splash of color against the dull backdrop of his life.
Harry extends a tentative hand toward the message, half-expecting it to vanish like a mirage borne of desperation. But the paper is real enough, cool and slightly rough against his fingertips as he unfastens the letter. It's an action that feels almost rebellious in the stifling atmosphere of Privet Drive, where every sound seems magnified by the heavy silence.
With a soft hoot, the owl takes flight, disappearing into the sky. Harry flips over the parchment, revealing the familiar scrawl of Ron Weasley's handwriting.
"Harry,"
The single word on the page beckons him, pulling him back towards memories of shared laughter and camaraderie—things that now seem as distant as the stars above. Each line of text unfolds like a lifeline, reaching across the miles and the barriers erected by circumstance.
"I know you said not to worry, but mate, we haven't heard from you in weeks."
Ron's words are laced with concern, bleeding through the ink and etching themselves onto Harry's heart. They offer a stark contrast to the Dursleys' indifference, a reminder of a world where he matters, where people care about his wellbeing.
"We're all worried sick. Hermione's been sending owls every day, but there's been no reply. She thinks something's happened, and I can't help but agree."
The invitation that follows is both unexpected and inevitable—an offer of sanctuary extended without hesitation or expectation of repayment.
"Mum says you're welcome to stay with us at The Burrow until term starts. If things are as bad as we fear... well, just give Hedwig a sign, and she'll lead us to you. Stay safe, Harry,"
The final sentence hangs heavy in the air, echoing with a gravity that belies its brevity. As if sensing the weight of Ron's words, the paper trembles in Harry's grasp, threatening to slip from his weakened grip.
Harry's initial reaction to receiving Ron's letter is a mixture of relief and apprehension. The familiar scrawl on the page offers a respite from the bleakness that has consumed him, but it also serves as a stark reminder of how far he's fallen.
"Thanks," Harry manages to croak out before collapsing back onto his bed, the effort of speaking leaving him winded. He clutches the letter tightly in his hand, the paper crinkling under the pressure. It feels like a lifeline, connecting him to a world that seems increasingly distant with each passing day.
But despite the warmth radiating from every word, the letter can't dispel the chill that has settled over Number Four, Privet Drive. As Harry curls up on the narrow mattress, pulling the threadbare blanket tighter around himself, he can't shake off the feeling of dread gnawing at his gut.
The days bleed into one another, punctuated only by the occasional sound of movement from downstairs—reminders that life continues beyond these four walls. But for Harry, time has come to a standstill. Every breath is a struggle, every thought a battle against the darkness threatening to consume him.
He stares at the ceiling, the plaster chipping away in places, much like his resolve. The urge to respond to Ron's letter is strong, yet something holds him back—a sense of guilt that wraps itself around his heart like a vice.
"You don't deserve them," a voice whispers inside his head, echoing the sentiments that have been drilled into him since childhood. "You're nothing more than a burden."
And so, the letter remains unanswered, tucked away beneath Harry's pillow—a silent testament to the gulf widening between him and those who care about him. Each line becomes a further indictment of his perceived worthlessness, reinforcing the narrative spun by years of neglect and abuse.
The letters pile up, their presence a constant reminder of the connection he's severed—the lifeline he's refused to grasp. And with every passing moment, the isolation grows, wrapping its cold fingers around Harry until he's numb to anything else.
His body weakens, but it's his spirit that suffers most. The once vibrant boy who faced down dark wizards and defied the odds is now a hollow shell, drained of hope and filled with self-loathing. His eyes, once full of defiance, are dull and listless, reflecting the despair that has taken root within him.
At the bottom of the stack, a letter lies unnoticed. Its envelope is crisp and clean, untouched by the dust that has settled over everything else in Harry's bedroom. The name 'Hermione Granger' stands out on the return address, written with the meticulous precision characteristic of her.
The faint scent of parchment and ink wafts from the unopened letter, carrying with it memories of Hogwarts and study sessions in the library. It's a stark contrast to the musty air inside the bedroom, but Harry doesn't notice. His eyes remain unfocused, staring blankly at the ceiling as if willing it to disappear and reveal the sky beyond.
"Harry," Hermione's voice seems to echo through the silence, "please remember you're not alone."
Her words hang in the air, wrapping around the darkness like a lifeline. But even as they reach out, seeking to bridge the gap between them, Harry remains motionless, his body too weak to respond, his spirit too broken to believe.
"Hermione..."
The whisper slips past Harry's cracked lips, barely audible. But it's there—a glimmer of recognition, a hint of connection amidst the overwhelming isolation. And for a moment, just a moment, the darkness recedes, pushed back by the warmth of a friendship that refuses to be extinguished.
With great effort, he lifts his arm, reaching out to grasp the forgotten letter. His fingers brush against the envelope, tracing the familiar outline of his name. A pang of longing courses through him, stronger than any physical pain he's endured.
Inside, Hermione's handwriting fills the page, each word meticulously crafted to convey concern and reassurance. She speaks of their shared experiences, reminding Harry of the trials they've overcome together. Her sentences are interspersed with questions—subtle prompts designed to draw him out, to encourage him to share what he's going through.
But it's the final paragraph that hits hardest, where Hermione pleads with Harry not to shut her out, to let her help him bear whatever burden he's carrying. It's an offer born out of genuine concern, underscored by the quiet determination that has become her trademark.
"Do you remember our first year?" she writes, evoking images of a time when three young wizards stood united against forces far beyond their years. "We faced down a troll together, Harry. We can face this, too. Just don't push us away."
There's no accusation in her tone, no trace of resentment for the weeks of silence that have stretched between them. Instead, there's only understanding—a willingness to stand by Harry despite the walls he's erected.
"Your friendship means more to me than any rule or regulation," Hermione continues, her words flowing across the parchment like a soothing balm. "I won't stand by while you suffer, Harry. Not when I know there's something we can do about it."
It's a testament to Hermione's unwavering loyalty, her belief in the power of unity and compassion. It's a beacon in the darkness, offering hope where once there was none.
"I'm here for you, Harry," she concludes, the sentiment echoing within the confines of the bedroom. "We all are."
The words linger in the air long after Harry has finished reading, their impact resonating within him despite the physical distance that separates them. For now, however, he can only lay there, Hermione's plea echoing in his mind while exhaustion tugs at the edges of his consciousness.
Another day passes, and another letter arrives, its surface not graced by the familiar, meticulous handwriting of Hermione Granger but by the rounded letters of another name—Remus Lupin.
As Harry unfolds the parchment, the faint scent of damp earth and pine needles escapes, mingling with the stale air in his small, suffocating room. It's a smell that speaks of forests and freedom, stirring a brief memory of peace. The sensation is fleeting, yet it leaves behind a quiet calm that settles over him, if only for a moment.
"I hope this finds you as well as can be expected," Remus begins, his words sincere and gentle, echoing the warmth of his voice. "I've been thinking about you often since that night and thought it best to reach out. You should know that if ever you're in need, I'm here."
Remus doesn't press or pry like Hermione sometimes does; instead, he offers a simple, unspoken promise. His words are a reminder that there are still people who care, people who see worth in Harry, even if he can't see it in himself.
"I don't pretend to know what you're going through, Harry," Remus continues, his empathy palpable even on the page, "but I do know grief. And I want to help, if you'll let me. If you want, I could speak to Dumbledore about you staying with me instead. There's no reason for you to remain hidden, especially not there."
For a moment, Harry allows himself to imagine it—to picture the sanctuary that his home might provide, far removed from Privet Drive and the shadows of his past. He sees himself standing tall, unbroken by the weight of the world that threatens to crush him. He envisions days filled with quiet conversations and shared meals, evenings spent poring over books or perhaps just sitting in silence, each finding comfort in the other's presence.
But the image shatters as quickly as it forms, fragments of hope scattered by the harsh winds of reality. He refolds the parchment along its creases, as if he can tuck away the temptation it holds.
His bedroom seems to shrink, the walls inching closer, pressing against his conscience. They are not just barriers of brick and plaster now but a prison built of guilt, regret, and self-blame. Outside, the rhythm of Vernon's snores is a persistent reminder of the life that Harry believes he has earned. Is this punishment for his hubris, his reckless belief that he could be a hero?
The question weaves itself into the fabric of his thoughts, insidious and unrelenting. It clings to every memory, every moment of doubt, feeding on the darkness within him. He remembers Sirius falling through the veil, the look of surprise etched onto his godfather's face—a consequence of Harry's hope, his conviction that he could save everyone.
Harry's hand tightens around the letter, the edges cutting into his palm. He shouldn't be allowed kindness, not after what he's done. Murderer, the word echoes in his mind, a label that feels as tangible as the scar on his forehead. He'd held the wand, spoken the curse. Voldemort had been the target, yes, but the power—the finality—of the killing curse clings to Harry like a second skin, a grim reminder of the line he has crossed.
The offer to live with Remus—how can he even consider it? The notion tugs at his heart, a beacon cutting through the fog of guilt. But how could he ask that of Remus, a man who has already lost so much and endured too many hardships? How could he burden another with his presence?
"No," Harry murmurs into the darkness, the sound barely audible yet resounding with finality. "I can't."
With each word, he fortifies the walls around his heart, brick by painful brick. The desire to reach out, to accept Remus's offer, is a flame that flickers stubbornly against the storm within. But the voice that whispers he's not worth it drowns out everything else.
"Remus, you've got enough on your plate," Harry says to the empty air, his voice catching. "You don't need my problems too."
His eyes drift shut, but behind the veil of darkness, he sees only Remus's weary smile, the scars tracing a map of battles fought and won—and lost. Guilt tightens its grip, squeezing the air from his lungs until he can scarcely breathe.
"I'm sorry," Harry whispers, the words an apology meant for no one but himself. "But I can't accept something I don't deserve."
He tucks the letter away, the words now etched into his memory, a testament to a kindness he feels unworthy of. His resolve hardens, a shield against the longing that threatens to crack his armour. This is his penance, he tells himself. This is all he deserves.
And so the letters continue, each one filled with concern and offers of help. But Harry remains silent, his responses locked away along with the emotions he refuses to confront. As the days bleed into weeks, the bedroom becomes his sanctuary and his prison, both shielding him from the world outside and trapping him within its confines.
With each refusal, each rejection of aid, Harry sinks further into isolation. His mind twists the kindness of others into reminders of his worthlessness, convincing him that he deserves nothing more than the life he's been given.
It's a dangerous spiral, one that threatens to consume him entirely, leaving only the shell of the boy who once believed he could overcome anything. But Harry doesn't notice—he's too lost in his own despair, too entrenched in self-loathing to see the damage being done.
As his mental state deteriorates, so too does his physical health—the shallow cuts soon give way to deeper gashes, the blood seeping out a stark contrast against the paleness of his skin. It's a dangerous game he's playing, but Harry doesn't care—not when each new wound brings a twisted sense of satisfaction.
Harry cleans his wounds hastily, hiding the evidence before Aunt Petunia can discover his secret. He wraps bandages tightly around his forearm, wincing at the pressure against his raw skin. There's a perverse sense of accomplishment in seeing the crimson stains on the fabric—an external manifestation of his inner torment.
Each scar becomes a testament to his strength, proof that he can endure the pain. But there's also guilt gnawing at the edges of his consciousness, a voice whispering that this isn't right—that he shouldn't need to hurt himself to feel alive.
"Help me," Harry thinks, tracing the raised lines on his arm. But the words never escape his lips; instead, they remain trapped inside, echoing through the hollow chambers of his heart.
His hands shake as he tucks the shard of glass back into its hiding place, a shiver running down his spine despite the warmth of the summer evening. As he pulls his sleeve down, covering the evidence of his latest transgression, Harry feels a strange sense of calm wash over him. For now, at least, the storm within has quieted.
In the corner of the room, a shadow stirs—a soft rustle of feathers against bars, the hushed breath of a creature attuned to the subtle shifts in the air. Hedwig, Harry's snowy owl, watches him from her cage with piercing amber eyes that see beyond the surface, sensing the storm brewing within her master's soul.
Her presence is a silent tether to the world outside these walls, a lifeline he barely acknowledges yet clings to nonetheless. She embodies the connections Harry has forged at Hogwarts, bonds born out of shared laughter and tears, camaraderie and conflict—ties fraying under the strain of distance and silence, but not yet broken.
Hedwig flutters closer to the edge of her cage, her gaze never leaving the boy beneath the stairs. Her sharp claws scrape against the metal floor, a quiet protest against the injustice unfolding before her. If she could, she would fly through the barred window and return with help, but for now, all she can offer is her presence, a beacon of familiarity amid the chaos.
She hoots softly, a low coo echoing through the narrow space, reaching out to Harry in the only way she knows how. It's an invitation to engage, a reminder that he's not entirely alone, even if it feels like the world has turned its back on him.
But Harry doesn't respond, lost in the labyrinth of his thoughts where each turn leads to another dead end. The guilt gnaws at him, a relentless beast that feeds on his sorrow, growing stronger with every passing moment. His mind replays the events leading up to Sirius's death, dissecting each decision, each step taken or not taken.
Could he have done something differently? Could he have saved Sirius if he'd just... what? Listened to Hermione? Stayed put instead of rushing off to the Department of Mysteries? He knows the answer, yet some dark part of him feels unburdened. Voldemort is no more, and with that knowledge, a twisted sense of satisfaction curls within him. It makes him sick because it was Sirius' death that fuelled his rage, gave him the power to cast the killing curse.
And in this bitter victory, Harry understands the depth of his own transformation. The Boy Who Lived is now also The Boy Who Has Killed. His innocence, already frayed by years of torment and loss, has finally been severed. He is not just a survivor now—he is a weapon, honed by the very man who sought his destruction.
His hands ball into fists, nails digging into palms until tiny crescents form, marking his skin with the physical manifestation of his torment. He wants to scream, to let out the anguish consuming him from the inside, but his voice is as trapped as he is, caught in the vice-like grip of despair.
"Sirius," he whispers, the name a plea, a curse, a prayer rolled into one. "I'm sorry."
He closes his eyes, willing away the images seared onto his retinas—the flash of green light, the look of surprise on Sirius's face as he falls through the veil. But they remain, imprinted on the backs of his eyelids, an unending reel of horror playing on repeat.
Harry's chest tightens, a sob catching in his throat. He curls inward, wrapping his arms around himself as if trying to hold together the pieces of his breaking heart. The darkness presses in, suffocating, relentless—an echo of the void left by Sirius's absence.
His hands tremble as he reaches for the glass, fingers brushing against its cold surface. It's a simple action—one he has performed countless times before—and yet now it feels insurmountable, another testament to his unraveling state of mind.
He takes a sip, wincing at the sharp sting in his throat. His body cries out for nourishment, but the thought of food turns his stomach. He sets the water down and leans back against the wall, closing his eyes in defeat.
"Harry..."
The whisper is barely audible, a ghostly echo on the edge of consciousness. But Harry hears it nonetheless—has been hearing it for days now—a relentless reminder of his guilt.
"Sirius..."
Guilt gnaws at him, each bite deeper than the last until there is nothing left but raw, exposed wounds. Wounds that refuse to heal because they are borne not of flesh and blood, but of betrayal and regret.
It was supposed to be over. The prophecy had been fulfilled; Voldemort was dead. And yet here he sits, consumed by the same darkness he fought so desperately to escape. Only this time, it comes from within.
"No..." Harry whispers, shaking his head as if to dislodge the thoughts. "I didn't mean... I didn't know..."
But denial offers little comfort when faced with the truth of his actions. He can still feel the surge of power coursing through him, the chilling satisfaction as green light filled the room.
Avada Kedavra.
Those two words hang heavy in the air, a damning testament to the line he crossed—the one thing that set him apart from Voldemort, obliterated in an instant.
"You're just like me, Harry..."
Voldemort's voice slithers into his memories, laced with cruel amusement. "You have the power to kill, just as I do."
"I'm not like you," Harry insists, his own voice sounding frail and distant. "I had no choice."
Didn't he? A nagging doubt creeps in, wrapping around his certainty and squeezing tight. Hadn't Dumbledore said something similar—that killing was sometimes necessary? That some lives were worth sacrificing for the greater good?
"Is that what you think?" Sirius's voice cuts through the fog, tinged with sadness rather than accusation. "That your 'choice' absolves you of responsibility?"
"I did what I had to do!" Harry's protest is weak, even to his own ears. How can he defend himself when the evidence of his transgression remains etched in his very soul?
"But at what cost, Harry? At what cost?"
The question hangs in the air, unanswered, as silence descends once more upon Number Four, Privet Drive. Outside, clouds gather, casting long shadows across the suburban landscape—an eerie reflection of the storm brewing within Harry Potter.
The once-healthy boy who had stood against Voldemort is little more than a shadow of his former self, starved not only for food but also for sleep. His body mirrors the rapid decline of his mental state, each day bringing new signs of physical deterioration.
His skin stretches taut over prominent bones; his eyes, glassy and distant, are sunk deep in their sockets. Harry's hand trembles as he lifts it to brush away Hedwig's feathered comfort—a simple action that leaves him winded and dizzy. Hunger gnaws at his insides, yet the thought of eating churns his stomach.
"Is this how I'm meant to pay?" he wonders aloud, voice hoarse from disuse. "A slow death by my own hand?"
Harry's body betrays him now, just as his mind has done. Where strength once flowed through sinew and muscle, weakness takes hold, sapping what little energy he has left. It clings to him like a second skin, constant and unyielding.
Every beat of his heart feels like a protest, each breath drawn with increasing difficulty. He's aware of these changes—the lightheadedness that greets him when he stands too quickly, the way his vision narrows and darkens around the edges—but there's no will left to fight them.
He embraces the fatigue, lets it pull him under until consciousness becomes a fleeting thing, slipping further away with each passing hour.
Harry closes his eyes, leaning back against the cold wall. The room spins slightly, an unnerving sensation that has become all too familiar. He knows he should eat, should force down whatever scraps the Dursleys have tossed aside for him, but the effort seems monumental.
A dull throb pulses behind his eyes, matching the rhythm of his heartbeat. His limbs feel heavy, anchored by exhaustion and malnutrition. Pain flits across his scar, a lingering reminder of battles fought and won—and of the cost they demanded.
"What does it matter?" Harry murmurs, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. "I've done my part... killed him... what else is there?"
There's a strange sense of justice in his suffering, a fitting penance for taking a life—even one as monstrous as Voldemort's. But it does nothing to ease the guilt that gnaws at his conscience, relentless and unforgiving.
Harry's muscles protest as he shifts position, trying to find some small measure of comfort on the hard floor. Every movement sends waves of dizziness washing over him, threatening to drag him down into unconsciousness. For a moment, he teeters on the edge, welcoming the oblivion it promises.
But then he sees them: the red eyes staring back at him, full of hate and triumph—Voldemort's final victory, even in death.
"No," Harry whispers, pushing himself upright. His head swims, and he sways, gripping the edge of his bed for support. "Not yet."
Every night as sleep eludes him, Harry replays the battle in his mind, seeking alternatives that never existed. If only he had been quicker, smarter, if only he hadn't been so stupid, if only he hadn't used the Killing Curse. But each scenario ends the same way: with Voldemort and Sirius dead, and Harry left to grapple with the aftermath.
A part of him knows this self-torment is irrational—that he did what was necessary—but reason has no place in the depths of despair. Instead, he clings to the belief that there must have been another way, a path that didn't lead to cold-blooded murder.
"How could I let myself become what he wanted?" Harry murmurs into the silence, his fingers tracing the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead—a mark that once signified hope but now feels like a brand of shame. "How could Dumbledore stand by and watch?"
His thoughts are a whirlwind, spinning faster and darker until they merge into one terrifying conclusion: He has fulfilled the prophecy, yes, but at what cost? Hasn't he also proven himself capable of unspeakable darkness?
Harry stares at the ceiling, his heart pounding in sync with the throbbing pain behind his eyes. The room feels smaller, the walls closing in on him as if to suffocate the last remnants of the boy who lived—no, the boy who killed.
His breaths come in shallow gasps, each one a struggle against the crushing weight on his chest. Panic rises in his throat, choking off any semblance of rational thought. All that remains is fear—raw and primal—and the certainty that he is dangerous.
To everyone around him. To himself.