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Harry lived the life many would dream of after his defeat of Voldemort just short of two years ago. He had finally gotten one over the so called Lord, and could live his life in peace.
He could see his friends without the lines of stress indenting in their once soft features, go on dates without checking over his shoulder, and he could bittersweetly raise his godson with the price he never wanted to pay.
It was a haze of utter normality he wrapped himself up in, and basked in it for awhile. You would think finally beating the man who had ridiculed his life from birth would finally set Harry at rest, so many others did too.
See, that’s the thing with expectations. People have them, and they run with it. So when the Wizarding World watched as Harry Potter, Winner of The Second Wizarding War went about his life with fruitful smiles and a gleam in his manor they took it with pride. They had been freed from their turmoil, and presumed Harry Potter had too.
It was true, for awhile, Harry granted. The months after the war was rough, people mourning and healing from life long burdens they had been demolished with. Harry had his fair share of that, but after the recommended three months of allowing grief that had some how been implemented and ended with a ‘Get back to work’ status quo, Harry went with it. He allowed himself the freedom of pubs and friends and home cooked dinners, ignoring that feeling that welled up within him for as long as he could.
It didn’t matter that he couldn’t sleep, and was becoming close to a mastery in Glamours to cover the soul wrenching form his body had taken on. The weight he had lost prodded him as sharp as his hip bone did into the mattress he lay on nightly, never to be regained. The smile he had trained himself well in since childhood, charming and convincing of a life he could only dream he would truly reach. Couldn’t let anyone onto the truth in his early years, now could he?
He looked the part that everyone wanted him to, and he rolled with it. It clenched his heart sinfully that some of his closest friends seemed to take his persona with stride, never noticing the longing dissociated stare Harry frequently drifted into, albeit accidentally.
He’d curse himself for losing the happy go lucky outlook he had worked so hard on, then sag in an unfortunate mix of disappointment and relief when no one noticed it.
Harry took caring for Teddy like his life depended on it, and he welcomed the role of doting Godfather like a hug from a long needed parent. Desperate. He would see Teddy everyday, whether it be in Grimmauld Place where he often shared a lovely tea and catchup with Andromeda, or in his own apartment where Teddy’s bedroom was rife with plush toys and colourful walls.
You’d often see him with the 2 year old propped up on his side, held delicately as he pointed out marvellous displays of magic as he walked down Diagon Alley. People coo’d at the boy, and gave sickly sweet thanks to Harry when they saw him. It made Harry feel physically sick, but of course no one noticed it.
Teddy was always brought back to his grandmother one way or another, but often blubbered about wanting to see “Hawwy” again. It made him genuinely smile, a rare ability to hold these days.
He found solace sometimes in his visits to Hermione and Ron, where they would share a drink and talk about work and their days. Ever the loving couple, the two would often be curled up on another couch across from Harry. The warmth in their eyes when directed at one another was a sweet sight, but one that guiltily made Harry feel more isolated over on the other couch himself.
He and Ginny had ultimately decided that it was for the best for the relationship to end, and Harry couldn’t be more thankful. It would’ve been a disaster, he couldn’t live with someone and keep his Glamours up. It would exhaust him further than he already felt currently. Ginny and Neville were a year into their relationship now, and that made Harry happy as he could’ve been. He was thankful Ginny had found someone.
It didn’t however help the loneliness. Harry would finish up the night with his friends, and head home to his apartment. Alone. Discarding the Glamours he had come to form a borderline relationship with, Harry would sit on the couch for hours. Not reading, not listening to music. Just sitting.
His mind would wander into dark crevices he kept away all day, and the cold numbness would creep in and tickle at his skin. Alluring. Wanting. Needing. He could practically melt into his couch with the hole in his chest he felt about getting up and doing something. His bed sang to him, hymns about how it could hold him better than anyone in his life could.
Harry was no preacher, but he fell to his knees to it every night. Begging. Begging for a release only he himself could give. Everyone thought he was so… cheerful. This person, who had been made of him, it wasn’t Harry. Harry didn’t know who he was, only that he was tired. He felt the bone crushing weight of himself whenever he tried to get out of bed, the sag of his shoulders to pull him to the floor and never get up again.
It was a month after his 19th birthday, and September was waiting for him. Harry didn’t know if he would stay till the new year. 2001 didn’t seem optimistic. Nothing felt optimistic anymore. He had been dragging this dead weight he called his body for long enough, and although he tried his best to keep that beautiful expected facade up, it was slipping, and fast.
He ought to make arrangements with Gringott’s.
*
Something was wrong with Harry, Hermione was sure of it. He had seemed good, smiles deeper than she could’ve ever thought to see and a kick in his step fuelled by a life of happiness. He always laughed at jokes and stopped by for a drink, ribbing her and Ron for finally getting together as she blushed to it.
She watched him with his Godson, the picture of perfect familial bond that Harry had yearned for for as long as she had known him for. She watched him talk to Molly, kissing her cheek and bringing over his own cooking and eating with all the Weasleys. The light, airy essence that followed him was undeniable.
She should’ve been utterly pleased and jumping for joy that Harry had finally learnt peace in his life, but she wasn’t.
Because Hermione watched. And watched. And watched. She had a keen eye, one that had followed Harry’s behaviour patterns over the years and learnt them like the back of her own hands, and this wasn’t it.
From an outsiders perspective, he seemed full of life and energy. Ready to take on the world in his next nonsense mission. That was exactly what was wrong with it, it was too perfect. Too… happy. It was morbid for Hermione to think that, but it was true.
She didn’t know if Ron had caught onto it, that his best friend clearly wasn’t how he seemed. He had given her a quizzical look when she mentioned it, and brushed it off lightly, but she hadn’t missed the way Ron kept a closer eye on Harry the next time he came over with the smile of a thousand suns plastered over his face.
That’s when she first noticed it. She had always taken Harry’s new hobby of smiling at anything as a charm, and a gift. She didn’t opt to look a little closer, and hadn’t planned to even with her newfound distrust in Harry’s mental state. But that’s when the best, or worst in this case, things dawned on you, when you least expect it.
As they enjoyed a third glass of wine, provided and presented by Harry in a far too royal manner shown as a joke that made the three laugh in childish giggles they never left behind from their school years, Hermione watched as Harry smiled lightly at Ron’s recount of his day at work.
When Ron cracked a rather immature joke, in Hermione’s opinion, and Harry laughed at it, she tracked his features subtly. And there it was.
It never reached his eyes. His face creased with a soft laughter, acted to a point Hermione should’ve applauded Harry for, but the smile never reached his eyes. They stayed the same, and delving a little deeper than she wanted to at first, they looked empty.
Harry had had his fair share of displeasure in life, to put it lightly, but his eyes always shown that piercing green, later in life coupled with a gleam that could woo a grandmother into giving you her inheritance.
But it didn’t. The eyes never lie, and they were shouting at Hermione. Pleading. Grasping, and suffocating. The eyes were a gateway to the soul, she had read once, and Hermione had never believed it before until she made eye contact with Harry, and felt a chill spread across her body.
Empty.
He had asked if she was okay, and she quickly regathered herself before saying yes and the night resumed as if nothing had happened. Harry had left bidding his goodbyes with a kiss on the cheek to her and a rather rough but friendly clap on the shoulder to Ron, and promised to be round soon again. It was all too perfect.
She mulled this over in bed, nervously chewing at her lip as Ron climbed in next to her.
“Somethings wrong with Harry.” She said, matter of factly.
Ron raised an eyebrow at her.
“This again?”
“Yes, Ron. This again” She sighed, meeting his eyes that were full of life and love.
“How come you think so?” He asked, settling himself back on the headboard.
And so Hermione explained, in detail her theory that she hoped wasn’t a practical. He listened to her, and chimed in every so often for clarification or his own opinion.
“Okay, ‘Mione. We’ll talk to him tomorrow, even so to put your mind at ease.” He replied at the end of the conversation, kissing her lightly and holding her tightly.
She smiled at him, and the room turned dark as the night began. But Hermione couldn’t sleep, a pit of dread was bubbling away anxiously in her stomach, and she couldn’t shake it.
Something was wrong with Harry.
*
Harry woke up, again. Shame.
Sometimes he wished to a deity that he knew mocked him daily to just take him in the night. Save him the effort of doing it himself. Alas, life’s new hobby was to laugh at him and perhaps chuck a few tomatoes for comedic effect.
He stayed in bed for a few hours, becoming one with the mattress he sort of wanted to name with the amount of time he spent wrapped up in its arms. Merlin, he was losing it.
He had been to Gringotts the previous day and seen Hermione and Ron, and put on the act of the person they wanted and needed him to be. Harry had sorted out his will, naming Teddy and the Weasleys to be the sole beneficiaries to his vaults. Hermione got all the books in each vault, and a sum of money to do with what she pleased.
A shudder passed through him at the finality of his decision the previous day, but it barely tracked the surface of de-convincing Harry. He knew he wanted to do this, to escape the brutal punishment that was mundane life. Nothing could convince him otherwise, he had come to terms with it.
He wondered if his parents could see this, see him. Giving up and relinquishing himself to his own hand, he wondered what they would think of it. Well, he wouldn’t have to wait long.
Hermione was watching him far too closely for his liking yesterday, and it made his stomach lurch. If she knew, there was nothing that could stop her from figuring it out and stopping him. The thought made his bones ache, the idea of having to keep on living through this mental deterioration that ate at his very soul and beat his heart to unrecognisable heights.
He had to do it today. Now, preferably.
Harry was sure there was better things in life, this grand alternative to suicide that he really should take, but he couldn’t bring it in him to care.
It was lunch by the time he got himself out from the cocoon of his duvet, and he surprised himself by showering. Guess he wanted to look his best self for both the living and the dead today, he joked to himself. It didn’t land.
He cleaned the apartment, and put his things in order and labelled them. He had a real step in him, knowing what was to come. With the apartment far better than it was before, and his belongings sorted and addressed, he sat down at his desk and brought out a piece of parchment and a ball-point pen because he wasn’t insane enough to still use a quill without the needling restriction of school.
He decided to write to Hermione solely, he couldn’t bring himself to write to anyone else with heartfelt apologies and reasonings multiple times over. Hermione was smart, he could list a few factors and she would connect the dots of his behaviour and she would know. She’d know.
It was a little cruel, Harry could admit. To leave this world with little more than a page of why, when everyone thought he was doing so good and happier than he’d ever been before. Well, that’s the thing with expectations.
With a heavier heart than usual, he wrote the last evidence of his life anyone would receive.
He could feel tears springing to his eyes as he signed his name for the last time, adding a heart at the end for effect he knew would dock him a few points in the afterlife. He sealed the envelope near and proper, and addressed Hermione for the last time. He added hearts over the ‘i’ on that.
He had opted for a potion that would ordinarily put him to sleep, but the overdose would really put him to sleep. He didn’t want to traumatise his friends further with a swaying body or a blood bath of red the Gryffindor common room would be envious of.
He stood up from his desk, pushed the chair in and would lay the note delicately and neat on his bedside table when he moved there. He changed into a simple hoodie and soft joggers, checked himself in the mirror and said goodbye to it.
Harry did one last walkover of his apartment, and said goodbye to his plant he cared for. Looked out the window at the view someone else would have when they stepped into Harry’s grave in the years to come. The sky was beautiful, as it melted with clouds and children cheers floated dutifully towards him from the street below.
He smiled sadly at him, and wished Teddy well in his head. His body was aching to lay down once more, his head filled with such poisonous thoughts no antidote could be brewed for it. It was a fast acting poison, but Harry slowed it down for one last glance at the kitchen he starved himself in daily.
A last look at the photos that adorned his walls, filled with laughter and Teddy’s first steps. Harry’s 18th birthday and one hilarious photo of Ron falling down the stairs that Hermione had managed to nab. Harry felt himself choke up, so he turned to the living room.
A last look at the couch Hermione and Ron had sat so comfortably in last week, one they would soon learn to despise. The fridge had been emptied, aside from two more bottles of their favourite wine Harry had wanted to give them at a later date. As it came, it looked as if the only ones drinking it would be in all black, staring warily at the new headstone that would sit next to his parents.
The thought of his parents made him smile sadly, and he walked back through to his room and shut the door behind him for the last time. Picking up the 5 bottles of potion from within his desk drawer, he crawled into bed and said hello.
He downed each bottle, the last two with difficulty and felt himself grow weak. The lull of darkness pulled him gently into a slumber he would loathe to wake from. He wouldn’t, he never would.
With the last of his dying bodies energy, he curled in on his side laying down on the bed, and said goodbye.
*
The day after her and Ron’s conversation, Hermione paced constantly throughout the day waiting for him to return for work. She had heard radio silence from Harry, which wasn’t too unusual but he often kept up correspondence throughout the day. She had heard nothing.
The pit in her stomach only ate at her stronger, and she could feel true dread tasting her. Something was really, really wrong with Harry.
At around 10pm, Ron finally returned from work, exhausted and sweaty. He gave her one look down at her anxiety ridden state and begged to just go see Harry tomorrow. That he was sure to be okay, and he was tired and really needed his bed and girlfriend.
That had eased Hermione a little, and she conceded to see Harry tomorrow. Ron assured Hermione lightly about the lack of anything from Harry today, reminding her of the other times he did and he was okay then too.
Still, she drifted off into a very, very fitful sleep.
When morning came, it was to the smell of breakfast being cooked in the kitchen, and she smiled and made her way through. Wrapping her arms around her boyfriend, kissed his neck and wished him good morning.
They ate breakfast quietly, with Ron promising to come check on Harry during his lunch break, to which Hermione agreed with reluctantly. Harry still hadn’t reached out, so she sent a letter through the Floo to see if he would respond.
He didn’t.
That only made Hermione more anxious, silence was not good from Harry, but a complete no response was quite frankly knee weakeningly worrisome. She held herself strong until Ron returned from work for an at-home lunch break, which was to go see Harry anyways.
He squeezed her hand tightly, and they opted to walk to his apartment to help clear their minds. Hermione didn’t like that, she wanted to go over immediately and slap Harry silly for the unwarranted silent treatment. However, she couldn’t deny the slightly chilly air yet bright sunshine helped.
They rounded to Harry’s apartment after 30 minutes, and she fished out her key for it to save Ron from bumbling about his pockets for his own.
Pressing the key in and unlocking the door, she called his name out as she hung her coat up.
“Harry! It’s me and Ron, are you here?” Her voice called out, and echoed dangerously into the empty living space.
Ron followed suit and hung up his coat, walking about and looking for Harry.
“Harry!” Hermione shouted again, peeking round corners to check if he was playing the worst game of hide and seek she’d ever known.
“Is he in his office?” Ron asked.
She checked and it was empty, and told Ron so. They gave each other a withering look, and the pit began to rebuild in her stomach.
“Hey, I’m sure he’s okay. Let’s check his bedroom, yeah?” Ron said with a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes anymore.
Hermione swallowed with difficulty, and tentatively walked down the hallway to where Harry’s bedroom was at the very end. She checked the bathroom too, even if he was in it and was embarrassed.
The walk to the bedroom put another shake in her legs with every step, the shut door staring her down as if to dare her to open it.
Ron stood behind her when they reached the door, and gave her hand another squeeze as she reached and turned the door knob, pushing it open lightly to reveal Harry’s far too neat room.
Hermione thought she could be sick with nerves, and was really giving her best go at convincing herself everything was okay. Harry would be sleeping or something, he’d wake up and it’ll all be a big laugh.
That thought sounded far distant as they walked in and their eyes honed in on his bed, where, true to her mind Harry did lay.
Oh, did Harry lay.
Their friend, Harry, was under the covers, wrapped in on his side, with his eyes shut and skin sickly pale.
“Harry?” Hermione said quietly, voice cracking.
Ron walked in front of her and towards the bed, kneeling down next to it and giving his best friend a small shake. A coaxing to wake. Harry didn’t move.
Harry didn’t move when Ron did it again with a little more force and panic in his voice as he called his name. Hermione stepped forward and her eyes glazed over at Harry’s bedside table.
An envelope, sealed and placed purposefully.
“Ron-“ She choked out, and his eyes darted to meet hers as a shakey finger pointed it out.
Ron looked over and saw what she saw, and immediately turned back and started shaking Harry harder, and pulled him to lay on his back rather than his side.
Harry moved fluidly, and his arm bounced lightly on the mattress when he had been turned fully, head lolling to the side with his curls falling in his shut eyes.
Hermione’s choked sob turned into a guttural wrench from her throat, and she wobbled and fell next to Ron as he now stared frozen at the sight of his best friend, chest no longer rising.
Clinks could be heard from the other side of Harry, and she saw the potion bottles that ripped another mix of a sob and a scream from her. She placed her hand on Harry’s chest, trying to convince herself it would rise as it had for so many years before, but it never did.
It never would again.
Tears swarming her vision and drowning the floorboards, she collapsed in a heap on the floor against Ron as she heard telltale signs of the rare sound of him breaking down. His arms found his way around her and they shook and weeped with a force that could burn a thousand moons.
Harry was gone. Harry was in his bed, never to wake and leave it. Hermione clutched Ron’s shirt, and listened intensely to his breathing and his heartbeat as she cried, as if it could run away so easily as Harry’s had.
Two hearts beat and greeted the tears of ignorance and first stage grief, and one lay still with the peace it had yearned since birth.