When you break, Bears Den
I found you shaking like a leaf
Underneath your family tree.
You could never live out in the open
Regretting every word you've spoken.
When you break, it's too late for you to fall apart
And the blame that you claim is all your own fault.
It quickly became evident to the occupants of the Burrow that there was something to be concerned about when it came to Harry James Potter.
He had taken to sitting upright in bed at night, leaning against the wall with his eyes wide open. Ron had reported that Harry was still awake when he went to sleep. When Ron awoke, Harry was still awake. Though he had been eating more than when he first arrived, it appeared that he was sleeping less. He snapped at the slightest provocation, choosing to spend more and more time alone as the days leading up to his sixteenth birthday ticked by.
The house was on edge, a slight panic building at the despondent state of their Boy Who Lived. Hermione and the twins had formed an unlikely alliance, working together to try and shift Harry's energy. The trio tiptoed on eggshells around the teen, Searching for a crack in his armour. And while his mood had seemed minutely lifted by his return to the Weasley home, it had steadily soured despite their efforts. Often, it earned them a verbal beating from the retreating Chosen One.
Conversations became hushed, mealtimes consisting of meaningful glances as Harry moved his food around his plate.
Ginny and Ron had taken a different approach than Hermione, Fred, and George. They had given him a wide berth, watching him far more than conversing with him. Fred had told Molly one morning that he had stumbled upon Harry and Ginny across from each other in the sitting room at three in the morning and that the pair were sat in silence.
Harry's birthday did not change his mood, and the gloomy affair was marred further by more bad news in the form of Dementor attacks, the death of Igor Karkaroff, and kidnappings carried out by Death Eaters. A desolate-looking Remus Lupin and a forlorn Arthur Weasley had brought them this information. Molly had tried desperately to improve what was truly an abysmal party, and while Harry appreciated her attempt, there was nothing to be done.
He had taken to creeping out of his room when the hour grew late, and the Burrow fell silent, taking a heavily cushioned armchair and staring out the darkened window. Most nights, Ginny would sneak down the stairs not far behind him and sit with him wordlessly, watching the same glass panes. Harry wondered how it was that she, of all the people occupying the Burrow, knew what he truly needed even though he could not articulate it. Her quiet company subdued his thoughts, unwilling as he was to break under perception.
He had thought about telling his friends about the prophecy that Dumbledore had revealed to him on the night of Sirius' death. Each time, he couldn't summon the strength to broach it. He could scarcely think the words, let alone speak them.
Harry watched the sun rising and glanced at Ginny, who nodded in silent agreement, closing the book she had been reading. The pair ascended the stairs and bid the other a whispered goodnight, though the house would soon rise for breakfast.
Their Hogwarts book lists arrived that morning, and a flustered and anxious Molly planned a trip to Diagon Ally.
Two days later, the Weasley household and Harry and Hermione stood around the fireplace preparing to floo to the ally. Harry had returned to sleeping as little as he had at Privet Drive; such was his desire to keep his memories at bay. He had maintained his slight improvement when it came to how much he was eating, but he was desperately tired. He would find his head wobbling unsteadily even when he was standing. He decided he would need to do something about it. In the event of an attack, he would be worse than useless.
Diagon Ally was not the beacon of hope he remembered from his previous years. Storefronts stood bare. Significantly fewer patrons rushed through their tasks, and no jovial conversations took place on the cobbled streets. Ministry pamphlets and wanted posters replaced advertisements and notices. Several shops were boarded up and abandoned; the Leaky Cauldron was deserted. An unnatural hush had fallen.
Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny went through the motions of purchasing their school supplies. Very little conversation sparked among the group, filling Harry with guilt, though he hadn't the will to rectify it. At one point, Ron had tapped him on the shoulder and directed him to look at the retreating back of Draco and Narcissa Malfoy, stealing away towards Knockturn. Harry had frowned, filing it away, but opted to do nothing in the moment, tired as he was. Ron had balked slightly at his lack of interest but had fallen back into an uneasy silence.
Weasley's Wizard Wheezes served as a brief respite from the bleak state of the ally and Harry's mind, and he had plastered the occasional smile on his face for the benefit of his loved ones. Once they had completed the mandatory shopping, Harry and Ginny broke from the group as the Boy Who Lived announced he had one last task.
"No, it's okay, it will only take us a minute," he'd told Hermione and Ron when they'd made to stand from the seats where they'd taken a break. It had earned a strange look from Hermione, her eyes flitting from Ginny back to Harry before she nodded her agreement. Harry assumed it looked as though he might have wanted alone time with the youngest Weasley. Though that was true, it was purely because her company was easy and undemanding.
She followed him to the Apothecary, where Harry picked up a three-month supply of dreamless sleep. He didn't buy enough to last him the whole school year, opting instead to test the potion. He shrunk them down and hid them in his pocket. Ginny did not comment, instead giving him a sad smile.
Harry wasted no time that night. He waited for the telltale light snoring from Ron before he unstoppered the bottle and downed the contents. He laid back, heavy, and sleep overwhelmed him.
He was young again, no older than eight. He watched a group of seagulls overhead, circling in the sky lazily in the heat of the afternoon sun. Harry laid back on the grass, content with his position on the lightly crisped lawn.
"There he is! Hey, freak boy!" A voice startled Harry to his feet, already running. He glanced behind him and found that three older children were hot on his heels, two boys and a girl. They hooted and hollered as they ran, laughing as they corralled Harry toward a cliff face. The Boy Who Lived took this in with a start, adrenaline pumping in his veins as he changed course, narrowly avoiding the largest of the three children. He was fast, though, and he had more stamina.
He ran for far longer than he was chased.
Harry awoke pleased that he hadn't dreamed of the night at the Ministry and had managed to sleep through the night for the first time in many weeks.
He was also confused. He had taken dreamless sleep, so why did he dream? Why did he dream of an unfamiliar location? Unfamiliar people? It would not have been strange for him to be chased in his childhood by a group of kids screaming freak, but it had been completely foreign. His thoughts wandered to the reason he had been in the Ministry in the first place: Because Voldemort had tricked him with false visions.
He shook it off, deciding to ask Hermione about dreamless sleep potions after breakfast.
After the morning meal, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny went to the garden. Ginny flew circles above them on her broom, practising manoeuvres after her suggestion of a two-on-two quidditch match was shot down.
"Hermione," Harry said, breaking the silence as he watched Ginny stop and look out at the woods bordering the Burrow's perimeter.
"Yes, Harry?" Hermione seemed startled to hear him say her name.
"Do you know if dreamless sleep… stops dreams?"
"Well, yes," she said, "it's in the name. That's a good idea; we can brew some when we return to Hogwarts. If you had said something yesterday, we could have stopped by the Apothecary?"
He hadn't told them about his nightmares or the dreamless sleep potions. He shrugged off Hermione's light admonishment without another comment. Ginny resumed her flying, though she seemed less enthusiastic. Ron remained silent throughout the conversation, and Harry made a mental note that he would have to put more effort in with his best mate.
He mulled over Hermione's answer, deciding that it was very unlikely for her to be wrong. And it was in the name. Still, he had a dream—not his nightmare, but a nightmare all the same—a terror that he knew well through a lens he didn't recognise.
"Are you having bad dreams, Harry?" Hermione pressed. Ginny came to land nearby and called them inside before he had to answer.
Throughout the following weeks at the Burrow, Harry did not dream again. He was finally well-rested and adequately fed. His grief felt less raw. He found himself smiling at Ron's theatrics at dinner one night, arguing with Hermione about her opinion on his new chess manoeuvre. Harry knew that the atmosphere at the Burrow was entirely dependent on his mood. If he did not shine like a beacon, all hope was lost. Instead of bolstering it, the thought washed the smile from his face. He hid it with a forkful of mashed potatoes.
In the wake of his slowly receding grief, he had noticed a new sensation. A feeling that he had no reference point for. Vaguely uncomfortable, not unlike a need. A need that he couldn't pinpoint or identify. He had registered the rush in his stomach every few days. Strong enough to sway him on his feet, as though he could start running and somehow reach this thing, this nameless need. Each time, he had resisted the urge to… Well, do something. What that thing was, he didn't know. It brought with it a creeping anxiety, one that chained itself unbidden to the night at the Ministry, to how he had felt when he used an Unforgivable. Connected in a way that he couldn't understand.
Now that he had control of his sleep, he wasn't vulnerable to dreams of that night. While he was awake, there were still occasions when he needed to forcefully bite his tongue or dig his nails into the back of his neck. He found that the memory and the unidentifiable feeling were catalysts for each other, each capable of triggering the other. He had been caught in a painful feedback loop more than once, unable to bite or scratch his way free.
On those occasions, he had wordlessly excused himself or muffled his face in the pillow, fighting his mind and his body, resisting the thought of Bellatrix writhing under his wand and instead reliving the minutes that came before it, all while he needed. In those moments, he was consumed with dread. Dread at the thought of having cast the curse, to begin with. Dread that they might find out. The people he loved. Dread at how he had felt when the curse hit its mark.
Several thoughts circled his mind with nowhere to land. If he acknowledged them or questioned them, he would come undone.
The morning of September first, the Burrow was buzzing with activity as Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny prepared to leave for platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Molly and Arthur saw the teens off at the station, and Harry found himself seated with Luna and Neville after fighting through crowds of people asking, 'Is it really true? That you fought You-Know-Who? At the Ministry?'
Harry dodged all questions and was glad that he was at least well-rested in the face of the startling chaos of the platform and the train. Harry regretfully dodged Luna and Neville's attempts at conversation, offering only small, apologetic replies. They had been there with him that night, at the Ministry, along with so many others, to fight at his side while he retrieved the prophecy that now haunted him. A trap, in the end. He knew that Luna, Neville, and everyone else would have seen his state once he'd been found, apparently collapsed at the feet of Bellatrix Lestrange and Voldemort himself, rabid. He had no recollection of at least an hour after the curse had ceased, as the tide of the battle changed with the arrival of the Aurors, the Minister, and Dumbledore.
He had been told that he was inconsolable, Ron had said that he 'completely snapped', that no one could get through to him until he had been stunned and then sedated with a potion at the Order Headquarters sometime later. He got the sense specific details were being withheld for his benefit.
He blanched at the thought of Luna and Neville bearing witness to his aftermath and avoided all further attempts at conversation. Thankfully, he was granted reprieve in the form of an opportunity and an idea. Blaise Zabini passed their carriage, and Harry remembered the blond Slytherin, weeks earlier, conspicuously making his way towards Knockturn Ally. The Boy Who Lived excused himself, removing his invisibility cloak from his trunk without explanation as he went.
He followed behind the Slytherin until he Reached Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, who were already locked in a whispered discussion. He hid himself on the rack above their heads, using a particularly rough stretch of track to hide any noise he'd made.
Malfoy was paler than usual, Harry noted. His eyes searched his surroundings with a paranoia that the Boy Who Lived was familiar with, as though he was expecting an ambush. The blonde would grip his left forearm, his jaw tightening when he did so. It was not lost on Harry that the Dark Mark was placed on the left forearm of Death Eaters. The Chosen One didn't need to wait long as Malfoy began to gloat that he wouldn't be spending any further time at Hogwarts after the end of the year. Harry noted that he seemed far more tense than proud as he blustered; Parkinson and Zabini exchanged worried glances before correcting their faces.
The Boy Who Lived waited for more details, for something concrete. Pansy had asked about Harry directly, "What about Potter?"
"Don't go near Potter," Draco snapped in reply, his tone thick with dislike, but there was a command in his voice. Parkinson took the warning and nodded silently.
The conversation fell into quiet, and Harry waited for the train to stop and the Slytherins to leave before he began to shuffle down off the rack. Malfoy had paused in the doorway, turned, and looked right into his eyes before departing, or at least where his eyes would have been had he not been invisible.
At the feast that night, Harry pushed himself to eat more than his usual meagre helpings, swallowing hard as he watched Dumbledore give the start of term speech. His eyes would wander without permission to the Slytherin table, seeking Malfoy while he mulled over what he had heard on the train.
Leave Potter alone? Not the usual course.
Each time he locked eyes on the blonde, he was in intense discussion with Zabini and Parkinson.
"Where were you on the train, mate? We couldn't find you," Ron asked through a mouthful of chicken leg. Hermione nodded in agreement, looking up from the textbook that Harry had guessed she had started on the ride.
The Boy Who Lived gave them a look that said 'later,' though they seemed much more curious, they nodded acceptance.
In the Common Room that night, he told them what he had done and what he had heard. Ron had agreed that it was highly suspicious, but they would need to know more before they brought their accusations to the headmaster. Hermione was less convinced and had tried to argue the point with him. Longing for his four-poster bed overwhelmed him, and he and Ron dredged up the stairs to bed. He drew his curtains after rummaging in his trunk, drinking the dreamless sleep potion and losing consciousness blissfully quickly.
He was creeping through the halls of a building he didn't recognise late at night. He moved until he heard what he was looking for: the barely muffled voices of the three children who had chased him.
He stood on the other side of the door, ear pressed to the wood as he tried to make out what they were saying. They were not talking about him, but that didn't stop the rage, regret, and sadness that crept into his head and heart. He could hear his old friend laughing at something that one of the others had said, and Harry recalled that he had never said anything funny enough to make him laugh like that. Old friend. A funny concept.
Then the other two arrived and convinced his friend that there was something wrong with Harry, swaying him to popular opinion. So, the other boy took to sneering at him, then sniggering, then chasing. Harry knew it wouldn't be long before his luck would run out, and he would find out what his old friend would do if he caught him. He stood with his forehead pressed to the door for a long moment before turning and returning to his room.