Chapter Text
“And I was runnin' far away
Would I run off the world someday?
Nobody knows, nobody knows
And I was dancing in the rain
I felt alive and I can't complain”
So, there he was. Like every Sunday, it was Sunday brunch with the Weasleys. And, as much as he was dreading it, he had to be there. What excuses would he have? Lying was not an option, of course. The Weasleys were his only family, after all. However, his nausea was so bad that he could barely manage liquid. The least he wanted was to offend Molly, make her think the food was not good, or, even worse, that he had no appetite. So he cut everything into pieces and resorted to vanishing them wandlessly and wordlessly, one by one when no one was looking. The thought of something solid in his mouth made him sick. He could not. The lack of sleep was slowly killing him—of that, he was sure. So yes, there he was, taking an empty fork to his mouth, chewing air, nodding along to a conversation he wasn’t a part of, not really, his food slowly disappearing into nothing.
Because, the thing is, every night when he went to bed and closed his eyes, the same film would start playing. He would see the faces of every person who had lost their life and the pain of every loved one who did make it. So every night, he would toss and turn for hours and hours until he would decide to give up, get out of bed and make himself some tea. Rooibos used to be his favorite, but it became the color of fresh blood, the loose leaves like dirt under his fingernails, the cup a deep well where he felt himself drowning. At first, he made it anyway—hoping to maintain some semblance of normality—but he ended up switching to chamomille.
And then there was the issue with his house, his bloody house. He wanted to love it because Sirius had left it to him, but Grimmauld Place was full of ghosts, and these ghosts refused to leave him alone. Especially at night, when it was hard to tell whether he was asleep or not and faint whispering could be heard in the shadows. Harry ignored it at first, hoping they would get tired of him, but they never did. So then he tried a different approach—talking back to them—but they would not listen. They would float in front of him and stare, mumbling nonsense. Harry knew they hated him. They were judging him for how he went about things—for the choices he made—he could tell.
And the thing is, Harry knew he made mistakes. He knew he needed to apologize. He tried to, on numerous occasions, but no one wanted to hear him. Sorry it took me so long to put the pieces together. Sorry I never learned occlumency, and it cost Sirius his life. Sorry I didn’t find the Horcruxes sooner, even though the clues were all there. Sorry I couldn't stop Malfoy in time. Sorry I was such a coward and didn’t sacrifice myself sooner. Sorry, sorry, sorry. He just wanted the all-consuming guilt to fall out of him for once and for all because maybe then he could get some sleep, but no one would take it. It would just fall into the space between him and the receiver and fly right back to him when they would eventually tell him to shut the fuck up.
He even tried to apologize to his parents because, if he hadn’t been born, they would surely still be alive. But not even ghosts would have it. He took it to go every Friday night to the graveyard at Godric’s Hollow in an attempt to pour his heart out. However, as soon as the words hit the back of his teeth, he would get an awful cough spell that would not stop until he pressed his lips together tight and left them be. So he would just sit very still and silently curse his luck while mourning the family he didn’t remember having.
One day he said enough is enough. He sat in front of his old mahogany desk, fished a piece of old parchment from the bottom of the left drawer, and watched the words he so wished he could say out loud spell themselves over the paper. Once satisfied, he folded the parchment in four, put it in his pocket, and apparated right in front of the tombstone with his parents' names on it. He carefully took out the letter, laid it flat on the ground, and smoothed out its wrinkles. One second he looked up at the sky, sensing a storm coming, and suddenly, strings of smoke were dancing in front of him, writhing. He looked down just on time to see the letter go up in flames.
His days went like this:
Every morning, he would wake up at eight o’clock, brew himself a large pot of coffee—worth at least two mugs filled to the top—then sit on the red sofa in front of the fireplace and spend an hour drinking from his cup and watching the flames dance around. An hour later, he would be lying horizontally on the same spot, now staring at the ceiling. Would Master Potter be needing something? Kreacher would say. No, thank you, Harry would say, and Kreacher would vanish the coffee cup and himself away.
He usually met Ron and Hermione for lunch—just Hermione if Ron couldn’t catch a lunch break—and those were probably the only times he felt somewhere close to normal. He could tell they worried about him. He could also tell they didn’t know how to talk to him about it. He was convinced they were inviting him over every day because they thought he would never leave the house otherwise. They were right.
“Harry,” Hermione asked in one of these lunches, when it was just the two of them, “are you doing ok?”
Harry sighed. It was a dumb question, really. He obviously wasn’t. But he knew where she was coming from and appreciated the concern.
“It’s just hard,” he said. “It feels like a couple of days ago I was being told I would have to die, and now suddenly I’m supposed to have my life together? I never really planned this far.”
Hermione looked at him with sad eyes. Harry hated it.
“No one is expecting that of you, Harry. We worry about you. You hardly leave the house, and you look like you haven’t slept in ages.”
Harry didn’t really know what to say to that. It was true, after all. He felt a bit guilty about making them worry, but he couldn’t see how to make it better.
“Have you thought about trying another mind healer? Maybe a Muggle psychologist could be of help, as well?”
Harry groaned.
“You know how that went. I don’t even think there are any more well-qualified mind healers left out there for me to try. And a psychologist is a horrible idea, I’d have to lie so much... it just wouldn’t work.”
“Maybe you should work on finding something to do with your time, then.” She suggested. “Something to keep your mind busy and give purpose? I know you don’t want to be an Auror like Ron, but there are so many other jobs you could try. Didn’t you once say you liked the idea of teaching?”
He had said that. But that was back when the excitement of having survived the war had yet to wear off. The idea still appealed to him even now. He had pleasant memories of teaching at the DA, all things considered. But he wouldn’t know where to start, and it all felt like such a chore. Even so, thinking about it.
“Yeah, maybe. I’ll try to think about it."
Hermione gave her a tiny smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“That’s all I ask, and let me know if you need anything. And, Harry? We are safe now, and you are allowed to be happy.”
Overall, he knew she meant well. But he was oh so tired of people telling him he should be better. Easier said than done and all that.
From lunch hours henceforth, things tended to get a bit foggy. Harry would return home, sometimes to lie down—since being outside and social seemed to take all the little energy he had left away—and other times he would wander about the house picking things up he didn’t remember dropping. Suddenly it would be dinner time and, if it weren’t for Kreacher, he would go straight to bed, stomach empty and shoes still on.
Harry knew this wasn’t the way of living, but he was stuck. Some part of him wanted to change, but he didn’t know where to start. Everywhere he looked, he would be reminded of the war and, if he was being honest, his friends doing better than him made things even worse. He felt guilty, undeserving of their friendship, and frustrated with himself.
***
Harry hadn’t slept in a hundred and twenty hours. Not properly. Not really. He felt like all his blood had been drained and replaced with air. He was now a giant balloon, bound to float around for the rest of his days. He could barely feel his feet inside his shoes, let alone the soles hitting the floor. His eyes took it to focus on nothing; every blink would take a day. His mind turned into fog; his hands into putty. An uneasiness in his stomach he couldn’t rid himself of.
His sleeping pattern had been fucked ever since he could remember, but this kind of insomnia caught him off guard. On Tuesday, he'd made himself a cup of chamomile tea, got into bed, and snuggled with a book. He had slept like a baby. On Wednesday, he made himself a cup of chamomile tea, got into bed, and snuggled with the same book. He tried to sleep, he really did, but it refused to come. Sleep had abandoned him without any explanation. He even tried the exercises that one mind healer had taught him. He went slow and steady, mindfully, from the crown of his head to the bottom of his toenails until there was no body part left to relax, and still nothing. He then made his room super quiet—there was quite a lot of traffic that day—but that didn’t work either. He tried different ambient sounds such as gentle rain, purring, harps and Tibetan bowls, thunderstorms and halestorms and hurricanes and city sounds, country sounds, water sounds, fans, keyboards, clocks, fire, birds. None of it helped. By the time it was Friday, he felt like hitting every door he had to walk through headfirst.
And so, he decided to go.
On the 5th of November, Harry Potter sought out an old wizard realtor. He was a short, round man in a black suit, his nose scarlet red and bloated from years of drowning in whiskey, and he smelled strongly of cigars. Harry’s nose scrunched up immediately.
Mr. Realtor was not bothered by this, merely sat in his study waiting for Harry to talk. One thick hand held his belly while, with the other one, he curled the tip of his long mustache upwards between his index finger and thumb. Head tilted slightly to the left, he studied Harry over his moon-shaped glasses.
“Find me a place far away,” Harry demanded eventually, “at the end of the world.”
The man in front of him nodded along as if he understood:
“Of course, Mr. Potter.”
This is how Harry Potter found himself in a small wooden cottage, with a two-plane roof that would let the snow slide down during wintertime, in a place where the trees are so old they turn gray and grow beards that stained green from the wind and the ocean mist. Somewhere where the only company he kept was weird-looking llamas and the odd bug that survived the cold. Harry would trek riverbanks every day, and then, late at night, he would go to bed listening to the sound of his heart, feeling like he was underwater.
And his days went like this:
Every morning, he would wake up at eight o’clock, brew himself a large pot of coffee, and go outside. He would sit on the little bench that looked over the crystal-clear lake in front of his cabin. He would sit there, gripping his cup tightly with both hands, searching for warmth, sipping slowly, watching the heat fog up his glasses, listening to trees being stirred by morning air, wallowing in the calm.
Once done, he would carefully leave the coffee mug balancing on some rocks and walk over to the lake. The first time he put his feet in the cold water, they almost froze and fell off, but he still leaned down, cupped his hands together underwater, and took a refreshing sip.
He would eat lunch every day by the fire to stay warm. Sometimes he would put the food in a Tupperware and find some flat rock or tree trunk to sit and enjoy nature. Hiking had quickly become one of his favourite activities and how he passed most of his time. He would walk along the thick forest for hours on end, picking up berries while breathing the mountain air. Now and then, he would follow the sound of water. It would usually lead him to small streams and the occasional river, but sometimes a small waterfall would be waiting at the end of the path, and he would get to be bathed by the meltwater. Those days were his favourites.
Before it got too dark, he would come back to the cabin, body tired and worn from the exercise. After a hasty meal to replenish his energies, he would sit by the fire again with a cup of smoking hot tea. He had transfigured an old sweater into a precarious but sturdy armchair that sat in front of a huge window looking out on the mountains. If it weren’t for how uncomfortable the chair was to sit on, he would’ve fallen asleep right there every single night. Instead, he would finish his tea and go lie down. The sounds of nature added to his weariness meant he was asleep in mere seconds.
Like this, Harry finally slept like a baby.
***
On the fourth week of his retirement from society, he ran into a mystery to be solved.
It was a grey Monday morning. It would drizzle now and then, and the air was thick and heavy. A little rain never scared Harry away, though, so he would go out even if it were pouring. But since his usual path was prone to flooding, he decided to change it up. Instead of following his usual trail to the east and away from the lake, he decided to venture out towards the mountains on the far west, the same ones he watched every night through his windows. He made himself a quick salad, grabbed some snacks, put on his wellies, and took off.
Slowly and carefully, he walked along the border of the water, which was no easy task. The trail started fine, but it steadily got narrower and narrower until it disappeared into the shallowest part of the lake. Harry found himself splattering water all around, thankful for his choice of shoes. When he made it to the other side, he saw a forest come alive at the base of the hills. It was vastly different from the one around his cabin. The trees there were taller, greener, and instead of greenish beards, they were all covered in fluorescent mould. The ones that stood up tall and strong were circled by those that had fallen, and Harry found himself having to climb over rotten trunks to keep moving forward. He could have vanished them, but the thought of disturbing nature with his magic unsettled him. Forests renew themselves, he remembered hearing once.
As he followed an imaginary path, he felt himself going upwards. He went around an unusually wide tree trunk and saw the landscape change. His view wasn't being blocked any longer, so he was allowed to see several metres ahead. The trail ended abruptly in front of him, and the forest continued far below where Harry stood. He could see the horizon now, covered in white-tipped mountains. He heard the sound of running water and, once again, felt compelled to search for it.
Unfortunately, there was really no way to go down; either he went back—retracing his footsteps—or jumped over the cliff. He saw no other way but to resort to his wand. He wanted to be as subtle as possible with his magic, though, so he waighed his options. Briefly, he considered summoning his broom but immediately thought better of it; it would probably hit something on its way to him. In the end, he decided to cast a levitating charm on himself and slowly lower his body to the ground.
Once he made it down, the sound of water was even louder, somewhere to my left, he thought. Unfortunately, he was about to run ahead when the sound of thunder disturbed the quietness, startling him out of his thoughts. A second later, it was pouring. His little adventure was rained out for the day.
The next day, the sky was as clear as can be. So naturally, a second attempt was in order.
Harry was determined to find this river, or whatever it was. The previous night’s dreams had been plagued with long paths that led nowhere, rain so heavy not even a water-repelling spell on his glasses allowed him to see through it, and illusions of water that would turn into mud every time he got close enough to touch them. He had resolved to see to the end of it.
At twelve o’clock, he put on his heavy coat and trekking shoes—lunch and snacks forgotten—and stepped out. He hurriedly bordered the lake, not caring if his feet got wet, eager to get to the forest. He started almost running up, jumping over dead nature, dodging bushes with incredible agility, until he made it to the end of the path. He stopped there, breathing heavily, and looked down over the cliff. He leaned on a tree for a minute, attempting to catch his breath, his calves burning from the effort. When he felt his heart slow down a bit, he went for his wand to cast a Wingardium Leviosa, but some ruffling behind him made him jump. The hairs at his nape stood up; he wasn’t alone. He whipped his head around immediately to see what—or who—it was, but the sudden movement made his legs give out; Harry was falling. Despite his panic, he still managed to apparate seconds before hitting the ground; in the middle of his kitchen.
As soon as his heart settled back into his chest, he started setting up stronger wards. If somebody was going through the trouble of following him to such inhospitable places, their intentions couldn’t possibly be any good. So on top of having this bloody task he couldn’t seem to complete, he now had the added risk of some unknown presence watching him. He should’ve been scared, but the thrill of it all ran through his veins and warmed his blood. Harry was excited. This he knew how to deal with. The danger of being chased was so familiar that he could almost laugh.
Harry tossed and turned all night; the excitement for what the next day would bring him took away his sleep. It was ok, though. He was used to running on coffee and willpower only. Little rest was no bother.
The sun rose at four fifty-six. Harry was up and running by five.
His feet carried him forward with little hesitation, his body already familiar with its surroundings. At that point, it was almost as if Harry had always lived there. This time, however, he made sure to keep his steps light and airy. His mind did tend to wander on these little trips, but he kept it sharp for once. If there were any noises that didn’t belong to the forest, Harry would know.
When it was time to lower himself down, he was disappointed to realize he was utterly alone. Perhaps his stalker wasn’t a morning person.
There was something different, though. Harry was used to birds having put themselves away by the time he was about and exploring, so he rarely saw any. This early in the morning, however, he seemed to be crushing their feeding time. Large black woodpeckers had been flying circles over him since he got into the thickest of the forest. Their red heads would turn whenever they passed him, looking—curiously—while maintaining a certain distance. The more he moved forward, the more they seemed to get comfortable with his presence and start to fly even closer, singing loudly right next to his ears.
He decided not to worry too much about it—what could a couple of red-headed birds do to him, after all—and simply ignored them. Everything would’ve been fine, really, if only, being preoccupied with waving his wand around, Harry hadn’t mindlessly swatted at one who got a little too close. Before he could utter a spell, his hair was being yanked with unbelievable strength. Harry lost his footing and stumbled back, striving to protect his own head, grabbing at the angry bird to let go of him, cursing heartily and trying not to hurt it at the same time. When the woodpecker of hell finally let go of him without warning, Harry’s left foot got caught in an upturned root, making him fall and roll over a couple of metres to the left.
As he apparated away—again—to avoid the impact, he distantly heard the sound of laughter.
By the fourth time he ventured out, Harry was angry. He felt the whole place had it out for him. All the more reason to try again. As many times as it took.
He didn’t even make it all the way around the lake on this attempt.
Behind that one ñirre tree that was severely bent towards the southwest as if perpetually blown by the strongest wind, a man was waiting for him. Harry cursed himself for not having heard him, and he was just about to draw his wand when he thought better of it. He didn’t even know if this man was a wizard, and besides, even if his instincts were telling him to be careful, they weren’t firing alarms in his head. Yet.
“I’ve seen you around,” the man said. Harry regarded him expectantly.
He wore a long winter coat that seemed to have once been grey but was now grass-stained green almost in its entirety. His boots were peeled at the toes and dirty. Taking in the man’s sunken face and hollowed eyes, Harry thought that if it wasn’t for the fact that living out in the open in this area was simply not possible, he would assume him homeless.
“I’ve lived in these forests my entire life. I know every dent in every tree and every turn of every leaf; I know the sound it makes when it rains and where the puddles grow first. I know all of it better than the palm of my hand.”
The man spoke softly, with a slight raspiness to his voice. When he started moving forwards, Harry took a step back.
The man stopped.
“Something’s been different since you arrived. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but you’ve done something. Something to the air, I know. I know. And you,” he lifted a shaky hand and pointed his squalid finger at Harry, “ought to stop. Others like you have been where you are. What you look for isn’t here, boy.”
Before Harry could think of what to say, the man turned around and disappeared into a sea of green.
Few wizards have settled here, Mr. Realtor had said, and none that I personally know of. This place leads you to believe you’re the last one on earth, but others could be hiding anywhere, their footsteps drowned out by forest sounds. So I would be mindful of your magic. You might not know until it’s too late.
Harry wasn't too worried, really. The more he thought about it, the more he doubted this filthy man was the one who had been following him around. Perhaps, he'd been watching Harry from a distance, especially if he lived in the area. He just didn’t seem healthy enough to walk behind him for hours. Besides, Harry's mind kept going back to the laughter he had heard. He was sure he had heard that laugh before.
A fifth attempt could be considered insane by some, but Harry had something to prove. It was one of those rare days where not even a slight breeze could be felt. The air was cool, yet still, not a peep could be heard. Harry felt no rush and kept his steps steady but unhurried. He made his descent without stalling or second-guessing, and tried to keep his cool as the sound of water grew louder and louder. He was getting close.
The trail led him to a wide and deep river, with rapids that created such turbulence that Harry felt water drops on his face. Standing in front of it, he could see the noise being born from where the strong current hit the river stones, halting and jumping, spraying its surroundings. Harry remained there, watching the river for what felt like hours, getting lost in it. He leaned over carefully and saw himself staring back, black hair standing awkwardly, red-nosed, and shivering a bit. He didn’t see his terrified fourteen-year-old self, about to jump into the unknown, frozen by nerves. He didn’t see his seventeen-year-old self, reflected on a frozen lake, knowing he’ll have to dive in and risk freezing to death. He didn’t see himself across the water, standing still, scared and hopeful, waiting for something that hadn't ever been there. Maybe removing himself from his own life was finally helping him forget. Maybe, like this, he would be able to move on—one day.
A soft wind started to blow and hit Harry’s wet skin in a way that made his arm hair stand up and his body shake. He decided to move and warm up his muscles. He started walking upstream, his hands tucked away in his pockets, his feet stiff. Somehow, he hadn’t noticed how cold it had gotten, but every breath he took fogged up the air, and the tips of his wet hair were beginning to frost. With every step, it got even colder, and soon enough the scenery changed as a sheet of white covered everything around him. When it got too much, Harry had to cast a warming charm on himself to keep moving, or else he would’ve turned into an ice statue.
Harry had been walking for so long that he wondered how the sun was still up. Maybe he had stepped into an alternate universe where the sun rose for days on end, and the earth still managed to freeze all over.
These thoughts abandoned him abruptly when he reached the end of the river. Or, rather, the beginning.
In front of him was a mountain so high the sky was barely a thin strip painted blue; it was covered by glittering white. The sunlight reflected on the ice, creating rainbows that went all the way down to when the ice was no longer ice but meltwater disappearing in the glacial lake. Harry felt his breath catch in his throat and his eyes cloud over.
“Doesn’t seem real, does it?”
Harry had his wand out before he could make sense of anything. Pointing it directly at Malfoy’s heart. His instincts were going haywire, screaming danger. That’s who the laugh belongs to. Malfoy had been following him. All this time it had been him... but why? Why would Malfoy, of all people, follow him here? He decided that straight-up asking him was the way to go.
That got him a quite exaggerated—and overdramatic—eye roll.
“You don’t own the rights to fucking off to the middle of nowhere, Potter.”
“You expect me to believe that this,” Harry responded, getting the words out slowly and clearly, gesturing to both of them, “is a coincidence?”
Malfoy shifted and started to look downright pissed off. “I see absolutely nothing has changed.”
Without explaining himself any further, Malfoy glanced at Harry’s wand still pointing at him, raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, and turned around. As he did, his expensive-looking outdoor robes bunched up in the air, blowing Harry’s hair on their way back down, tickling his forehead.
“Malfoy, wait." Because, why not? "Would you like some tea?”