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Harry ranged between deep contemplation, and a void of numbness. He could spend hours thinking of a million things, things that altered his perception of the world. And other times, he would sit and feel nothing. The War was kind to nobody, it spared no soul, and spared no life. The line between life and death had thinned in the year building up to it, and only became fainter as he grew. By the age of twenty-two, Harry could not recognise the line.
When one comes to the conclusion that they are not only willing to sacrifice their happiness, but their life, for a world that was cruel, it was something that shook them. Coming to that conclusion at the age of seventeen was something a child should never have to do, yet Harry felt as though he had no choice. Giving his life to save others appeared to be the most sane decision. A typical moral dilemma, would you end one life to save five? Or hundreds? Or would you risk hundreds of lives to save one? The conclusion appears to be painfully straight forward; risk the one. That was Harry’s thought process.
One life to save hundreds, if not millions, of both Muggle and Wizards alike. They say that the age of seventeen comes with a new level of radiance, particularly in the Wizarding World. It’s when someone begins to see the world through the lens of an adult, when life begins to truly form. Harry was robbed of that. He hopes one day he would get to meet that version of himself. He was robbed of the opportunity to go out and have fun, robbed of that radiance. In its place was a boy. A mere boy, with the world in his grasp. It left blisters, it left callouses and scars. It burned him until he felt as though he was crumbling into ash that clogged his lungs.
Following the War, Harry was praised, unrelentingly. His cheeks grew tired from the fake smiles for newspaper articles, the novelty of him being spread. When he was nineteen, Harry potter realised that people craved novelty. They craved something golden that they can cling to. They craved the ability to say,
“I went to school with him!”
“He saved my life!”
They clung to the concept of a ‘Chosen One’ to solve their problems.
It may be sad, but this is what Harry found himself thinking about most nights. The fact that people failed to consider the fact that their saviour was nothing more than a boy. A teenager. As much as he hated it, and hated himself for it, Harry adored the praise. Finally, he was being appreciated. People believed him. He was almost a new shiny toy for them to toss between one another. But, as he grew, he contemplated whether people would still want him when he was nothing new.
As he sat in his flat, in the living that was not as clean as it could be, he succumbed to the numbness as opposed to the contemplation. It was simply easier. It was far easier than having to come to terms with the trauma he had yet to unfold. In another universe, is a seventeen year old Harry who was that radiance. Who can laugh without care of if lives are falling due to his ignorance, who can love fiercely and openly. Harry was incredibly happy for that alternate version of himself, but he can’t help but cry himself to sleep at the anger he felt in the fact that it wasn’t him experiencing that.
He took another swig of his whiskey, basking in the warmth that took over his chest. The sensation of that warmth, coupled with having something to hold onto grounded Harry. He tried to avoid acting in such a way when Draco was home. But Draco was not home. He was on a visit to a hospital on the other side of the country to assist a group of Healer’s. Draco had such a wonderful purpose, and Harry was immensely proud of him. Yet, he couldn’t help but feel equally as jealous. He couldn’t help but feel that his only purpose was to die. To die without question, to accept his fate. That was what Dumbledore had expected of him when he took Harry under his wing.
In Harry’s state, he spent a lot of his time contemplating lines of morality. Dumbledore was undoubtedly a great man, in that his power was great. Yet, Harry could no longer bring himself to wholly trust him upon finding out that he had merely raised Harry to die. That only created a further turmoil within Harry that he, in all honesty, did not feel like attending to.
In his state of numbness, Harry was clueless to the click of the door unlocking, as well as to the gentle footsteps that he would normally recognise anywhere. Instead, he stayed staring at the glass in his hand. The way the whiskey swirled slightly, the golden colour of it that painfully reminded Harry of the Fiend-Fyre that was nearly the fate of Draco. His eyes pricked with tears at the reminder.
“Harry?” Draco whispered.
Harry jumped slightly, turning to face the other. Draco stood in the doorway, his hands holding his briefcase delicately in front of him. Draco always did things with such delicacy, Harry admired it. He also handled Harry with delicacy, touching him oh so gently unless Harry asked otherwise. Harry had never felt more safe than when he was in Draco’s hands.
“Draco.” Harry responded softly, unable to fight the small smile that crept up his lips.
Yet at the same time, he couldn’t help but fight the tears that continued to prick at his eyes. Upon noticing this, Draco dropped his briefcase as though it was worthless, and rushed over to Harry as though he was worth everything. At the thought of this, Harry couldn’t help but choke on a sob. He didn’t want to be everything to the world. He wanted to be everything to Draco. But who is he if not everything to the world? If not the golden saviour?
“What’s wrong, love?” Draco muttered, crouching down in front of Harry and swiping his tears lightly with his thumb.
“I think I had a bit too much to drink tonight.” Harry mumbled, hiccuping slightly from a combination of his tears and the alcohol.
“Oh, Harry.” Draco whispered, so gently.
Harry’s tears cascaded at this. Which only seemed to startle Draco further, as he moved to sit with Harry on the sofa, pulling the brunette against his chest.
“I can feel time moving Draco, and it hurts.” Harry sobbed out, clutching to Draco’s shirt.
“What do you mean?” Draco asked, but not in a way that made Harry ridiculous. Rather, in a way that made him feel safe, heard. As though Draco truly wanted to understand.
“I should be better, Draco. I should- I’m only getting worse. The world doesn’t want a broken saviour. They want their Chosen One, but I don’t think I can be him anymore.”
Draco ran his hands through Harry’s hair, which was his go to when calming Harry. It worked every time, but in this moment, Harry could not halt the sobs that forcefully wrenched themselves from his chest.
“You don’t need to be a saviour, Harry. You can just be Harry.” Draco murmured, his hand never faulting in its movements through Harry’s hair.
“Who am I if not a saviour? I’m not even- I don’t- God, I knew everything at eighteen. I knew what I needed to do. I thought I knew everything about the world. I’m twenty-two, and I don’t think I know anything. I can’t do this.” Harry gasped out through his tears.
Draco’s free hand moved to rub circles on Harry’s back.
“Nobody knows everything. You don’t need to know everything, and you don’t need to do this anymore Harry. You’re allowed to heal. It’s no secret that people have impossible expectations for you, but those people just want a saviour. They’re stupid enough to not realise the most important thing; you were a child, Harry. You didn’t deserve any of that. You’re learning how the world is, and that’s okay.” Draco reassured him in a hushed tone, and it was so gentle that it only brought Harry to further tears.
“I feel like I’m breaking down more than I’m growing up.” Harry responded, a choked laugh coming out through his tears.
“Healing isn’t linear. You’re allowed to break down. You’re allowed, Harry.”
The idea that Harry was allowed to, well, to feel, had never fully occurred to him. It sounded so ridiculous, in hindsight. But Harry had never had time to feel. He never got a moment to process anything, really. When in a War, there is hardly time to breathe. Harry would experience small bursts of emotion, but he flattened them as quickly as they had appeared. He saw it as weakness, which was something he had never thought until the war. He never thought that living, as opposed to surviving, was weakness until Dumbledore condemned him to survive for as long as he requested. Harry never learnt how to live.
He realised that Draco was teaching him that. Draco taught him the difference between basking and burning. Draco taught him that he no longer needed to just survive. Draco had loved him regardless of his faults, had loved him regardless of whether he was nothing new.
Following the War, Harry never contemplated whether he would get better. Whether he would ever smile carelessly, whether he would sleep peacefully through the night. Sleeping peacefully should not have been a privilege for a seventeen year old boy. Harry discovered that as he grew up.
“And you still want me?” Harry questioned timidly, attempting to bury his head further into Draco’s chest.
However, this was to no avail. Draco gently moved backwards, and Harry whined at the idea of Draco leaving. But this was quickly diminished when Draco gently cradled his cheeks, looking directly into his eyes. Draco’s eyes were the kind of blue that was debated. It was debated whether it was even considered blue. They teetered between a pale blue and a soft grey, and it reminded Harry of a quiet, comfortable day.
“I will still want you when the world believes love is futile.” Draco insists, and Harry can’t help but believe him.
Harry ranges between deep contemplation, and a void of numbness. He contemplated morality, life and death, surviving as opposed to living. When he succumbed to the numbness, he was held through it. He was held by arms that were shaped by the most infamous artists. He was taught that love was something he was allowed to feel. One day, the numbness would fade, and Harry would become encompassed in the radiance that one would only feel at seventeen. Yet, in this moment, in Draco’s arms, Harry felt more warm and radiant than he ever had, even if it wouldn’t last for ever. A moment of Draco’s warmth was enough to reassure Harry that he is able to live.