Chapter Text
It’s funny, actually, how things start; how the “beginning of it all” begins. Does anyone ever see it coming? Is any of it ever worth it, in the beginning, or do people actually give these new things a chance to survive, to let inside their hearts? One can even question the pointlessness of it all, or the lack of it. Does anything have a point? Is that a good thing? Or bad? It doesn’t matter.
That is not the correct answer.
Harry jumps up in his desk, half-asleep, still drooling. He wipes his face off and looks back down at his question paper. He stares lazily at the words sitting neatly on that darn white piece of paper. He should know the answer— he really should— didn’t he go through this topic with Hermione last night? Wasn’t it enough?
No.
Harry’s heart skips a beat.
Where the fuck did that come from?
I would say from ‘within you,’ but that would hardly be true.
So, it’s a random Thursday, right? You have the day planned ahead. You give this damn exam, get coffee with your friends, listen to your friend tell you what an awful job you did at said exam, skip lunch because now you’re in a bad mood because of said friend, do absolutely nothing until night comes, eat too much during dinner because you’re starving from eating nothing since the morning, look at yourself in the mirror and ask yourself, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” brush your teeth, piss, and go to sleep.
You have a plan, right? You know how the day is going to go. So when you hear a literal another voice inside your head, you start wondering if you were dropped on the floor as a newborn baby, or something, because what the actual fuck?
Harry ignores the voice, naturally. Like they all do. They ignore what they cannot comprehend— what they cannot understand. They make excuses and tell themselves lies because that is better than actually admitting that perhaps, life as you know it, isn’t actually so?
Next question then, Harry thinks, I should know the next question.
You don’t, unfortunately for you.
Fuck. This.
Harry, in a fit of whatever you could call it, crumbles up the piece of paper, grabs his bag and makes a run for it. He hears Professor What’s-Her-Name call out his name, but what does he care? His head feels like it is pounding from within and he just cannot fucking take it anymore. So, he leans on a wall after making sure he is away from everyone and everything.
You’re not, though.
Oh God. Oh fuck.
Harry sits down on the floor because his head is killing him. He is not prone to having migraines or getting headaches at all, so what the hell is this? And why now? And why at all? He puts his face in his hands and wishes the world would stop spinning the way it is now.
If you want the world to stop spinning, try acknowledging me for once. Good Lord, you have quite the knack for dramatics, don’t you?
Harry’s heartbeat quickens. By a lot. He grabs his chest with his right hand, as if that would slow it down. He takes a deep breath and imagines a lush, green garden full of roses and dandelions and marigolds and cows and bunnies and birdies.
Fuck it.
”Hello?” He whispers.
The voice snorts.
So, Harry actually talks back to The Voice, and it responds with a fucking snort? If he isn’t crazy enough for conversing with himself, being mocked this way by your own inner conscience must be the cherry on top. This actually fucking sucks.
Now you insult me by calling me your mere subconscious. I am more, for I am me. And, for the matter, hello to you too.
Okay. It replied.
Yes, it replied, indeed.
“What do you want from me?”
Careful, aren’t you? I am hurt. What could I want from you, if not to be heard?
”Okay, I hear you.”
Good. Now—
“Harry, what are you doing here?” Hermione asks, panting, looking as if she had seen a ghost, “We were looking everywhere for you!”
Harry looks up, tensing further. Hermione and worried is never a good combo.
”Are you alright, mate?” Ron speaks up, looking at the smaller boy as if he were a lost dog.
Maybe you are.
Harry gets up and smiles the most fake smile of his life ever. “I’m sorry,” He puts a hand on both of their shoulders, urging them to walk alongside him, “I’m alright, really.”
No, you’re not.
And for once, Harry thinks the voice might be right.