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Harry Potter was a wonder. He was the Chosen One, the Defier of Voldemort, the Boy Who Lived. His reputation preceded him naturally, every witch and wizard had known of him since the initial news came out that You-Know-Who had been defeated, by an infant nonetheless.
Though despite the hundreds of supporters, fan letters, and positive attention from quite literally everyone, Harry Potter felt inferior to his titles as of late.
Perhaps this was just a seasonal occasion. Winter at Hogwarts was fast approaching, with the first few chilly breezes already having made their initial impression of the year. It was natural for the upcoming cold weather to feel overbearing.
It was now the second week of November in his fifth year, Harry had already played in the first Quidditch match of the year and it was nothing below a success. He sometimes pitied the Ravenclaw team, seeing the way people neglected their ability purely based on the assumption that the Chosen One would show no mercy during the game. Though despite a riveting start to an undoubtedly successful season, Harry couldn’t shake off a certain feeling of existential despair he had. He’d experienced this before, but this time around, the feeling lingered longer than it should have.
Harry wasn’t an idiot, though. Despite his pathetic naïveté show he put on for the general public, he wasn’t empty-headed. He’d known this feeling, and ignoring it benefited nobody but the one who caused it. It was originally his idea to ignore the innate thoughts that came to mind whilst trying to locate the root of the problem; he had been mentally drained and wouldn’t dare to make things harder for himself than they already were. Though Halloween had come and gone after weeks of fearing it, and as Harry expected, the feeling didn’t subside. Infact, it got stronger. More powerful, like it was meant to take over him.
The death of his parents consumed him whole in every way possible. He had lost a part of himself, a part of his soul, in a way. He didn’t enjoy telling himself sweet nothings, but his parents had genuinely felt like an actual part of his being, besides being related. It was as though he could feel a flicker of a connection between them within his anatomy. He had felt such warmth when seeing them in his dreams, though for some odd reason, their faces were blurred or simply cast out.
The past two weeks since the anniversary of their murder have been treacherous for him in every way possible, sometimes even speaking with somebody else in regard to anything but his studies felt agonizing. This new behavior hadn’t gone unnoticed by Hermione or Ron, though they let him be and gave him his space since the anniversary of his parents death never really got easier for Harry.
Never in his life had he felt so alone, even when he was sleeping under the stairs with the Dursleys. This feeling was different, it was especially draining. Harry found himself losing his appetite, feeling constantly unwell, as though he had been struck with a curse. With his new found self-inflicted isolation, Harry was left to spiral on his own. During the night, when everyone else was asleep, he would sit in the common room and stare at the raging embers in the fireplace in complete silence.
The crimson flames, which once encapsulated the face of his Godfather, would crackle against the silence of the twilight, embracing him in a blanket of warmth. Harry enjoyed these subtle moments, despite them being mundane, it felt as if those nights spent sat before the raging fire were the only things granting him some sort of clarity in his clouded mind. It was hard to find moments of genuine peace recently, so he naturally drifted towards the roasted scent of cedar wood and spiced chestnuts.
By the third week of November, Hermione had become utterly sick and tired of Harry’s isolating antics. He was casting both her and Ron almost completely out of his life outside of classes, and his brooding around the castle was simply unbearable to watch. Harry often wore an exhausted expression, and was willingly being berated by Snape for dozing off in classes. Not one smirk crept its way up his face in what felt like months. Hermione had noticed his inconsistent eating patterns, waking up late and skipping breakfast, using his wand to play around with his food and generally avoiding consuming anything outside of water, deeming it as a “low appetite”, or whatever ridiculous term he had used to deter his friends from his borderline disordered habits.
At first, Hermione had given him the space she thought he needed. Then he started to avoid speaking to her, or Ron. Ron recalled watching him enter the dormitory at night and stare at the ceiling from under the covers. These staring sessions went on for hours, which is exactly what he had reported back to her. The two weren’t necessarily romantically involved, despite the accusations coming from everybody at Hogwarts (not excluding Rita Skeeter herself). They were simply inseparable, and they refused to let Harry’s newly found aversion towards a social life scare them away from their best friend.
When it became clear that Harry was purposefully excluding herself, his friends made it their mission to find the reason behind it. After several hours of profuse planning, the pair conducted what appeared to be the perfect plan to them: they would drag Harry down to the library and claim they found a book in the restricted section, before forcing him to sit down and study with them. Despite him not showing much interest for anything at all, Hermione knew that there was a higher probability of him wanting to investigate a mysterious book over him sitting down and studying with them.
So Operation Trap-Harry-In-the-Library-And-Find-Out-What’s-Wrong-With-Him (deemed Operation Save Our Quidditch Team Before Angelina Loses It by Ron, which received a judgeful stare from Hermione) was put into action. On Friday afternoon, at approximately half seven, Hermione would storm into the Gryffindor common room to find Harry (who would presumably be lazing around on the sofa) and tell him about a mysterious book that Ron found that allegedly has a connection to the House of Black. They knew he couldn’t turn up anything that had to do with Sirius, especially after their lack of contact, given that he was still in hiding. Harry would then come down to the library and have his hand grabbed by Hermione, who would lead him to their study corner, where they would work on their Potions homework together. Seemed simple enough, really.
Friday rolled around and Harry had spent another mundane day at Hogwarts. He hadn’t taken notice of the day until McGonagell asked him if he had intended to join her club on an excursion on the weekend in Transfiguration. He managed to decline her offer with a somewhat warm smile as she turned to address Neville’s newest toad form. It was then where he opened his book as instructed to page 327. On the bottom of the page, he found small scribbles and letters mashed together. Almost as if it were a code to decipher.
After five minutes spent analyzing the patterns, Harry managed to get a proper sentence out of the mixed up letters and squiggles. The sentence that sat before him stared at him. As though it could speak. Despite the screams of terror caused by Toad Neville jumping on Draco Malfoy’s face, nothing filled the room but silence as Harry read the now deciphered code.
The words on the page spelled out four words: James Potter was here, accompanied by a small smiley face that appeared to wink at Harry. He quietly read the sentence aloud, as if he needed to say it to comprehend its meaning. The words barely escaped his tongue in a weak whisper as the tears welled up and the feeling of despair washed over him like a tsunami of guilt. His thoughts were no longer coherent when he excused himself to the restroom.
Water rushed from the gold faucet and sprayed onto the Gryffndor’s wine red robes as Harry's numb hands desperately grasped onto either side of the sink. He looked at himself in the mirror to see the reflection of his father, staring back at him with a stoic expression. He now felt his knees weaken, his breath timid and shaky, his eyesight now blurry, his glasses lay on the sink.
Harry knew why he was reacting this way. He knew the exact reason behind the miserable months behind him. He knew why he felt an unshakeable sense of shame just for existing.
He didn’t kill them.
He didn’t kill them.
He didn’t kill them.
Looking from his shivering hands, now pale from the tense grip on the sink, Harry tried to meet his glare in the mirror across him. He tried to muster out something, anything through his wallowing sobs. What came out, though, was the thought that had been racing through his mind for years, one that filled him with shame, with humiliation.
“I killed them.”
They died protecting him, after all.
He hadn’t thought about Voldemort. The bastard would’ve tried to kill his parents anyway.
But his parents would have survived, if they weren’t so adamant on protecting their son.
Lily Evans was anything but a coward. She used the strongest of magic to keep her son alive, in hopes that he would live the beautiful life she wanted for him.
James Potter was an incredible wizard. He was just caught without his wand. Because he was busy with Harry.
His father was dead because he was wandless.
He was wandless because he was with his son.
Him being with his son killed him.
His son killed him.
Harry killed him.
He killed them.
He killed them.
He killed them.
Seeing his face look back at him in the mirror was like being haunted by a ghost, one he would never escape. He was the spirit that had been a burden to himself since the anniversary of his parents’ passing.
A brief moment of melancholy is what made him realize that he had spent ten minutes simply staring at himself in the mirror. If anyone had walked in just then, they might’ve thought that he was simply mad.
Harry now put in an effort to recollect himself. He messily splashed ice cold water on himself, causing his face to tense up. Freezing water trickled down his chin and fell promptly on the ground. Just a moment ago, time was frozen, now everything was sickeningly normal. He grabbed his wet glasses and used a drying charm, placing them on his nose before taking a moment to adjust his hair and clothing. The sink was still running, water spraying across. The faucet sputtered inconsistently, serving as white noise. It was enjoyable to listen to the water run. One thing about it that Harry liked is that he could control it, having the ability to turn the water on and off, or manage its temperature to his liking. He liked being in control, or just having control over something.
…
The rest of that afternoon was spent in the common room, staring into the abyss. There was zero desire to confide in anybody on what he had just experienced. Solitude was his sole solution for these types of internal conflicts, and Harry rarely found himself protesting against that measure. For his solitude had brought him peace, something he eagerly desired.
This solitude was now being interrupted by Ron, who bursted into the common room, eyes large and a panicked look painted on his face as his eyes searched the room, finally landing on Harry.
“Harry, mate! You’ve got to come with me. Hermione found a book in the restricted section you have to see!” His enthusiasm concerned the boy sitting in front of him as he raised an eyebrow in suspicion.
“Mind elaborating a bit, or will you continue to ominously stare into my soul with those bulging eyes?” He couldn’t help but roll his own eyes as he made the sarcastic remark. He had neither the time or energy to walk all the way down to the library to deal with whatever foolish activity Hermione wanted to drag him into.
“Come on, the book is bloody brilliant! I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s about the Noble House of Black!” Ron now smirked, knowing Harry wouldn’t dare say no to such an offer. And he was right, since his friend now sat up, correcting his posture before speaking.
“Really? That’s curious.” Harry had missed his godfather, who he held very dear to his heart. Sirius Black was the closest living person to his parents, and he would enjoy reading even the smallest snippet about him. So reluctantly, Harry agreed. He still didn’t feel overly happy, simply satisfied that he could atleast try and numb the feeling by distracting himself.
The walk down to the library was long, but anything but quiet. Ron took it upon himself to fill the distance with idle chit-chat and rambles about any topic he could scavenge from the top of his mind. He knew if Harry left before they even arrived, Hermione would be waiting on him, wand in hand.
Nothing is scarier than Hermione Granger with a wand. Even the first years took notice of that.
Upon arrival, Harry cringed at the sudden change in atmosphere. He hadn’t been to the library in weeks, let alone properly studied. Sounds of chatter and pages being flipped filled the room. It wasn’t too bad, really. The scent of the books was warm and musky, the lighting being a gentle sepia tone. There wasn’t anything remotely threatening about the atmosphere, and Harry took a moment to let out the breath he had been holding in, letting his shoulders untense.
Hermione sat at a table next to the window, surrounded by two large bookshelves on opposite sides, leaving the area relatively private for the trio to investigate this so-called “brilliant book”, in Ron’s words. She gestured towards the two to sit down, a smile on her face. Despite her threats being horrifying, Hermione was quite gentle with her friends, and made sure to take good care of Harry especially. Ever since she heard about his trauma from the Dursleys, she made sure to treat Harry with thought. Not that he was incapable of doing so himself.
“Harry! I’m so glad you’re here.” Hermione greeted him with a hug, one he couldn’t completely decline. His arms timidly wrapped around her. This was when she realized how cold his hands were. Hermione walked back and took hold of her friend’s hands, pulling them closer to inspect them.
“Merlin, Harry. Your hands are freezing. It’s like touching ice.” Hermione’s brows furrowed, and Ron guided Harry to his seat. The brunette wasn’t exactly feeling social, but it felt nice being in the comforting presence of his friends.
“So..” Harry now chose to speak, his voice barely above a mere whisper. “Where is this book? Was Sirius mentioned in it?” His eyes subtly light up at the thought of his godfather. The pair sitting across him exchanged an identical look to each other, one of unsureness and pity.
“Harry, mate, we’ve got to tell you-”
“There is no book!” Hermione blurted out at once.
“Hermione! I thought we agreed not to be blunt!”
“I’m sorry Harry. I know we lied to you, but we brought you here to study with us for potions. Your marks are dropping, and you’ve seemed just.. miserable in these past few months.” The corners of her mouth dropped after speaking. She continued when receiving not an answer, but an identical frown from Harry. He couldn’t hide the visible disappointment and frustration as he sighed.
“Harry, please, tell us what’s wrong.” Ron now took over, placing his hand on Hermione’s and brushing it away gently to let her know that he can continue for her.
“We’ve never seen you so gloomy before, you don’t even respond back to Malfoy’s insults. You’ve been like this since October. Please, Harry, we’re your mates, you can tell us what’s on your mind. We just want what’s best for you.”
“Really? You want what’s best for me? Then why lie to my face to make me study for Potions? I’m not an imbecile, thank you very much. I think I can manage my own school work and marks without my friends lying to me about information about my own family and patronizing me. You want to know what’s wrong with me? Nothing. It’s bloody nothing. So go about your own business, and study for Potions on your own.” Harry pushed himself back from the table and stood up, turning to leave before Hermione grabbed onto his forearm.
“Harry, please don’t go. Please just talk to us. Harry, we’re scared for you.” Hermione pleaded, and Ron just looked at him in disbelief.
“Real clever gesture. I’m going back to the common rooms.” He wiped her hand off his arm and left.
What even was that? And why did he react that way? Merlin’s sake, he’s going to have to apologize for being a prick later. Harry’s frustration showed in his steps as he made his way up to the common room, essentially screaming the code word to the Fat Lady, who stared at him in shock.
The brunette sat on the sofa, grateful that everybody was gone either studying or at the practice Quidditch game. He needed a moment to sit and recollect his thoughts, and even process what had happened.
But all he could do was sob.
Harry didn’t notice the tears falling down until a droplet landed on his hand. Hermione was right, his hands were quite cold. He didn’t know why. Harry continued to weep silently, face in his hands as he struggled to catch his breath. Loud, eager sobs broke through the silence in the room.
The room felt small. Miniscule. As if Harry couldn’t fit in it. He looked at the fireplace, remembering the times where he could speak with Sirius during fourth year. He smiled at the memory when a loud sound interrupted his thoughts.
Hermione rushed in now, just as Ron did about half an hour ago. She spotted Harry immediately and ran towards him. She sat down next to him, leaning down and pushing back his hair to see some part of his face, which was still buried in his hands.
“Oh Harry, Harry dear.” Her slender hand cups his cheek and swipes away a fresh tear with her thumb. Her other thumb gently caressed his scar, which felt oddly tender.He looks up at her to see a warm smile that he can not return. Ron rushes in shortly after.
“Harry, man I’m so sorry. We shouldn’t have pushed you out like that.”
The humiliation pressing against his pride forbade him from meeting their gaze. Harry felt trapped, and slowly he heard gasping sounds. Sounds of desperate breaths rushing against his ears.
Harry then realized he was the one making those sounds. He began to hyperventilate, each breath more desperate than the last.He hadn’t yet taken notice of it yet, but Hermione and Ron were right there. Breathing in and out, trying to assist him in regulating his shaky breathing.
Inhale. Exhale
Exhale Inhale.
Breathe.
Slower.
Slowly.
Inhale.
Wait.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Exhale.
His hand was tightly gripped by Hermione’s. Fire met ice in a sudden collision when she took grasp of his.
“That’s right, just breathe, Harry.” Ron’s words came out wonky before Harry noticed his sudden inability to comprehend anything.
“Harry, what’s wrong?” Hermione’s spontaneous question interrupted the silence.
“We’re your friends. You can tell us. It’s okay, we won’t tell anyone.”
“No.”
“Huh?”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I just can’t”. His speech was slurred.
“Harry-” Ron spoke first.
“I can’t, Ron!”
Hermione's face spoke for them both whilst the two slowly got up to let Harry be.
“I killed them.”
“What?”
“I killed them, didn’t I, Hermione?”
The silence that followed was deafening.
“Didn’t I?” His voice was strained with desperation as he waited on her answer, one he didn’t get.
Hermione couldn’t bring herself to speak, let alone look at him. She peered down onto her now fidgeting hands, casting a silent glance at his.
“God, you can’t even answer me.”
It didn’t take words for Hermione and Ron to figure out who he meant. Ron tried to muster up something, anything. His attempt to string the correct words together faltered.
“No way. You didn’t. You-Know-Who did.”
“He’s right Harry, the whole world knows that. You’re a miracle, you’re a survivor.”
“I killed them.”
…
To hear your friend express perhaps the most complicated crisis they’ve been through is quite the anomaly. It’s hard to figure out what to say, because in that moment, everything you could possibly say, is the wrong thing to say.
Which is precisely why Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley took a minute of silence to stare at each other in something no different from pure shock. They were lacking the words to comfort Harry in this drastic state. When Ron opened his mouth to say something, Harry interrupted.
“Voldemort didn’t kill them. I did. I’m the reason why he entered that house that night. I am the chosen one, and clearly there was a price to pay with that.”
“That is absolutely not your fault.” Hermione kneeled down to face Harry on his level.
“It is.” His eyes were swollen from crying, tears ever so eloquently dropping down his face.
Hermione, for the first time, had no clue what to say. She instead pulled Harry into a warm embrace, gently wrapping her arms around his torso and letting her hand settle on his hair, caressing him softly as she spoke just loud enough for the trio to hear.
“You didn’t kill them. It is not your fault. You are their son, their spitting image. You have her eyes, and his courage. You have their bravery. You carry their character and soul in every step you take, every spell you cast. You are Harry Potter, the defier of Voldemort. You’re the reason why he didn’t get to kill millions. Harry, you are so much more than the silly nonsense the Daily Prophet spews about you.”
He can’t face her, but he latched onto her arm while Ron sat next to him.
“We’re here for you. Don’t be afraid to talk to us. Just tell us what you’re feeling so Hermione doesn’t need to cook up an elaborate plan to pry at you ever again. Seriously, man. Spare us both from-” He was then interrupted by a sudden smack. “Sorry. Anyway, you’ve got the kindest soul I’ve ever encountered. Mum says you're too good for this school. Dad too. And they’re right, you know. You’re nothing like him. You haven’t ever intentionally hurt Malfoy the way he hurt you, even after five years. Honestly, mate, I don’t know how you do it.”
“Very clever way of covering up that snarky comment, Ronald. Don’t think I will be forgetting that anytime soon.” Hermione sneered in his direction.
“Merlin, woman, are you ever nice for ten consecutive minutes?” His answer was given to him in form of a thorough smack across his forearm.
Harry no longer paid attention to their endless bickering, by now he was lost in a world of his own. His mind filled with theories of the past, and concerns of the present. He wasn’t stupid, he knew his friends’ fight was nothing but a mere distraction for him, an attempt at comforting him by bringing back normality.
But there was no comfort in anything of the situation at hand. Harry Potter sat there in the Gryffindor common room, accompanied by Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, who were now at each other’s throats in what seemed to be an attempted double homicide.
This esoteric feeling could never be comprehended by them. All it took was a measly twenty seconds for them to get distracted by their own needs. Why should he bother?
He felt the tingling sensation in his eyes, the lack of breath in his chest told him enough. With a pathetic excuse he departed and went back to his dorm.
Whatever will it take for this hurt to heal?
His wounds were barely closed when Harry was practically subjected to forcibly pry them open. Cold hands ripping open bare flesh, a burning feeling beginning to overtake him.
For the inner storm he was fighting emerged year after year. An annual haunting of his present, provided by his past. What future did he have to fight for?
Oh did he loathe this feeling. Ridding himself of it would spare him a life of misery. Ridding himself would spare him a life of misery. The idea of it appealed to him more by the second, more as he slipped under the cotton covers, more as he closed his curtains with a flick of the wrist.
Harry gave a long, weary sigh as the overwhelming sensation of exhaustion possessed him, and suddenly, he had no worries anymore.