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The journey will always stay at the sharp edge.
Surrounded by trees, flowers, soft wind, or even mountains…No matter how far I’ve traveled, I am still only a few, easy steps from the deep hollow.
That’s what the quiet does, right?
(It lingers inside you.)
I. Control
Harry sat on the bed, back against the headboard, breathing in and out.
Each exhale twisted in the dark air of the night, while each inhale curled deep inside his lungs, overstuffed.
Draco had picked up the graveyard shift that day, and the space next to him seemed to melt in the cold shadows—nothing more than the rest of the empty space.
He didn’t really want to sleep.
It was a busy day that was waiting for him on the other side of the thin veil of time. He wanted to claw at those forced minutes, to tear up his schedule, but he knew he couldn’t.
Shouldn’t, really. The Vanenburg case was important—like all cases, like every day. He had a family to account for, waiting for a savior to close this nightmare.
But he knew he’d have to go through this nightmare to do that.
Another nightmare, once again.
So, he was afraid to sleep, and wake up the next day.
Looking down at his lap, he breathed in and out.
He couldn’t call Draco, he was working. Being brilliant, probably. And Hermione and Ron were either finally sleeping, or exhausted as new parents.
He couldn’t. He shouldn’t.
There was nothing to be done, really. Nothing at all. Just to sleep and wake up and face the day.
Even if that felt like watching a hurricane approaching on the horizon. The winds were already climbing, slapping along his heart to prickle at his skin, making him shiver.
Slowly, he brought his legs closer, the covers falling. Only the tip of his toes lay beneath.
His hands rested on his knees, a thumb rubbing slow circles. In the depth of the night, he took a tight breath, and it barely made it to his lungs, his diaphragm all tense.
He curled one of his hands, settling it onto its side, on his knees.
There was—he knew—nothing he could do, nothing he even wanted to do. Hiding from tomorrow wasn’t an option, running away wasn’t an option, calling his partner or friends wasn’t an option.
But he couldn’t do nothing. He needed to do something, even if that did, ultimately, nothing.
He created space between his belly and thighs, extending his legs slightly.
A private spot others wouldn’t see, to hide within his skin a small mercy.
Right-handed, right thigh. In his boxers, there was no fabric in the way.
Breathing in, he let his fist tumble down. There was a slap of flesh on flesh, and he closed his eyes, breathing out.
In and out, as the one thing he could do.
II. Dissociation
Teddy was playing outside with Draco.
His little shouts, his loud giggles, the sounds of play and love…it drifted from the window, only slightly muffled.
Yet, passed through Harry’s ears, it seemed much further.
All morning, he’s been smiling and laughing. But now, alone in the kitchen, he let go of his desperate pull to keep his heart above water.
He let it sink down.
The emptiness of the room surrounded him. No lights were on, only the sun passed in, subtle and distant.
He stood still, enveloped within his skin.
On the stove, the water boiled.
Watching it for a moment, he did nothing. Then, he reached to turn the burner off.
At the counter, his arm still poised, the glue in his veins seemed to thicken.
The two mugs had their little bags of tea. One for him, one for Draco. Little Teddy shrieked outside again, high-pitched voice making him glance.
Each finger wrapped around the handle of the kettle.
Did he want his godson to see him like this? Could he pull his heart back up in time?
He poured the water in the mugs, the heat curling in the air above. Cream and sugar, a few steps away. He didn’t quite move, as he looked down.
The seconds stretched, the ticks a second too late.
How to keep up?
Reaching down, he picked up the red one.
The water sloshed gently inside, the surface warm. He moved above the sink.
Draco’s laugh, warm but empty.
Not the hand, his forearm, poised above the sink.
Just a small movement, a small tip, and the water fell down. Teeth meeting teeth, sharp inhale that hissed.
His heart rate accelerated, and he sigh deeply, putting the cup down.
The spot of red skin pulsed, and he shoved his sleeves down.
Looking outside the window, he saw Teddy running, and smiled. That pull of skin felt sharper, if nothing else.
Only cream and sugar left, and then he’d be back outside.
III. Overwhelm
“Yes, this is a very sensitive case, but our best are working on it,” Shacklebolt said to patrons, somewhere to his left, a few seats away.
Harry felt their eyes on him, and smiled.
Functions were necessary parts of his job, as a public figure. He didn’t fight them, knowing how important they were.
If just sitting there brought more money to save more lives, he would sit there.
With the music—muggle, a new trend—overlapping the voices, the cutlery scraping on plates, the laughter, the movements, the exits blocked by the mass of people.
Sitting right across him, Draco looked in his element.
His foot tapped against his, gently, even as he spoke to an old woman, voice smooth.
Still, Harry whipped his head as a server passed behind him. His dress robes were right against his chest, his neck, tight and rigid. He raised his hand for his glass of water, bringing it to his lips.
“...Mr. Potter?” he heard, somewhere.
He swallowed, setting it down. It made no sound against the white cloth of the table, even as a few droplets fell over the side of the rim.
“Um, yes,” he tried, adjusting his collar, tugging in small jerks.
He blinked, his heart pumping warm blood everywhere. The man next to him spoke. “Right,” he said, nodding along. The music was too loud, shouldn’t they lower it?
Draco’s foot tapped against his again.
The man’s mouth was moving.
Another boom of laughter from the end of the table made his heart jump.
“Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I…” Harry mumbled, the lights around him pounding at his temple.
He just had to sit there.
His hand slithered down, resting on the spot above his knee.
Gathering fabric and skin between his thumb and forefinger, he pinched hard.
“Of course,” he finally spoke, which seemed to appease his conversation partner. The small pain was sharp, his fingers trembling as he pressed further.
Just sit there.
IV. Self-soothing
“Another night, Ron,” Harry mumbled, bent over his desk, sparing only a glance at him.
His friend looked at him for a moment, coat over his arm, leaning against the cubicule. “If you’re sure…” Ron answered, though he seemed reluctant to go.
Still, at the lack of movement from Harry, he finally left with a small good night.
Harry heard his footsteps as he walked out to the lift, leaving Harry mostly alone on the Auror office floor.
The Ministry's magical windows poured in artificial rays of moonlight, and his little desk lamp tried valiantly to illuminate the papers laying about.
A janitor rolled their cart down the corridor, and Harry sighed.
Closing his eyes, he could see every conversation, every new and old detail—both clear and blurred.
He felt tense all over, weary deep on the other side of his bones.
Was Draco working tonight? He was on-call, tired too, surely.
Surely too tired to deal with Harry.
Laying his head against a forearm, he watched his finger trail along paperwork. Weren’t they all, by now?
His nose and eyes prickled.
His drifting finger came closer to his arm. They travelled gently over the back of his hand, over knuckles, down and under his sleeve.
His tongue rubbed against the back of his teeth, his lips pressing together, not letting any sounds out.
The fingers bended, allowing blunt nails to graze the skin of his forearm.
Somewhere, the scrapping of the janitor’s footsteps echoed.
His ears felt warm, the back of his throat all wet and blocked.
The nails travelled delicately over his skin, tracing a line, then back.
Then, over again, pressing more firmly.
Was Draco waiting for him?
The nails dung into the skin, his whole face crisp, at the very edge of his emotions.
They scratched against his forearm, and a few tears intruded onto his cheeks, down the side of his nose.
He closed his eyes again, allowing himself a small moment for his heart to drown.
V. Self-punishment
He’d tried his best, he knew.
Looking in the mirror, the bathroom’s overhead light shining bright unto his skin—exposing the blue patches under his eyes—he knew it wasn’t fully his fault.
No one can expect him to be super-human, to…to just always do things right.
Right?
Skin pulled tight, he began to undo his shirt. Careful little buttons, slipping out, one at a time. Fabric falling onto the tiles.
“Things like this happen,” Shacklebolt had said. “The case was sensitive.”
With that disappointed look in his eyes.
Peeling off pants, he stared into his green gaze. If only he’d just been faster.
If only he was just better.
Carefully, he slipped his glasses off his nose. Shoulders tense, he took a deep breath, tossing them onto the counter.
He’d tried so hard to be.
In and out, he stepped into the shower, his chest rising and falling.
The water fell, flattening his hair onto his forehead. A small, wet thing.
He’d tried so hard, he knew.
His chest rose, stayed stuck, shaking.
And once it fell again, it was in a quiet, broken sob—all dry and raw.
It wasn’t enough, it was never enough.
Leaning his head against the wall—his face tearing open, cheeks and lips trembling—he pressed a palm against his face.
Why could he never be enough? Why was he always so terrible?
His cries kept slipping out of parted lips, pushed by his gasping diaphragm.
Pull up from his drowning heart.
Harry just wanted to be good. Yet, he’d messed it all up again.
How could he face Draco?
The space between his thumb and forefinger slipped between his lips, just as his eyes closed.
Squeeze shut, teeth digging tighter and tighter, his mind raged in the storm of his failure.
He was horrible, he knew.
Even if he tried not to be.
VI. Exteriorization
The spray of the shower continued to beat down, all the way upstairs.
Harry curled into the couch, aware he was now alone, Draco going up to wash up.
Though, it wasn’t much different from when he was next to others. The same feelings were always there. Alone, they simply had the permission to crawl to the front of his consciousness.
He wasn’t really okay.
Yet, everyday, he went to work, he joked with Ron, he tried to be good for Draco, he kept going.
Everywhere he went, he just had to sit there.
All alone in his hurricane.
Was it really real if no one saw? His life did not justify his pain.
Yet, it continued to hurt, quietly.
Underneath his ribs, he could feel it. Beating at him, hidden beneath.
A great wave, rolling toward the shore, accumulating only to collapse.
He needed to collapse.
The shower was still on, so he rolled up his sleeve. Battle scars laid there already.
No one would notice one more.
Glancing up, Harry reached for his wand laying on the coffee table, breathing in and out. What would be the right spell?
He crossed his legs, poising his arm, holding the wood.
Would it even work? Will his magic work against himself?
But it wasn’t against himself. It was for himself. He was hurting anyway.
Why was it bad, to try to survive?
The tip laid against his skin, his shoulders hunched, his hair falling into his eyes.
Was it right?
The feel of Draco’s arms around him, tight and real.
Did it matter?
The weight and softness of a blanket.
Did anyone care?
A warm cup of tea, a biscuit all sweet.
Did he deserve it?
Harry didn’t know, but he let go of the wand anyway. He stood on shaky legs, anyway.
He chose differently, anyway.
Opening the door to their bedroom, he watched Draco pull a shirt on, his back facing him.
In a few strides, Harry collided against him, his arms snaking around Draco’s chest.
Letting his drowning heart show.
Pale fingers, gentle, rubbed over his arm.
And Harry breathed in and out.
(Even if it lingers,
There’s another path than the hollow,
Where a few flowers can grow.)