Disclaimer - I do not own Harry Potter, all characters belong to JK Rowling :)
Chapter warnings: suicidal thoughts
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Harry stood at the edge of the Astronomy Tower, hands curled around the stone balustrade, knuckles white.
It wasn't dramatic. He hadn't run here in a flurry of tears. He hadn't screamed into the sky. He'd just… walked. One foot in front of the other, stair after stair, until he was too far up to turn back.
He wasn't crying now, either. He just felt tired. Thin. Worn down to the threads.
Everything was too much. And yet, at the same time, not enough.
The wind was sharp up here. It tugged at Harry's clothes, played with his hair, and stole the breath from his lungs when he stood too close to the edge. The stone beneath his feet was cold, rough under his shoes. The wall at the edge of the tower came to his waist — a boundary that felt paper-thin.
He looked down, but didn't feel afraid.
The sky above was beginning to fade from indigo to grey, stars flickering like dying candles. Everything felt far away. Quiet. Blurred.
He felt the tug of gravity like a whisper at his feet.
He didn't want to die. Not really.
But he didn't want this, either. Not the way everything ached. Not the noise in his head. Not the weight in his chest that never, ever seemed to lift.
He just wanted it all to stop.
No more masks. No more pretending. No more trying.
He didn't even notice the tears on his cheeks until the wind chilled them.
He just wanted silence. Stillness. Rest. He was so fucking tired.
The soft creak of hinges broke the stillness.
Harry didn't turn around.
He didn't need to.
The door to the Astronomy Tower eased open behind him, quiet footsteps following in its wake. Slow. Measured.
Snape.
Of course it was.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The wind filled the silence, tugging at Harry's sleeves, whipping Snape's robes around his ankles.
"Potter."
His voice was low, flat — carefully neutral. Not sharp. Not mocking. Just… there.
Still, Harry didn't move.
Snape took a step closer. Then another.
"What are you doing up here?"
Harry let out a slow breath. "Thinking."
Snape stopped a few feet behind him, gaze shifting from Harry to the drop beyond the stone wall. When he finally spoke again, his tone was different. Still quiet. But tighter.
"You weren't at dinner."
"Wasn't hungry."
There was a long silence before Harry finally spoke.
"If you'll excuse me, Professor, I'll be going now." His voice was flat, his face void of expression. It didn't take a genius to extrapolate the meaning of that comment, and Severus was no fool. He knew Harry didn't mean going back to Gryffindor Tower.
"I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Potter." Snape spoke firmly, but softly. He knew the gravity of the situation he was in, and that he had to act with caution. This was no time for sarcasm or snide comments.
"And I'm afraid you don't have a choice, sir." There was malice in those words, the first hint of emotion the boy had shown since Severus had found him. "Please leave, Professor. I need to do this alone." The venom left Harry's voice, replaced by an almost desperate tone. He all but whispered the words, still facing out over the grounds. He hadn't once looked at Snape.
"Mister Potter, I cannot in good conscience leave you up here alone in the knowledge of what you intend to do. Surely even you must understand that." As he spoke, Snape's hand tightened around his wand, hidden beneath his robes, ready to break the boy's fall should he be foolish enough to jump.
"This is all I have left, sir - this choice. It's all I've got." A sad smile graced Harry's pale features. "It's kind of funny, when you think about it," he said quietly, shaking his head. His gaze dropped to the ground below. "The only decision I get to make is to die."
"Don't be stupid, Potter. Come back inside this instant." Snape snapped, taking a cautious step forward. Harry finally turned around to face him, his back pressed against the railing.
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Do you think this is noble?" he said, voice like a knife. "Perched up here like some tragic martyr?"
Harry didn't respond.
"Believe me," Snape went on, quieter now, though no less cutting, "I've seen self-pity. I've seen attention-seeking theatrics-"
"You think that's what this is all about? Attention?"
"Perhaps not. But it's not bravery. And it's not weakness, either. It's desperation. And that, Potter, is a very poor excuse to do something so bloody permanent."
Harry clenched his jaw. Loathe as he was to admit it, maybe Snape was right.
"You can wallow all you like, but not up here. Off the ledge, Potter."
Harry eyes stung. He clenched his jaw.
"I don't know what to do," he muttered. "I just want this to stop."
"I know, Potter. But this isn't the way." Snape's voice was gentler than Harry has ever heard it. It was almost unnerving. "Come on."
Suddenly, Harry was too tired to fight. His shoulders slumped, and he gave a small, dejected nod.
Snape didn't say anything else. He simply turned and began to walk, robes whispering across the stone floor. Harry followed, a few steps behind, his trainers scuffing dully with each step. The silence between them wasn't hostile anymore. Just heavy. Tired.
They moved through dim corridors, lit only by the occasional flickering torch. Harry didn't ask where they were going. He already knew.
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The journey to the Headmaster's office passed in a blur.
Harry couldn't remember the password Snape gave the gargoyle. Barely registered the spiral staircase or the sound of the stone grinding open. By the time he became properly aware of his surroundings, he was sitting in one of the high-backed chairs across from Dumbledore's desk.
Snape sat beside him, arms folded, jaw tight. Dumbledore was opposite, his expression unreadable.
They were talking. About him. That much Harry understood.
He didn't catch the words.
Their voices moved around him like wind through long grass — indistinct, low, rhythmic. Names floated in and out. Phrases. Nothing that stuck.
Harry stared at a crack in the wood grain of Dumbledore's desk. It ran from the edge of the blotting pad to the corner nearest him, sharp and thin.
Somewhere behind him, the fire in the hearth roared. A rush of green light flared in his periphery, and Harry turned his head just enough to see Dumbledore kneel by the flames.
He was muttering into the flames, his voice calm but urgent.
Then Dumbledore straightened and returned to his seat.
Harry didn't move. He kept his gaze fixed on the crack in the desk.
There was a tight, pressing feeling in his chest, like something about to crack. He didn't want to speak. Didn't want to answer questions. He wasn't sure he even knew the answers.
He just wanted to disappear into the chair. Into the walls. Into the quiet.
"Harry?"
Harry's head jerked up at the sound of his name.
"I've just spoken to Sirius," Dumbledore said gently. "We are in agreement that Hogwarts may not be the best place for you at the moment. If you agree, he'd like you to stay with him and Remus at Grimmauld Place – for as long as you need. As your godfather, he has agreed to take responsibility."
Harry blinked. For a second, the words didn't register. Then they did – all at once – and something deep inside him cracked, just a little.
He nodded. Barely.
"Okay," he said. His voice sounded far away, even to him.
"It's not forever, Harry. Just until you're well enough to come back." Dumbledore reassured, but it fell on deaf ears.
Harry swallowed thickly and glanced at the floor. "I'm sorry."
Snape shifted slightly beside him. "This isn't about apologies, Potter."
Dumbledore gave a sad smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Harry. You didn't do anything wrong."
Harry didn't reply. He didn't quite believe him, but the words still settled something in his chest.
Dumbledore stood and walked toward the hearth. With a flick of his wand, the fire flared bright green once more.
"Whenever you're ready," he said, turning back to him. "I believe Dobby will be joining you shortly with your trunk."
Harry stood on unsteady legs. His hands trembled as he picked up a small handful of Floo powder from the mantelpiece. He stared into the flames, their emerald light dancing against the stone. Dumbledore placed a warm hand on his shoulder.
He stepped forward.
"Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place."
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