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His writing began as an excercise, something to fill the long hours after the war and process his feelings and thoughts. Give his hands something to do. Harry was unwell. Having almost drowned in numbness. He had lost every single person he had cared about, except Teddy. The sweet baby boy. Caring for his godson had been the only thing keeping him afloat. The motivation to give him the childhood he himself had never had. He could afford it. Still, just thinking about the consequences of the war made him want to curl up and never get up.
Ron and Hermione had died in the fatal venom flowing jaws of Nagini, unable to destroy the horcrux. Already having had their flesh ripped apart and eaten, blood flown on the stone floors, by the time Harry got to see them again. Darling Luna had died from the fanged bite of the feral Fenrir Greyback. Neville had died from a magical blast, which had bashed his head in and snapped his neck instantly. Remus and Dora had died in battle beside each other. A day after, Andromeda’s sickly body and heart hadn’t been able to take the news and had suffered a heart attack.
Fred, as well as Percy, had died from an explosion that had crushed them under falling rubble. A few weeks later George had committed suicide, having informed in his short note that he just couldn’t live without the other part of his twin soul. After that, Molly’s mind had snapped from grief, turning fully unresponsive. She had lost three of her sons in one day, fourth only weeks later. Even the most accomplished mind healer from St. Mungos hadn’t been able to help. Arthur withdrew into himself and became an alcoholic. He hadn’t even seen Ginny since that day.
And Harry? Harry just suffered through. Through all the pain and loss that felt crushing. All the harassment from the Ministry and press, who wanted to either recruit him or get the whole story of the war and Voldemort from him. All the wixen who had something outrageous and irrelevant to say about him. All for his sweet godson, whom he considered now his own son. Teddy’s existence filled the hole in his heart, at least somewhat.
Otherwise, he might have just offed himself as well.
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First, he drew. Drew as best as he could and when that wasn’t enough, Harry took memories out of his mind and spelled them into pictures onto the pages of his leather journal. It had been the first thing that his mind healer had suggested he do.
Harry hadn’t wanted to go to a mind healer. Just the thought of that had made him sick. But, while sitting inside the grim and gloomy kitchen of Grimmauld Place with Teddy in his arms, a small pudgy hand gripping his finger, he had had a hard realization. If he couldn’t help himself and change his habits, Harry could never be what he wanted to be for Teddy. A steady and loving godparent, which Sirius had never been able to be for him. So, he had made a change.
It had helped, but after a while, drawing hadn’t been interesting anymore. Harry had gotten over the thought of forgetting how all his deceased loved ones looked like. He was at peace with that. Then his interest had drawn into writing. Starting with writing down how his days went, with his favourite memories, taking notes of Teddy’s growth and progress, till Harry ended up trying to write literature. Or anything fictional really. Processing through writing, while using references from his life experiences. After a while, he had been able to admit to himself that there was some truth to the method's efficiency.
Day after day. His quill dipped in ink and set down onto the paper.
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Five months had gone by. Harry had moved him and Teddy out of Grimmauld Place. The decision had been easy. It was no place to raise a baby, or a child. The magic of the place was depressing, and it had disturbed Teddy many times. Ending in crying and over dependence to Harry’s embrace. His son was just as sensitive to magical auras as he himself. They had moved to an old smaller manor belonging to the Potter line, which had not been in use since a certain Charlus Potter and Dorea Potter née Black.
It was already evening. The weather had been cloudy and rainy the whole day. Their day had been spent in the comfort of a roaring fireplace, with cozy blankets and pillows, storybooks and toys as well as warm milk and tea. Harry looked down at Teddy with an adoring gaze. He was sleeping peacefully in his new bassinet, which was placed next to his canopy bed. The curtains on Teddy’s side were never drawn. Their magical and parental bond was already so strong that his little baby boy would change his looks unconsciously to look like Harry. At the moment he had a button nose, evenly shaped lips that were pursed and dark curly hair. Probably bright green eyes as well. They always came as a package deal. Harry could only sigh in adoring admiration. His skills as a metamorphmagus were already so strong.
Their daily routines had already set in. The late evenings and early nights were his alone time, as Teddy never awoke till the early morning. Harry dedicated it to writing. To him, it was important. It felt very important. He hadn’t even known how much attachment he would gain towards his imagined protagonist. His writings were never linear and structured, almost always depicting sporadic scenes of living. Moments from their childhood, school days in Hogwarts, early life after schooling. It sucked him in, made him immersed. Bled into his dreams. Fingers writing as if on autopilot, as if obsessed. Sometimes he wondered if the trance he experienced was a de facto coping response to the traumatic events he had experienced.
Harry would never know what he was writing before the moment it happened. He opened his journal and turned to a fresh page.
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Thomas had been scrubbing the worn-out dark floors of the entrance hall on his knees for hours now. Using a just as worn-out wooden animal bristled hand brush. His fingers were already bleeding.
The pattern never changed, even as the years went by. Ever since he had started at Hogwarts and spent most of the year out of the orphanage, summers had been more of a hell on earth than before. He was seen as lazy and ungrateful, for going to some private school they couldn’t get in and not staying to help all year round. For not being a proper member of society, at least by their standards. Those standards could burn for all he cared about.
Muggles were always so ignorant and arrogant, for how weak and helpless they were. Yelling about righteousness while they were the image of the devil, they so liked to preach against. If only Thomas was already of age, he could detonate this whole establishment down. All of them deserved it, even if they didn’t fully affect him anymore, hadn’t for years.
He looked up as his hands scrubbed, thoughts turning towards the only one he could include in his concept of home. Thomas only wanted to show his best side for him. Show how he was the right one for them. It wasn’t fully possible yet, but he would make it so.
A stern voice of a woman echoed though the entrance hall “Thomas, have you already done what I have told you to?” He looked at the woman who entered through the back. Head matron of the orphanage, Mrs. Grice.
His voice came out calm, not letting an ounce of his real feeling bleed through his words “Yes, I have matron Grice.” The womans sharp gaze analyzed the floors, till she looked at the furthest corner of the room “Boy, you missed a spot.”
Thomas answered “Indeed, I apologize.” She huffed with mild indignation “No matter, you will just have to do all of this again tomorrow. Hopefully with a better result.”
“Now go to your room, I can’t have you roaming the halls after bedtime.” With that Mrs. Grice turned around and headed toward the orphanage's office. Thomas watched quietly, she would probably go and drown her problems in some stolen vodka.
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Harry raised the quill off the page and stared down at what he had written. He took a deep breath in and out. This time there were obvious references. He knew that his childhood and early teenage years hadn’t been the greatest, not by a long shot. And he had had a habit of never really thinking about it. Brushing it off. But the text. It was as if announcing it straight into his face. The hard truths.
Vernon had been a man who wore a mask of politeness in front of his superiors. While, in private he had been a violent man who was a raging alcoholic. He had wielded his whiskey bottles as weapons as much as his own fists. Harry hadn’t been able to escape, no child could have. Harry couldn’t even remember how many times he had been close to unconsciousness or death. He could only guess that his magic had saved him from the worst hurts. That at least was a thing to be thankful for.
Petunia, on the other hand, had wielded her authority and words in every single way she could. Always sharp and cutting. Her dream had been to live like the women of aristocracy. With maids and butlers waiting on hand for her. But that hadn’t happened to her. While at the same time Lily had married into a wealthy pureblood family, that had house-elves. That was magical. Adding to that, Harry had been thrown to her after the death of Lily and James. She had been jealous and frustrated, dismantling all of her years worth of built up hatred onto Harry. Made him work like a slave to satiate her own twisted feelings.
Then, Dudley had been a dumb boy whose values had formed and grown from the attitudes of his parents. To him Harry had been a boy, a thing, living in their house. Something to amuse him when he was bored. Someone to serve him, when he needed something. Someone to whom he could dismantle his feelings by the use of violence. A spoiled entitled brat.
Harry glanced towards the sleeping Teddy. A peaceful feeling took over him. He was ready to move on from that, even if he never could forget. To move towards the next scene. He set the quill back onto the page.
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He couldn’t believe it. This woman in front of him owned something of his, flaunting it in front of the researchers and other archivists. Hanging from her neck. Saying that it was a part of her own most prized collection of artefacts. The items of the founders of Hogwarts. And the woman wouldn’t be selling them.
It had made Thomas feel mad. Flaunting what belonged to him, in front of his eyes. Saying that she wouldn’t part with it even if a so-called rightful heir came to claim. So arrogant. So greedy. He would have to find a way to deal with that.
Getting a job as a high-class archivist of magical artefacts, and shop assistant on the side, had been a tactical decision for hunting down the items that were rightfully his, which his birth giver had sold for a measly galleon or two. Pathetic really.
At the same time, Thomas could further his knowledge of ancient magical texts and history. Learn about primordial magics. About the forbidden and buried arithmancy and rune research. About true divination. What had made them stronger than the average wixen nowadays. And how to improve himself above all.
The job was interesting, getting in contact with many high-status figures in many circles, in the British Isles and beyond. The flow of information was endless. But at the same time, the hours were long. From early morning to evening. Always at the archives or the store. It was tiring, but it was worth it. He could further his goal, build his connections and better his reputation. Make himself a trustful figure.
Customers spilled their secrets to him. Thinking of him as a friendly face. Thinking he would just forget what they said quickly after. Some were harmless, some accidents, some on the darker side of things. They were wrong, he remembered every little thing they had ever said to him. It had made him the center of a dangerous web of truths and lies. Thomas could sell the knowledge or keep it. Do whatever he wanted. Make them think he was on their side.
If Thomas played his cards right, he could rise up, till he was above all. Meet the one who mattered to him.
But before any of that, he had a plan to make. How to get back what he is owed, played over and over in his mind. Plans forming, one after another. Most scrapped, some thought further upon, none yet picked. He would figure it out. Thomas knew that there were none as intelligent as he. Many were just some bumbling fools. Select few were not.
The doorbell rang. Thomas glanced towards the entrance. Speaking of the select few, inside the shop had come another regular, who approached him with a steady and slow pace. With a practiced smile on his face, he greeted the man “Lord Noir, good evening. How may I help you today?”
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Harry snapped out of it and glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight. He better get to sleep so that he will get enough of it. Sweet Teddy could wake up at the crack of dawn. He was only six months old, and all had to be done by his needs.
And there was already enough self-reflection for the night. He only superficially glanced at the journal's writing, before closing it. Putting the quill back to its own place.
Besides, it would take ages if he really started to unpack what he had written down, again. It was always a rabbit hole, and he had no motivation for it at the moment. The tiredness was already clinging to his limbs.
He sped through his night routine, as quietly as he could. Before finally settling beneath the covers. Harry’s last gaze was glued onto Teddy’s sleeping form. Then sleep took over him.
A gentle caress. A brush on his cheek. A petting of his hair. Breath on his neck. An embrace. Sensations Harry couldn’t fully differentiate. Unintelligible whispers in his ears, low and smooth. The tone was warm, intimate, affectionate. Obsessive and possessive. Always, every single time. It never changed.
Harry didn’t know what to do about it. It had started when he had bought the journal. Calling to him, like a mermaid's song under water. Captivating all of his attention. He liked it. He hated it. He didn’t know.
It was always clear when Harry slept, but never when he woke. It became just a subconscious thought. Temporarily. His dreams brought an uncanny familiarity, like he knew the other. As if they were real. The one whispering sweet nothings to him. The one whose grip was firm and all encompassing.
Hours upon hours. The dreams helped with his trauma. Soothed him, where no one else did. As in reality, Harry was alone and constantly harassed. And others couldn’t understand him. His dreams brought the rare peace he so desired.
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It begins with writing, till the words shall bleed into your dreams.
Envision me. Dream of me.
For then, I will find the path to you.