AN: I decided to disregard the fact that you can pick your subjects after OWLs, it's more convenient. Seventh year is optional, so save that for then.
Harry's eyelids flutter open, revealing the familiar scarlet hangings of his four-poster bed in the Gryffindor dormitory. It's still dark outside, the moon casting long shadows across the room. The air is heavy with sleep and dreams, but Harry finds no rest.
His body aches with exhaustion, every muscle screaming for relief that never comes. Another night spent tossing and turning, haunted by images too horrifying to name. He shifts slightly, wincing at the fresh pain that flares up along his left arm.
The nightmares are a constant, each one more vivid than the last—Sirius falling through the veil, his eyes wide with surprise and fear; Voldemort's lifeless body hitting the ground, not bringing relief but a hollow emptiness that gnaws at Harry's insides. The memory of casting the killing curse himself, an act that defies everything he stands for, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth and guilt that claws at his conscience.
Each scene plays on a loop, etching itself deeper into the crevices of Harry's mind. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, willing the images away, but they're relentless, pushing past the barriers he tries so desperately to erect. With a gasp, Harry's eyes snap open, his breath hitching in his throat as he fights against the darkness that threatens to consume him.
Slowly, he peels back the sleeve of his pyjamas, exposing the raw cuts on his forearm. They're new, angry red lines against his pale skin—a physical manifestation of the turmoil within him. It's wrong; Harry knows it, but the sharp sting brings momentary relief from the relentless tide of his memories.
The guilt gnaws at him, a constant companion in these dark hours. Sirius is gone because of him, because he played into Voldemort's hands like the naive child he once was. Harry tries to shake off the thought, but it lingers, as persistent as the darkness that surrounds him.
But what gnaws at him isn't merely the loss, the empty space where Sirius's laughter once echoed. It's the strange sense of relief that muddies the waters of his grief. Relief that the prophecy is fulfilled, that Voldemort is no more—even if it cost the life of the closest thing to family he has ever known.
Despite the steep price, part of him feels lighter knowing the Dark Lord can no longer cast his pall over the wizarding world. Yet this solace is tainted, curdled by the knowledge of what it took to reach this end. What kind of person, Harry wonders, finds peace in the death of their godfather?
The relief is almost worse than the guilt, a betrayal that looms larger with each passing moment. It overshadows the love he bore for Sirius with its cold insistence on survival, on power.
Harry trudges down to the Great Hall for breakfast, the chatter and clinking of dishes growing louder with each step. The noise hits him like a physical blow as he steps through the entrance, students' voices bouncing off the high ceiling.
He doesn't have to look up to know that all eyes are on him. He can feel their stares burning into his skin, whispers spreading like wildfire amongst the sea of black robes. "There's Potter," they say, their gazes filled not with malice but with something perhaps even more unnerving: awe.
"Saviour of the Wizarding World," they call him, but the title feels hollow in Harry's ears. What kind of saviour lets someone die while he remains standing?
The scent of bacon and eggs wafts over from the Gryffindor table, but it does nothing to stir his appetite. Instead, it only serves to remind him of the emptiness gnawing at his insides—an emptiness that no amount of food could ever hope to fill.
"Morning, Harry," Hermione says softly, her voice barely audible above the din. Ron nods in agreement, his mouth full of toast. But Harry just pushes away his untouched plate, unable to bring himself to eat.
What's the point? His mind screams at him. You've done your job. The prophecy is fulfilled; you're free. But if this is freedom, then why does he feel so trapped?
The Great Hall fades around him, its usual warmth now suffocating. The laughter and conversation grate against his nerves, a stark contrast to the silence echoing within him. Ron and Hermione exchange worried glances across the table, their attempts to engage him met with monosyllabic responses or, more often than not, complete silence. "Something's wrong with Harry," their eyes seem to say, but neither knows how to reach him, how to breach the walls he's built around himself.
Without another word, Harry rises from the bench and exits the Great Hall, leaving behind a trail of whispers and wide-eyed stares. As the heavy doors close behind him, the last echoes of "the Boy Who Lived" linger in the air, a reminder of the weight he carries with every step.
The Potions classroom is cool and dim, a stark contrast to the warmth of the September sunlight spilling through the castle's many windows. Harry pauses at the threshold, his scarred hand tightening around the strap of his bag. The familiar scent of herbs and potion ingredients wafts toward him, but it does little to settle the unease coiling in his stomach.
"Potter," Snape's voice cuts through the air like a blade, "this isn't a social gathering. Take your seat."
Harry doesn't respond; he simply moves to his usual spot at the back of the room, his movements mechanical.
His mind drifts as Snape begins the lesson, the professor's words washing over him without sinking in. He should pay attention, taking notes, preparing for another year of gruelling studies. But what's the point? Voldemort is gone, defeated not by some complex spell or rare potion, but by a simple act of love—and death.
Snape's sneer widens, revealing yellowed teeth. "Perhaps you believe yourself above such trivial matters now that you've played your part in the Dark Lord's downfall." His voice drips with contempt, each word a reminder of just how little has changed despite everything.
But Harry barely registers the insult. Instead, his gaze remains fixed on the parchment before him, its blankness reflecting the emptiness within him. What use is magic when it can't bring back the dead?
With trembling hands, Harry reaches for his potion ingredients, their labels blurring before his eyes. He measures out the powdered root of asphodel, the granules slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. One by one, he adds the items to his cauldron, his movements lacking their usual precision.
A puff of green smoke rises from his mixture, followed by an unpleasant smell. Around him, students glance over, their faces alight with schadenfreude. Even Hermione looks concerned, her brow furrowed as she watches Harry struggle.
"Ten points from Gryffindor for Potter's incompetence," Snape says, seizing the opportunity to chastise him. "I would expect more from the Boy Who Lived."
Again, the title hangs in the air, heavy with expectation. But Harry feels nothing—no anger, no desire to defend himself—only a hollow sense of detachment. He stirs his potion once more, watching as it turns a sickly shade of grey.
Hogwarts' castle walls close in around Harry as he stands outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. The stone is cold against his back, unyielding like the reality pressing down on him. Students chatter and laugh nearby, oblivious to his internal turmoil, their voices echoing off the high ceilings.
Harry's palms are sweaty, his heart racing like a snitch dodging a seeker. He wipes his hands on his robes, trying to steady his breathing, but it comes out ragged and unsure. His glasses fog up, blurring the world around him—a reflection of the confusion clouding his mind.
He should push open the door, join his classmates, let the familiar rhythm of school life anchor him once more. But how can anything be normal again when every glance at Remus will be a reminder of the letter ignored, the invitation declined? Shame churns in Harry's gut, twisting with fear into a knot that constricts his chest. Harry feels like he's drowning, gasping for air in the dry corridor. The edges of his vision darken, and the hallway seems to spin around him. A hand reaches out to steady him, but he shrugs it off, leaning heavily against the wall.
"Potter? You're going to be late," a fellow Gryffindor warns as she passes by, but Harry barely hears her. His mind is a whirlwind of dread and regret, each thought more suffocating than the last.
The knowledge that he must face Remus in just moments is overwhelming. How can he sit there, pretending everything is normal while the weight of unspoken words hangs heavy between them? The memory of the letter—its crisp edges, the firm strokes of Remus's handwriting, the offer that still lingers in the air—tightens around Harry's throat, stifling him.
"Get a grip, Harry," he mutters under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. He straightens up, casting one last glance down the empty corridor before pushing open the heavy wooden door.
The classroom is already bustling with activity as students scramble to find their seats. The air hums with the familiar sounds of parchment rustling and quills scratching against paper. Overhead, enchanted candles flicker, sending shadows dancing across ancient stone walls that have borne witness to centuries of lessons learned—and secrets kept.
Harry hesitates at the entrance, frozen by the wave of normalcy that greets him. It's almost too much to bear—the stark contrast between the chaos within his mind and the typical school day unfolding before him. But there's no turning back now; he has a role to play, and he will not let them see how much he's shaken.
Entering the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, Harry takes in the scene around him. The room buzzes with chatter as students settle into their seats, pulling out textbooks and parchment, their voices melding into a comforting hum of familiarity. For a moment, Harry allows himself to get lost in the mundane details—the scrape of chairs against the floor, the rustle of robes, the faint scent of ink and old books.
It's an illusion of normalcy, but it's all Harry has right now, and he clings to it like a lifeline. His eyes scan the room, avoiding Remus's desk at the front, as if ignoring it could make the man—and the unspoken tension between them—disappear.
Despite the noise around him, Harry hears only silence—an echo of the void left by unanswered questions. He moves mechanically towards an empty seat near Ron and Hermione, who are deep in conversation about their latest Charms assignment. Their words wash over him, meaningless sound waves that crash against the shore of his consciousness without leaving a mark.
With each step, Harry feels the pull of gravity, stronger than any spell. It's not just physical—it's emotional, tugging at the frayed edges of his resolve. There's a heaviness in his chest that refuses to lift, a constant reminder of the truth lurking beneath the surface of this ordinary scene: nothing is as it seems.
Even here, among friends and familiar faces, Harry can't escape the sense of isolation creeping in from the corners of the room. It's subtle, almost imperceptible, yet powerful enough to cast long shadows over everything he thought he knew.
Remus stands at the front, a familiar figure amid the chaos. His voice cuts through the noise, strong but gentle, calling them to attention. For a moment, Harry lets himself sink into the rhythm of the lesson, the words washing over him like a balm.
But it's fleeting, the tranquillity shattered by the memories that surge beneath the surface. Every time his eyes close, they are there—Sirius's smile, Voldemort's triumphant sneer—and with them, an insidious thought burrows deeper into Harry's mind: without the pain, without the sorrow, would he have found the strength to face Voldemort?
And yet, how can he think this way? How can he find relief—even gratitude—in loss so profound?
Harry's eyes remain fixed on the parchment before him, the ink blurring as he struggles to focus. Every word seems to slip through his grasp, each sentence a reminder of how far he has strayed from the path once so clearly laid out for him.
Harry can sense Remus's eyes on him, the concern in them almost tangible. But to acknowledge it would mean admitting something is wrong, and Harry isn't ready to face that reality—not yet.
The class settles into a rhythm of turning pages and muted whispers as Remus directs them to read the first chapter of their textbooks—there were no summer assignments, after all—and then he makes his way over to Harry's table, his footsteps soft against the stone floor.
"Harry," Remus murmurs, so quietly that it's almost lost in the bristle of parchment and low hum of voices. "Are you alright?"
His question hangs in the air between them, an invisible thread spun from concern. It tugs at Harry, pulls him back towards awareness, but his defences are still up, instinctively repelling the intrusion.
He doesn't lift his head, doesn't meet Remus' eyes. His shoulders stiffen slightly under the weight of the older man's gaze. A silent nod is all he offers in reply, a lie wrapped in the cloak of nonchalance. "I'm fine, sir. Just tired."
His body feels like lead, every movement an effort. He can't remember the last time he had a full meal; the mere thought of food turns his stomach. Sleep offers no refuge either—only nightmares and shadows of past battles.
A sudden wave of dizziness washes over him. Harry grips the edge of his desk, knuckles whitening. The room tilts dangerously, and for a moment, he thinks he might pass out. But he forces himself to take a slow breath, anchoring himself to the present.
It's just exhaustion, he tells himself. Nothing more.
The irony isn't lost on him: here he is, surrounded by wizards and witches learning to defend themselves against dark forces, while he can barely keep his eyes open. What use are spells and hexes when the real enemy lies within?
He glances around the classroom, his eyes glossing over the bent heads of his peers, their brows furrowed in concentration over textbooks and parchment. Once, he'd been like them, driven by the looming threat of Voldemort, a menace that cast a shadow over his future, compelling him toward a path he hadn't chosen. That was before everything changed.
Now, the printed words swim before him, their ink-black trails a treacherous maze of knowledge with no destination. Without meaning, education was little more than a series of empty promises moulded into the shape of a future he could scarcely comprehend—let alone desire. The veil between what is taught and what is learned grows thin, and Harry finds himself on the precipice, caught between past choices and future consequences.
There's an air of finality to it all, a solemn beat echoing through the halls of Hogwarts—a stark reminder of lost innocence crafted by his own hand. The same hand that cast the Killing Curse now feels alien, tainted by a death both sought and mourned.
What does it mean for one so young to bear such a burden, not only of survival but of salvation? What place can a saviour have, when every step forward leaves a trail of blood and tears?
The thought weighs heavy in the pit of his stomach, the echoes of a name carving through his thoughts: Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort. With each passing day, the man shrinks further into memory, his spectral form diffusing into the ether. Yet the whispers remain, taking root in the corners of Harry's mind where darkness breeds doubt and fear.
It's a curious thing, this world that honours him and condemns him in the same breath. Every look holds an expectation; every whisper carries a question that dares not speak its name. What really happened during the war, during that final duel? Was it truly Harry who ended the reign of the Dark Lord—or did fate play a hand in their dance of death?
The castle walls, once a haven against the outside world, now seem suffocating, pressing in on him from all sides. Somehow, the magic within these ancient stones feels different too, its familiar hum replaced by a dissonant melody he doesn't recognise. A sense of dislocation seizes him. Even at Hogwarts, where he has always found some measure of peace, he is alone.
"Class dismissed," Remus announces, shaking Harry from his thoughts. The scraping of chairs fills the room as students gather their things, their voices merging into a cacophony of relief and anticipation for dinner in the Great Hall.
But Harry remains seated, immobile as if a spell has bound him to the spot. His gaze is fixed on the blackboard, where chalk dust ghosts linger, the last remnants of the day's lessons. The room gradually empties, leaving only the echo of footsteps and whispers behind. Finally, he stirs, gathering his strength before pushing back his chair and rising. He moves towards the door, every step heavy.
"Harry..."
The concern in Remus's voice is unmistakable, a quiet plea that hangs in the air between them. But Harry doesn't turn back, doesn't meet the gaze that follows his retreating form.
"I'm fine, Professor," Harry repeats, as if the lie is more believable the more he states it. A moment later, the door swings shut behind him, and he vanishes into the dimly lit corridor beyond.
"Pass the pumpkin juice," demands Seamus Finnigan, reaching across Harry without waiting for a response. The jug brushes Harry's hand, its coolness seeping into his skin, grounding him in reality. He doesn't flinch or pull away; instead, he watches, detached, as if from afar.
He stares down at his plate, piled high with food he didn't ask for and doesn't want. His stomach clenches—not in hunger, but in some unnameable dread. Around him, the hall hums with casual banter and laughter, each echo amplifying his isolation.
With a sigh, Harry pushes his untouched meal aside, rising abruptly from the bench. His movements are mechanical, devoid of purpose beyond the need to escape the cacophony closing in around him. He exits the Great Hall, leaving behind a trail of concerned glances, the warmth of the room dissipating with every step.
The Hogwarts grounds sprawl before him, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. Harry's footsteps echo against the stone walls as he descends from the castle, his silhouette a stark contrast against the vibrant hues of dusk.
He reaches the edge of the Black Lake, its surface still and gleaming like a mirror under the evening sky. A sense of calm pervades this corner of the world, untouched by the chaos that has marked so much of Harry's life. He sits on the bank, legs drawn up to his chest, and gazes out at the horizon where the last light of day is slowly fading.
Around him, the school buzzes with post-war relief, the air heavy with stories retold and laughter reborn. For many, it's a time for healing, for rebuilding what was broken. But for Harry, the absence of battle brings not peace but an unsettling quietude—a silence filled not just with victory's sigh but also with questions left unanswered, dreams unfulfilled.
As night falls around him, Harry remains by the lake, lost in thought. The stars above seem distant, their light dimmed by the cloud of uncertainty that hangs over him. He traces the outline of his scar, the physical reminder of a destiny fulfilled and yet strangely incomplete.
"Who am I without the Boy Who Lived?" he wonders aloud, the words caught in the wind, unheard by anyone but himself.
Without Voldemort, without the prophecy driving him forward, even unknowingly, Harry feels adrift in a sea of normalcy he scarcely recognises. The very magic that saved him now seems trivial, ill-suited to mend the deep-seated wounds within his soul.
A cool breeze sweeps across the lake, ruffling Harry's hair and sending shivers down his spine. It carries with it the faintest trace of pine and parchment—the scent of a simpler time when the line between good and evil seemed clear, when choices were made not out of necessity but hope.
But those days are long gone, replaced by bitter truths and haunting memories. What use is saving the wizarding world if he can't save himself? If every breath is a reminder of those he couldn't protect?
"I should be grateful," Harry murmurs, plucking a blade of grass and watching it drift away on the wind. "I'm alive... free." Yet the words ring hollow, drowned by the echoes of loss and sacrifice.
Harry closes his eyes, leaning back onto the cool ground. The patchwork of scars beneath his shirt map a history written in blood and pain, while the one etched into his forehead throbs with a dull ache—not from any lingering curse, but from the weight of a legacy he never asked to bear.
Silence envelops him, punctuated only by the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat—a testament to his resilience or perhaps mere stubbornness. Either way, Harry Potter is alive, and there lies the crux of his predicament: living requires more than just existing, especially now, when the expectations that came with being the Chosen One no longer tether him to a prescribed path.
"Harry?" The sound of his name pulls him from his reverie. He turns, squinting against the fading sunlight to see a figure approaching. Even through the haze of his torment, he recognises the fiery hair and determined stride.
"Ginny," he murmurs, not trusting himself to say more.
Her brow furrows as she takes in his hunched shoulders, the way he draws away even before she's within touching distance. "You didn't eat at dinner," she says, attempting nonchalance despite the worry etched across her face.
"I wasn't hungry."
It isn't a lie, not entirely. But even as he speaks, Harry feels the hollowness gnawing at him—not from lack of food, but from something far deeper, more elusive.
He watches Ginny's expression shift—from confusion to understanding—and hates himself for causing her distress. Why should she worry about him, after everything they've been through together? After everything he's failed to protect them from?
"Talk to me, Harry." Her voice is soft, almost pleading. But the words wrap around him like chains, pulling tighter with each breath.
"I can't..." His throat tightens, choking back emotions too raw to expose. To admit weakness—to reveal the depth of his despair—feels like surrender. And yet, keeping silent threatens to shatter the fragile peace clinging to the fringes of his sanity.
Memories flicker at the corners of his consciousness: Sirius falling through the veil; Cedric Diggory, thrown across the graveyard; Voldemort's body hitting the ground as life leaves his body. Each moment carries the sting of victory laced with grief, leaving Harry to wonder if he will ever escape their shadow—if he will ever know life beyond the spectre of death.
The dormitory is quiet, save for the rustling of sheets as Harry turns over in his bed. His mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and memories, each one more daunting than the last. The silence only amplifies their intensity, making it impossible to find solace in sleep's embrace.
Harry's hand reaches out from beneath the covers, groping blindly on the bedside table until his fingers close around the familiar shape of his glasses. He puts them on, blinking against the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains. The room comes into focus, its emptiness mirroring the hollow feeling in his chest.
He sits up, letting the blanket fall away. Cool air brushes against his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. But he barely notices the chill; his attention is drawn inward, consumed by the storm raging within him.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Harry murmurs, the words barely audible. He'd imagined peace after Voldemort's defeat, a chance to live without fear. Instead, he finds himself adrift in an ocean of uncertainty, the war's aftermath casting long shadows across his life.
His heart clenches at the thought of Sirius—brave, reckless Sirius—who had been so much more than just a godfather. A mentor. A friend. And now, another ghost haunting Harry's dreams.
No, not dreams. Nightmares. They've grown worse since the end, vivid replays of duels and death that leave Harry gasping for breath, his scar throbbing with phantom pain. Each night brings a new horror: Cedric's stunned expression as the Killing Curse strikes him down; the gleam in Bellatrix's eyes as she taunts him about Sirius...
"Enough," Harry whispers, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. But there's no escaping the images seared into his memory. No reprieve from the guilt that gnaws at his conscience, whispering reminders of every mistake, every loss.
"What's the point?" The question slips from Harry's lips, carried on a sigh. What does he have left to fight for, with Voldemort gone? With Sirius gone? Without the mission that has driven him all these years, even unknowingly, what purpose remains?
It's a dangerous line of thinking, teetering on the edge of despair. For a moment, the idea of surrendering to the darkness seems almost... tempting. To let go of the pain, the grief, the relentless pressure—it would be so easy.
His hand closes around something cold and metallic—a forgotten trinket from another life. The sharp edge glints ominously in the moonlight, casting long shadows across Harry's face.
For a moment, he hesitates, caught between fear and desperation. But then the pain surges again, sharper than before, and Harry makes his choice.
His grip tightens around the metal object as he rolls up his sleeve, exposing pale skin marred by old scars and fresh bruises. His heart pounds in his chest, a wild drumbeat drowning out all reason as he presses the edge against his arm. It's cold, almost comforting in its familiarity.
A deep breath, a swift motion, and then—pain. Real, tangible pain slicing through the numbness like a beacon in the night. Harry bites down on his lip to stifle a cry, his eyes squeezing shut against the unwelcome tears that threaten to spill over.
But there is no turning back now. Each cut is a lifeline, grounding him in the reality of his own suffering—a stark contrast to the empty void swallowing his soul.
When it's done, Harry drops the blade with a soft clatter, staring at the thin lines of red seeping across his arm. The pain is distant, almost secondary to the strange sense of calm washing over him.
His fingers tremble as he touches the fresh wounds, flinching at their raw sensitivity. They are evidence of his struggle, physical manifestations of the invisible war still raging inside him. And yet, even as guilt creeps into the edges of his mind, Harry can't ignore the perverse relief flooding his senses.
The silence of the dormitory is broken only by the rustle of sheets as Harry pulls the blanket back over himself, hiding the damning marks from view. He lies still, save for the slow rise and fall of his chest, staring blankly at the canopy above. In the quiet aftermath, reality seeps back in, bringing with it a bitter taste of shame and regret.
But alongside these darker feelings, there is also something else—an ember of hope flickering in the depths of despair. Maybe, just maybe, he isn't completely lost after all.
With a last glance at the bloody blade discarded on the floor, Harry turns onto his side, closing his eyes against the world outside. Sleep remains elusive, but for now, he finds solace in the darkness, a haven from the storm brewing within.
The once-enticing aroma of roasted meats and pastries no longer tempts Harry as he walks past the Great Hall. Instead, it turns his stomach, reminding him of a time when such pleasures mattered. Now they seem pointless against the backdrop of his existential crisis.
"Come on, mate," Ron urges one evening, pushing a plate of chicken towards Harry across the Gryffindor table. "You've got to eat something."
Harry's response is a noncommittal grunt, but he makes no move to take the proffered food. The sight of it, glistening under the enchanted ceiling, only tightens the knot in his gut. He pushes away from the table abruptly, leaving behind a trail of worried glances.
With each passing meal that Harry avoids, the space at the Gryffindor table becomes more pronounced—a constant reminder of Harry retreating further into himself. Even when he appears, it's merely a fleeting presence marked by hollow eyes and hushed whispers.
"Is he... getting thinner?" Hermione asks one day, her brow furrowed as she watches Harry retreat from the hall without touching a morsel of breakfast.
"I think so," Ron mutters, worry creasing his forehead. "It's like he doesn't care anymore—or can't."
And perhaps that's true. With every skipped meal, Harry can feel his body weakening, energy draining away as if siphoned off by Dementors. His clothes hang loosely off his frame, robes swaying around a silhouette that seems too small for the hero who faced Voldemort. Yet there's an odd sense of satisfaction that accompanies this physical decline—the perverse comfort of matching his outer self to the brokenness within.
In the solitude of night, where the absence of light mirrors the darkness consuming his soul, Harry traces the contours of his ribs, each one more prominent than the last. It's not just a sign of his neglect; it's tangible proof of the control he exerts over his own existence. Each pang of hunger is a reminder that he's still here, still fighting—even if it's against himself.
He remembers how food used to bring joy, laughter echoing through the halls as plates were passed and stories shared. But those memories belong to another life, one before his world crumbled in Godric's Hollow. The Harry Potter who relished Hogwarts' feasts, who fought tooth and nail for every scrap of sustenance at the Dursleys', feels like a stranger now.
Concern morphs into alarm among Harry's friends and professors alike. Attempts to coax him into eating are met with indifference or irritation, depending on the depth of Harry's exhaustion. And always, there's that lingering question: Why? Why would the Chosen One choose to fade away?
It's not just the students who notice. The teachers, too, see the changes in Harry, their concern deepening with each passing day. Minerva McGonagall watches him from her place at the staff table, her heart aching as she witnesses his steady decline.
"Something must be done," she mutters to herself, but what that something is, she doesn't yet know.
Snape is less overt in his observations, but the worry lines etched into his forehead betray his own unease. He dismisses it as nothing more than professional obligation—he has no love for Potter, after all—but he cannot ignore the boy's alarming state.
And Remus takes his concerns to Dumbledore – his return to Hogwarts is technically going well, but the sight of Harry leaves a pit in his stomach that refuses to subside. Harry is getting thinner, his robes hanging loosely on his frame, and his eyes hold none of their usual spark, only an emptiness that speaks of horrors endured.
The faint scars peeking out from under Harry's sleeve flicker in Remus's mind, a sickening reminder of what he knows is only the tip of the iceberg. He wants to rage, to howl at the injustice of it all, but instead, he takes a deep breath, steadying himself. There will be time for anger later. For now, he needs answers.
"Parma Violets," he says, and the stone gargoyle leaps aside, revealing the spiralling staircase to Dumbledore's office.
As he ascends, each step feels heavier than the last. The weight of what he must discuss presses down on him, as real as the pull of the moon. The door swings open at his approach, and he steps inside, bracing himself for the conversation to come.
As he reaches the final step, his heart pounding with an echo of anticipation, his hand hovers over the brass knocker. But before it can fall, the door swings open, revealing the headmaster's study, a room that has always felt like stepping into another world.
"Ah, Remus," Dumbledore says, his voice a touch warmer than the chill air outside. He sits behind the imposing oak desk, a fortress amidst an onslaught of parchment. His eyes, however, betray nothing of his inner thoughts—a pool of calm in a sea of stormy uncertainty.
"Please, come in." Dumbledore gestures to the chair across from him, its well-worn upholstery testament to countless similar summons. "What brings you here at this hour?"
Remus steps inside, the door closing with a soft thud that seems to cut them off from the rest of the castle. The room shrinks around him, the walls lined with curious artifacts and towering bookshelves bearing silent witness to their exchange. He sinks into the chair, feeling the weight of the world settle onto his shoulders.
"It's about Harry," he begins, each word measured and heavy with the gravity of what they imply.
Dumbledore's gaze never wavers, but there's a subtle shift in the air between them—a tightening of the strings that bind the past to the present. "Yes, I imagined as much," he replies, his tone steady yet laced with a hint of concern. "I assure you, Remus, Harry is under close watch. He has been through much, but he is resilient."
Remus's face tightens, frustration etching fine lines at the corners of his eyes. "With all due respect, Albus," he says, each word a measured beat against the silence, "I believe you are mistaken."
There's a pause as Remus considers how much to reveal, the air between them growing taut with unspoken truths. Then, with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of the world, he continues, "If you looked at him, you'd realise Harry is not faring as well as you might think."
Dumbledore leans back slightly, the creases deepening on his forehead. He watches Remus, his eyes never wavering, but there is a stillness about him now that suggests the gravity of what is being said.
"Albus, he's barely eating or sleeping. And—" Remus's voice breaks, the next words coming out in a whisper, thick with dread and perhaps a touch of self-reproach, "—he has fresh cuts on his arms."
For a moment, Dumbledore doesn't move, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the office walls. His eyes, usually so sharp and knowing, seem somehow dimmed, as if the light within them has faltered under the weight of this revelation. Slowly, he looks down, his fingers tracing the edges of the parchment before him, seeking solace in its familiar texture.
When he finally lifts his gaze, there's a profound sadness in his eyes, a sorrow that echoes through the silent room like a lament for lost innocence. "I had hoped..." His voice trails off, the words hanging heavy in the air. "I had hoped that Harry might find some semblance of peace after all he's been through."
"Peace?" Remus's voice is sharp, the single word cutting through Dumbledore's reverie. "Harry is drowning in guilt and grief, Albus. He blames himself for things beyond his control. I know you have his best interests at heart, but this... this is more than any child should bear."
The headmaster doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he stares at his hands, gnarled and weathered from years of holding power and responsibility, now clasped tightly on the desk before him. The clock ticks on, marking the passage of seconds that stretch into a silence too vast to be filled by mere words.
"Perhaps I have not fully understood the depth of his suffering," Dumbledore concedes, the words barely more than a whisper. "I hoped giving him distance would allow for self-healing... but it seems..."
His voice trails off, leaving the thought unfinished. The weight of the error hangs between them, almost tangible.
Relief washes over Remus, mingling with an undercurrent of anger. Relief that Dumbledore finally sees what he has been blind to, and anger that it took so long. "We need to help him, Albus. Guide him through this... give him the support he needs."
Dumbledore nods, slow and thoughtful. His eyes are distant, lost in a sea of regret. "Yes, Remus," he murmurs, the years etched into each syllable. "We must do more. I will arrange for Madam Pomfrey to provide a wristband for Harry's safety, and perhaps... perhaps you could speak with him. You understand the nature of his struggles better than most."
The silence stretches out, filled with unspoken fears and shared guilt. "I don't know if he'll talk to me; he wont even look at me."
"All we can do is be there for him," Albus replies, his tone resolute. "In time, he may find the strength to reach out."
"Harry shouldn't be alone in this, Albus," Remus repeats, his voice steady with the weight of conviction. He hopes that by saying it again, he might impress upon Dumbledore the gravity of their oversight.
Dumbledore rises from his chair and rounds the desk, his fingers coming to rest lightly on Remus's shoulder. The touch is meant to comfort, but it only underscores the magnitude of the situation. There's a rare vulnerability in Dumbledore's eyes, one that Remus has seen only a handful of times, and it makes the headmaster seem more human, more fallible than ever.
"I am truly sorry, Remus," Dumbledore says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I regret the pain Harry has suffered, and the burdens we've all had to bear. But I assure you, I will not let him down again."
Remus meets Dumbledore's gaze, searching for any hint of insincerity, but finds none. Instead, there's determination—a resolve that matches his own. It's a promise, and Remus clings to it, because without that promise, what hope does Harry have?
The memory of the conversation lingers as Remus descends the spiral staircase leading from Dumbledore's office. His heart feels lighter, buoyed by the prospect of change, yet heavy with the knowledge of what lies ahead. With the truth now exposed, perhaps Harry can start to heal. But Remus knows the road to recovery will be long and fraught with challenges they can't even begin to foresee. As he walks through the dimly lit halls of Hogwarts, a silent vow forms in his mind: he will be there for Harry, every step of the way, no matter what.
The attempt to approach Harry varies among the professors. Some, like Flitwick and Sprout, try gentle encouragement, hoping to coax Harry back into the fold with kind words and understanding smiles. But their efforts are met with the same detached gaze, the wall around Harry seemingly impenetrable.
Others, including McGonagall and Remus, opt for a more direct method. They confront him, not unkindly, but with an insistence that betrays their growing alarm.
"You need to eat, Mr Potter," McGonagall says one evening, standing beside Harry's usual spot at the Gryffindor table. Her voice holds the familiar sternness, but there's an undercurrent of something else—something that sounds suspiciously like fear.
Harry looks up at her, his gaze vacant. "I'm not hungry," he replies flatly, pushing away the plate she'd brought over.
"But you haven't eaten anything all day," she protests, her hand hovering over the untouched food.
"I said I'm not hungry." This time, Harry's tone is sharper, leaving no room for argument. He rises from the bench and walks away, leaving McGonagall staring after him with a furrowed brow and a sinking feeling in her chest.
Remus' attempt comes later, who finds Harry alone in a corridor, his back against the cool stone wall. He approaches with quiet steps, the gravity of his concern a stark contrast to the silence that seems to cloak Harry like an unseen shroud.
"Harry." The word is soft, almost hesitant, as if Remus fears it might break the boy before him. "May I speak with you?"
Harry's posture stiffens, though he doesn't look up. His eyes remain fixed on a point in the distance, seemingly seeing nothing and everything all at once. "I'm busy, Professor," he answers, the title a cold reminder of the chasm that has grown between them.
Remus pauses, brow furrowing as he takes in Harry's avoidance. But he presses on, the urgency of his mission outweighing the discomfort. "I know things have been difficult for you, Harry. But you don't have to face this alone."
His fists clench tighter, nails digging into his palms, a physical manifestation of the self-loathing that twists like a knife in his gut. He doesn't deserve Remus's kindness, not after what he's done—or rather, what he hasn't done.
"I don't need your help," Harry retorts, his voice sharper than he intends, betraying the turmoil within him.
There's a flicker of hurt across Remus's features, quickly masked by a composed façade. He draws a breath to speak, but Harry interrupts him before he can begin.
"I ended a war, Professor," Harry's voice is low, each word a bitter morsel of truth. "And it didn't take any special powers, just a killing curse. I don't need help from adults who should've taken care of it themselves." With that, Harry pushes off the wall, leaving Remus standing alone, the echo of his harsh words hanging heavy in the air.
Their concern washes over him like waves crashing against a cliff, but Harry remains unmoved. He withdraws further into himself, creating a chasm between him and those who care about him. Concern turns into alarm, then frustration, but Harry seems indifferent to it all.
And despite everything, Harry feels a strange sort of satisfaction. Each growl of hunger, each wave of fatigue, serves as a confirmation of his control. In a world where so much has been taken from him, this is one thing he can claim as his own.
One night, alone in the Gryffindor common room, Harry stares into the flickering fireplace, the glow of the flames dancing across his gaunt features. The crackling embers reflect in his glasses, twin points of light in the darkness—a stark contrast to the void that consumes him from within.
"What am I supposed to do now?" Harry mutters to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers trace the lightning bolt scar on his forehead; the mark that once held so much significance now feels like nothing more than an old wound.
The thought lingers, heavy and oppressive. A future without purpose seems worse than no future at all. Perhaps that's why the idea of fading away holds such appeal for Harry. Non-existence promises release from the burden of living, of having to forge a path forward when all roads seem to lead nowhere.
These thoughts consume him, wrapping around his mind like tendrils of smoke, choking and relentless. They offer no respite, even in sleep—especially in sleep, where dreams twist into nightmares that leave him gasping for breath, heart pounding against the cage of his ribs.
Harry sits up, pushing off the sweat-soaked sheets. He rubs his face, the grittiness under his eyelids a testament to another restless night. As he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, a wave of dizziness washes over him, the world tilting on its axis. He reaches out, gripping the bedpost until the spinning subsides.
"Just need some air," he tells himself, though there's no one around to hear.
At first, the cool stone beneath his feet offers some relief, grounding him as he navigates the dark corridors towards the Astronomy Tower. But each step feels heavier than the last, his body protesting against the strain. Still, he pushes on, driven by a desperate need to feel something other than the gnawing emptiness inside him.
Reaching the top, Harry steps out onto the balcony, the chill night air washing over him like a balm. He leans against the parapet, gazing out at the castle grounds shrouded in darkness. It's quiet here, save for the distant hoot of an owl and the rustle of leaves stirred by the wind. But the silence isn't comforting; it's suffocating, amplifying the emptiness that gnaws at his soul.
He should feel relief, standing here far removed from prying eyes, but all he feels is despair. A sense of purposelessness weighs heavily on his shoulders, crushing him under its relentless pressure. "What now?" he whispers into the void, half-expecting an answer, but none comes. Only the echo of his own voice, bouncing off the ancient stones, serves as a bitter reminder: he is alone.
The world stretches out below him, an abyss waiting to swallow him whole. Harry stares down, feeling the pull of gravity—the lure of oblivion. His fingers curl tighter around the edge of the stone balustrade, knuckles white against the dark rock. It would be so easy, wouldn't it? Just one step forward, one moment of surrender, and then... nothing.
But even as the thought flashes across his mind, something within him recoils. Fear surges through his veins, ice-cold and unforgiving, anchoring him to the spot. It's not death he fears—he's stared it in the face too many times for it to hold any power over him—it's the unknown that follows. What if there's no peace, no release, only endless torment?
Still, the idea lingers, insidious and tempting. Harry shakes his head, trying to dislodge the darkness creeping into the corners of his consciousness. This isn't him. This isn't the person who faced down Voldemort, who fought tooth and nail for every breath, every heartbeat. And yet despair claws at him, threatening to drag him under, but still he clings to the ledge, caught between the will to survive and the seductive promise of oblivion.
"Harry," a soft voice calls out, barely audible over the wind's howling. He doesn't turn, his gaze remains fixed on the abyss below, but he knows that voice—knows it as well as his own heartbeat.
Ginny.
Silently, she steps forward, her robes billowing in the night breeze. The moonlight bathes her in an ethereal glow, casting long shadows across her face. She stands there, just beyond his reach, watching him with eyes filled not with pity or fear, but with understanding.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. The air between them is charged, heavy with things left unsaid. Harry can feel Ginny's presence like a physical force—a counterweight to the despair threatening to unmoor him.
"Ginny." His voice breaks, and he closes his eyes, bracing himself against the surge of emotion her name evokes. "I don't know if I can do this anymore."
"I know," she whispers back, her words brushing against his ears like the faintest touch. "But you're not alone, Harry, and you won't ever be alone again."
AN: Reviews make me happy.