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“I told you to bring me back with you.”
Harry turned, slowly, hesitantly, to his right. He peered through the fog, droplets of water clinging to his skin and clothing, fogging his glasses, obfuscating his vision. The silence pressed in around him.
There. A figure that wasn’t there before. He’d just come from that way, and was sure he hadn’t missed any alcoves or corners. As it came closer, Harry was struck with the sight of black and yellow polyester clinging to pectorals and the sweaty smell of the quidditch changing rooms. Leaves and branches were tangled into the figure’s hair. His wand was lit with blue and pointed directly at Harry’s chest.
“Cedric….”
Anger rolled off the man, and Harry knew he was livid without even seeing his shadowed face.
“I told you I wanted to go back to my dad.”
“I did! I mean, I tried….”
It was getting harder to breathe. His chest was refusing to rise and fall. Looking down, Harry found himself being embraced with vines, boughs pulling tighter as he fought to fill his chest with air.
“No,” Harry eeked. “No, let go.”
“It’s not even wartime anymore, Potter. Why am I still dead?”
Cedric was close now, mere paces away, and Harry tried to reach out.
“I’m supposed to stop dying when the war ends,” he growled, glaring at Harry.
“I’m sorry, I’m trying!” Harry sobbed, stretching his hand a few more inches toward Cedric’s sopping chest. So close. “Please, Cedric, just….”
“Cedric?” Harry froze at the unfamiliar voice. “Cedric Diggory? That bloke’s dead.”
Harry tipped forward and caught the heels of his hands on the cold flagstones. His bare arms had started to cramp in the cold air. The musty smell of the lake filled his senses, and he recognised an unused corridor of the dungeons that he’d never been in before in his waking life.
“My uncle, though, he invented the Wolfsbane Potion,” the new voice said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
“No,” Harry rejected, refusing to look.
“Oh, shame. He’s saved a lot of lives, you know.”
Harry’s shirt was sticking to his stomach. He brought a hand up, looked down, and an iron tang filled the space. Bloody red fingers came away, and he gasped. He hadn’t even felt it.
“I thought it was supposed to stop now.”
Forgetting his intention to ignore it, Harry turned. He wished immediately that he hadn’t.
Marcus Belby was tall and imposing, though the look on his face was the picture of friendly intrigue. He was dressed in velvet wizarding robes, dinner-party formal, with a crisp white shirt underneath that was quickly staining red.
“Oh, you too?” Marcus asked, vaguely indicating Harry’s bleeding gut. “How did you survive it, then?”
“How did I…. What?”
But Marcus’ face was contorting in pain now. He clung to his stomach, his fingers sticky with gore as he looked at Harry with eyes that had seen far too much. He sank to the floor at Harry’s feet with a look of pure betrayal.
“You said it was going to stop now,” Marcus argued.
“It was supposed to,” Harry whispered, frozen in place.
“You said no one needed to die anymore. I read it in the paper,” he pleaded.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Harry breathed. “I’m so sorry.”
“This isn’t fair.”
Harry woke up with a start on the hard wooden floor of Ron’s bedroom. He pushed himself up on sore arms and rolled onto his back, untangling the blankets from around his legs as he tried to catch his breath.
Long minutes passed as he listened to his breath slow. He could get himself under control, he was sure. Ron and Hermione were still in Australia, and no one else was able to help like they did, so Harry had little choice but to bring himself under control on his own. At least there were no witnesses to his breakdown this time. With a final deep sigh, he was able to heave himself up onto his bed again and lie looking at the ceiling.
It had shown up in the Daily Prophet a few days ago: Marcus Belby, Dead at 19. A small obituary, tucked in the back and written by his family, told a bit about who he was, and that he was gone, and nothing else. Not about what he believed, or the people he loved, or the things he cared about. Just that he’d been a Slytherin student who’d fought in the final battle on the side of good.
But he knew. Harry knew how he’d died, because he’d received no fewer than four owls from various well-meaning wixes offering condolences for his loss. Although he didn’t know the kid, and had only met him once at a Slug Club meeting, he still felt the loss. He’d gone back and forth over whether to include the news in his letter to Ron and Hermione, or if he should let them enjoy their time together in Australia in peace. He had ultimately decided to include the article in the letter he’d sent them, without comment. He was sure they’d read too much into his mood without having to say anything.
There was no use lying to himself: he’d considered doing much the same thing many times since the war had ended in May. How easy would it be to stop fighting, to rest, to give in? It was exhausting, this whole survival business. He could see that his family knew it, too, and they worried about him constantly. It had taken weeks of convincing for Ron and Hermione to feel comfortable leaving the country without him. But while tempting occasionally, Harry had decided early on that it wouldn’t be fair to the people who loved him. They needed him alive and well.
Not that ‘fair’ could be a word used for any of this. ‘Fair’ would have meant no students dying. ‘Fair’ would have been a battle not taking place on a school campus. ‘Fair’ could have been no war at all. But the world rarely cares about ‘fair.’
Harry thought it was a ‘fair’ chance that he’d not be falling asleep again this morning, as he stretched and stood, opening the balcony door and letting in the misty grey morning light. He prepared to start a very long day.
~*~
Savage knocked loudly on the door before stepping to the side. A nod to Ron and Harry, and they both drew their wands, at the ready. The locks clicked and rattled, the doorknob jiggled, and the door opened.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
“Hi, Sophia,” Savage greeted. “We got a call from your mum. She’s worried about you.”
“Oh,” Sophia said, looking vaguely surprised to see them. “That’s - She’s just….”
“Sophia?”
A man was coming down the stairs behind her. His messy blond hair was pushed to one side on his head, and his blue eyes were angry despite the open curiosity he displayed on his face.
“It’s just Auror Jessie. I didn’t know she would be coming by.”
“I see. Officer,” he greeted coolly, but politely. “We were just sitting down for lunch, if you’ll excuse us.”
“Good morning, Pete,” Savage greeted, none-too-friendly. “I’m surprised to see you here. Especially considering the order of protection we served you with last week.”
“A piece of paper is not stronger than our love, officer. It won’t keep me away.”
A glance at Sophia told Harry that she didn’t share his opinion. Her face was downcast, dark hair falling in front of her eyes as she avoided looking at anyone. Harry noted that she wasn’t speaking up to defend Peter either.
“Why don’t you step out into the garden with me, Pete. We can have a chat about it, see what we can work out.”
Peter seemed to consider his options before taking the bait and walking to the open front door. No sooner had he stepped out than they were distracted by the rumble of an engine heading up the street. A red sedan pulled up to the building, cut the engine, and an older, greying woman stepped out.
“Sophia?! Mummy’s here, Sophia!”
“Fuck’s sake,” Savage swore. “Weasley, go block Mum. Potter, cover Sophia. Let’s go further into the garden a bit, Peter. Come on.”
Ron stepped back immediately to usher Sophia’s mum toward her car again, as Harry gestured for Sophia to step inside the house. He was just crossing the threshold himself when he heard Savage enact an arrest.
“Put your hands behind your back, Peter.”
A sudden roar and an explosive rustling of autumn leaves had Harry turning in alarm, in time to see Peter charging across the grass. As Harry bodily blocked Sophia from harm, he watched Ron do the same with her mum. Harry remembered what came next as he watched Peter aggressively approach Ron. He shouted in warning as Ron raised his wand, blue eyes wide.
A feminine form with long, bouncy hair stepped into the doorway, blocking Harry’s view of anything else. She pointed her wand at Peter and shot off a few expert shots, stupefying him quickly. In a whoosh of golden curls, she turned, and Harry was greeted with the proud, torchlit face of Lavender Brown.
“Got ‘im,” she enthused with a giant grin.
“Lavender,” Harry breathed. “What… What are you doing here?”
“At Hogwarts?” she laughed, giving him a crazy look. “I live here.”
Harry looked around. He was, indeed, in Hogwarts now. Ron was gone, and so was Savage. He turned around to see Sophia running down the stone corridor and around a corner.
“I thought you were….”
“Dead?” She was looking Harry in the eye, and didn’t seem upset. “I know, I don’t blame you.”
“I’m sorry, I would have come back for you.”
“I saw you in the hall, after,” she said, turning and hitting a stable fighting stance, her wand singing through the air. “You ran right past me. That was my first clue.”
“So you are dead?” Harry lamented. “I’m so sorry.”
“My second clue was Binky!”
Lavender’s wand pointed down in a shower of pink and purple sparks, directing his attention to the flagstones. Harry watched as a little brown rabbit hopped across the floor near Lavender’s feet.
“Imagine how happy I was to see this little guy again!”
She picked up her bunny, holding it out for Harry to pat. Its ears were softer than velvet, and the motion was calming.
“I’m alright, now, Harry,” Lavender insisted. “Really. You can wake up.”
And so he did, with a start.
There was no use hanging around in bed, now, as he was sure he wouldn’t be falling back asleep. Harry entered the kitchen of the Burrow and headed to the tea cabinet. He filled the kettle and turned to settle it on the hob when he caught sight of Ron, watching him idly from his seat at the table. He jumped.
“Jesus, Ron!”
Harry put a hand over his racing heart as Ron grinned and gave him a little wave.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked with a grimace of sympathy.
“No, I slept,” Harry retorted. “I just woke up. Nightmares, you know.”
Ron pulled out the chair beside him, and Harry fixed a mug of hot tea to take over and sat. He sipped on orange spice tea as Ron put an arm around his shoulders in a half-hug of comfort.
“Sorry, mate,” Ron said, shaking him gently. “Me, too. At least you made it to morning… sort of.”
The light peeking in through the window above the sink was a lovely pinky-purple. It was quite early, and a cold November frost covered the gardens. Winter was coming on quickly.
“Does your eye still hurt?”
Ron raised his hand to touch his left cheekbone, heavily bruised in colours echoing the early sunlight.
“A bit,” he allowed. “Nothing I can’t handle. He did more harm to my circadian rhythm than my face, honestly.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry apologised for the fiftieth time. “I should have been faster. Had better aim. I could have stopped him before he got to you.”
“You were busy doing your job,” Ron said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Better me than Sophia or her mum.”
“Do you think we should have scrapped the DA?” Harry asked suddenly, hoping to get an honest answer from his friend’s surprise.
Ron choked a bit on his tea as he cast a sideways look at Harry.
“No, I’ve never thought that.”
“We could have kept everyone safe, instead of thinking they could fight?”
“But they could fight,” Ron said. “They did. You taught them well, and everyone held their own.”
“Not Colin Creevey,” Harry pointed out. “Not Lavender Brown.” Or Fred, or Blair, or Leo, or Nora, or….
“Harry, stop, now,” Ron said, putting a hand up to slow Harry’s roll. “We can’t win them all. It was war. We lost a lot of people who knew how to fight. Aurors, even: seasoned ones. And I bet you many more would have fallen if we didn’t make an underground secret education ring of it.”
“I just wish…” Harry started, before realising he had no idea where he was going with that sentiment. He sighed and drank more of his tea. “I don’t know.”
“We’ll be alright, Harry,” Ron soothed, bumping Harry’s shoulder with his own. “I’m alright. You’ll be alright.”
Sighing into his tea, Harry nodded. He’d try to bring it up again when he had sorted out his thoughts, perhaps. For now…
“Would you like to watch a movie with me before everyone else wakes up?”
“Ooh,” Ron perked up. “Ghostbusters?”
“Sure.”
~*~
The silence was eerie. Never before had he seen the Burrow this quiet. There was no one home, despite it being the middle of summer. Even the family’s owls were absent. Harry walked the length of the ground floor with a distinct disconcerted feeling in his gut.
The backyard.
That’s where everyone must be, on this beautiful June day. Harry beelined for the kitchen door, exiting out into the verdant back garden. The long summer days had the flower beds overgrown again, and he spotted several gnomes lying in the sun-warmed dirt in the shade of the poppies.
“Oh, thank you, Harry! It’s beautiful!”
Harry turned. There, on the low brick wall that separated the Weasleys’ garden from the moors beyond, was a young ginger woman. She was holding a squashed-looking dandelion as she leaned down to talk to the little boy leaning on her leg.
“Such a sweet little boy you are,” she said, red hair falling into her eyes before she pushed it behind her ear. “Do you see that, Dora?”
“I do, indeed,” said the woman sitting next to her. She had short pink hair and was dressed in feminine black lace. Harry thought she looked familiar. “But have you seen my boy lately?”
Dora’s boy was sitting on the grass in front of them, watching baby Harry pick dandelions. He smiled contentedly as his hair went from bright teal to slowly being taken over by vibrant butter yellow.
The two women oohed and aahed, clapping politely as baby Harry handed him his bouquet of flowers, squished in his tiny fist. Teddy - because that’s who he must be - blushed at the attention.
“You see that, Lily?” Tonks said. “Genius.”
Lily? It can’t be. Is this really his…
“Mum?”
Lily looked up at him, and her green eyes met his. Harry tried to smile, but he was struck silent. She smiled gently at him and tipped her head.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
“Mum…”
“Oh, you’re alright, dear,” she soothed, reaching out a hand that didn’t quite reach him. “Take a few deep breaths, there’s a good boy.”
“Wotcher, Harry,” Tonks said as she leaned down and lifted Teddy into her lap. She cuddled him into her chest like a teddy bear as she watched Lily and her Harrys with clear blue eyes.
“Oh my God,” Harry breathed. “How is this happening?”
“It’s a dream, Harry, love. We’re only coming by to visit.”
“You can’t stay?”
“No, sweetheart,” Lily said, looking genuinely disappointed.
“But how is this possible?” Harry pointed to his younger self. “Teddy and I aren’t dead like you. Sorry.”
Tonks absolutely cackled, as Lily rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand at Harry’s apology.
“Of course, I brought my baby. Being your mum was my greatest achievement. ‘Mum’ was my favourite job. I loved you on a professional level.”
“And Teddy?” Harry asked, refusing to let it go unaddressed. “He’s not dead, is he? He was happy and whole when I saw him a few hours ago.”
“Hey now,” Tonks put in with a grin. “Teddy is my greatest achievement, too. Of course, I’d spend my time being his mum whenever I can.”
“It’s not so bad, now, not being able to mother you,” Lily confided, watching baby Harry do a crooked somersault. “It used to be hell before you met Molly Prewett. Then I could finally relax.”
“Mrs Weasley is a saint,” Tonks said with earnest eyes. “Not too great at matchmaking, but her heart is always in the right place, that beautiful woman.”
“I’m glad you found a new family, Harry, my love,” Lily told him. “Never think that I’d be jealous, or disapprove. I’m actually quite grateful that you have so many people who love you.”
Harry nodded stupidly.
“And I have to thank you, Harry,” Tonks told him. “I’m grateful that you’re taking your godfather duties so seriously. Remus definitely made the right decision in choosing you.”
“I - of course,” Harry stuttered. “Thank you. I mean, you’re welcome.”
“Take care of him for me, Harry,” Tonks said, suddenly looking much sadder. “Please, love him like I can’t. He’s my greatest achievement.”
“And let Molly love you,” Lily added. “I can see how they care for you. Let them. Don’t push them away. They love you like I can’t, and you’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”
“Okay,” Harry said. “Thanks, Mum.”
“Rest easy now, love. I trust you’ll be alright.”
“Bye, Harry.”
Harry woke to the familiar sight of Ron’s plankboard ceiling in the watered-down light of dawn. He peeled himself out of bed, as usual when he had nightmares in the morning, and headed down to the kitchen for some of Ron’s orange spice tea. He was vaguely unsurprised to find Mrs Weasley already up, busying herself cleaning the kitchen countertops.
“Trouble sleeping?” Harry greeted.
“Oh, Harry!” Mrs Weasley cooed at him. “Good morning, dear!”
“Good morning.”
“I’m sorry, dear, I don’t have breakfast prepared yet. It’s still a bit early,”
“That’s perfectly alright, Mrs Weasley. I just couldn’t fall back asleep.”
“You’re my child, now, Harry, if only in spirit. You can call me ‘mum’ if you like.”
“Oh, thank you,” Harry stammered.
But did he want to call anyone ‘mum’? He’d never called anyone that. He’d gotten used to the idea that he simply didn’t have one of those. It might be nice, though. He’d believed his mum when she said it would be alright. He didn’t feel guilty about that anymore. Maybe it would be okay, just to try?
“I just miss my children, you know?” Mrs Weasley burst. “Everyone has moved out but you and George. Charlie’s just left for Romania again. It gets lonely. And quiet.”
“I know what you mean,” Harry huffed.
“It’s just… a mother, without her children is just…”
“They’re your greatest achievement.”
“They are,” Mrs Weasley agreed wistfully. “You are, too, dear.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
~*~
“I suppose I should thank you.”
No. No no no no. Harry refused to engage. If he didn’t answer, if he gave her no recognition, perhaps she’d just leave.
“That’s another freak of the streets,” the voice said nastily. “Locked away in the loony bin. Good riddance.”
“George is not a freak,” Harry whispered, calling up his bravery.
“Though if you hadn’t intervened, he could have been more than just ‘off the streets.’”
“What’s your point, Petunia?” Harry bit out, turning around to face her.
Petunia stood there with a disdainful expression on her tense face. Her arms were crossed over her burgundy plaid dress, and her maroon-painted lips were pulled into a half-smile of disgust as she looked at Harry.
“No point at all,” she said, looking him up and down before moving on to pick at her fingers. “I’m just grateful that you’re suffering another family now, instead of mine.”
“The Weasleys love me like you never did.”
“The Wheezys are likely used to freaks like you. They can take the brunt of your bad behaviour now,” Petunia said, words dripping with acid. “I suppose you want thanks for that, too.”
“I don’t need anything from you, least of all your thanks.”
“You could try just conforming,” she said, dropping her arms in frustration. “We tried to teach you how to fit in.”
“‘Teach’?! You call that ‘teaching’?!” Harry laughed.
“Though maybe you’re doing God’s own work, ridding us of the freaks,” Petunia thought, crossing her arms again as she considered. “I hear you have a decent body count.”
“That’s not my fault,” Harry said, echoing what Ron and Hermione had told him endlessly.
“Oh really?” Petunia intoned with a gruesome smile. “You didn’t tell that boy to take hold of the trophy with you?”
“I didn’t know…”
“Or teach all those children how to fight in a war?”
“We were in danger regardless, we had to learn to defend ourselves.”
“By calling them into battle?”
“They chose to fight.”
“They’re children, they don’t know any better!”
“You don’t have much faith in people.”
“Can you blame me? You saw what happened to my sister.”
“It happened to me, too.”
“Oh, please!” Petunia spit. “You’re hardly some innocent boy. You’re nothing at all like my Dudley.”
“Your Dudley may be less like you than you thought,” Harry threw back. “He’s developed a conscience that I know didn’t come from you or your walrus husband.”
“At least he’s not a freak, like you!” she hissed, eyes wild, hand raising as though to strike him.
Harry woke with his face stinging as though he’d been slapped. The early morning light streamed in through the glass of the balcony door, blush pink with newness. He breathed a sigh of relief: just a nightmare.
Coming down the stairs, the light in the kitchen was already on. Harry entered to see both Mr and Mrs Weasley, both of whom chirped a morning greeting to him.
“I guess that’s everyone in the house awake,” Mr Weasley said. “Molly, you can turn on your party music now.”
“Oh, you,” Mrs Weasley laughed, flapping a dish towel at her husband. She turned on her radio, letting the soft tones of some crooner fill the kitchen, and went back to cooking breakfast. “What has you up so early, dear? Bad dreams?”
“Just my aunt calling me a freak,” Harry dismissed. “Nothing I’m not used to.”
“Oh, Harry.”
“I always hate it when people malign you for being different,” Arthur said thoughtfully into his newspaper. “Like being unique is a bad thing.”
“It was, to the Dursleys.”
“Such a shame, to live with such malice in your heart,” Mrs Weasley sighed.
“I doubt anything those people say can be considered good advice.”
“I know,” Harry said fairly. “Though my cousin seems to be shaking off the brainwashing.”
“Thank Merlin for that.”
“Ah, the hope that children offer us,” Mrs Weasley said, laying plates in front of them. “Though I hear that woman was absolute nightmare fuel.”
“Don’t listen to a thing she says, son,” Mr Weasley told him, looking him in the eye.
“Kind of difficult when she’s in my head and haunting my dreams.”
“I hope to never meet that woman,” Mrs Weasley said under her breath.
“Didn’t Charlie have nightmares, Molly? How did we help him?”
“We taught him the value of scary monsters, which completely backfired on us, and now he lives on a dragon preserve.”
“Ah, yes,” Mr Weasley recalled. “Though I doubt exposure therapy would work in this instance. I suppose we’ll have to work with reframing everything your muggles ever said to you.”
“Shouldn’t it be obvious how wrong they were? Harry knows that.”
“Guilt and shame are insidious things. Especially as a child,” he explained. He leaned in towards Harry and said, “I would hate for you to have any mistaken beliefs about yourself.”
“Like, that I bring tragedy and suffering wherever I go?”
“Oh, Harry, dear!”
“Yes, like that,” Mr Weasley said, looking shocked but trying to hide it. “You must know that it isn’t true.”
“Most of the time, I know.”
“But that’s ridiculous!”
“We can help you dispel that belief,” Arthur told him. “Just be honest and come to us when you feel that way.”
“I can do that.”
“That’s a good boy,” Mrs Weasley said, as she sat down with her own breakfast.
~*~
Harry stepped out of the stairwell into the menswear section of Harrods. It was the middle of London, during the first nice day of the year, and everyone was out. He sidestepped a mother with several pairs of slacks slung over her arm, and three young children towed along behind her.
“Do you see him?”
Cormac stood on his tiptoes, looking above the clothing racks around the store. He searched for the man in the blue coat that they’d been tailing.
“There! By the shoes,” Cormac said. “Come on.”
Cormac heads off for Shoes & Accessories, ducking down a bit and speeding off. Harry swore a bit before following him.
“McLaggen, wait!” Harry came up behind him and shoved him to the left, into sportswear. “Not so close!”
“Ow, Potter, what the fuck!”
“We’re supposed to be doing surveillance! That means staying hidden!”
“If we stay too hidden, we won’t be able to see when he tries to make a sale!”
“If he sees us, the whole operation is blown!” Harry hissed. “Keep moving, down to the coats in the corner.”
“I don’t understand why this is happening here, of all places,” Cormac said, confused. “It’s not like he’s a man of taste.”
“Maybe his client is?”
“It doesn’t make sense. There, who’s that coming up the escalator?”
“I think that’s him.”
“He’s certainly looking around a lot,” Cormac said quietly. “Very fishy.”
“He’s heading right for our suspect. Do you have eyes on?”
Cormac shifted to the other side of a rack of puffy ski jackets.
“Affirmative.”
As they watched, the new man approached their suspect. They looked at each other as he perused the sunglasses, and Blue Coat soon came to join him.
“This is it,” Cormac whispered.
A little green bag came out of the pocket of the blue coat, tucked in the palm of his hand. They edged closer together, looking casual as can be, and Harry held his breath as they saw the bag change hands.
“He did it,” Harry said. “Let’s call Auror Green.”
“Why?” Cormac pulled his wand out and started moving around the clothing rack. “We can take care of this ourselves.”
“We are not aurors!” Harry hissed, grabbing for his sleeve. “We’re first-year squad officers!”
“What better time to prove ourselves!”
“Reckless!”
Jeanette Robards was apoplectic. Harry and Cormac were sitting in Head Auror Robards’ office now. Gawain Robards himself was sitting behind his desk, looking severely disappointed, watching his wife berate her trainees.
“Taking matters into your own hands! Endangering your lives and the entire case against Webb!”
“I don’t see how,” Cormac retorted. “We caught the bad guy! Arrested and charged! Case closed!”
“The case is not closed!” Auror Robards yelled, waving her arms in frustration. “The case is completely jeopardised! What were you thinking?!”
“Do you know the kind of work that goes into an investigation like this?” Head Auror Robards asked, steepling his fingers. “How much time and effort has been wasted in trying to establish charges before we move in to arrest?”
“Sorry, sir,” Harry said quietly into the tension.
“What’s the big deal? It worked!”
Harry had had enough. He wasn’t putting his career at risk for Cormac McLaggen, of all people. He turned, ready to set Cormac straight.
His words died on his tongue. In Cormac’s seat now was Vincent Crabbe, arms crossed and looking mutinous.
“No, it didn’t!” Auror Robards said, looking like she was a few dumb responses from going completely insane.
“The goal was to find Potter. We did that,” Crabbe spells out for them.
“Find him for what?” Head Auror Robards said in confusion, leaning forward in his seat.
“Were you out to kill us?” Harry asked, hoping to make the most of this unfortunate turn of events.
Harry had thought about that a lot before he started dating Draco. Every Death Eater knew not to touch him, that Voldemort wanted him to himself. Were they out to harm him? Attack Ron and Hermione? He’d asked Draco about it, a few weeks into being together, and Draco had said he was nervous for him. That later, when he thought Harry was dead, it had wrecked him far more than it had to leave Crabbe behind to die.
“If you knew it was wrong, why didn’t you tell me so?” Crabbe asked Harry, echoing what Cormac had said earlier.
“You had your orders,” Head Auror Robards said plainly. “You shouldn’t need supervision in order to follow them.”
“Someone should have stopped me,” Crabbe complained. “How was I meant to know?”
“You thought a cursed inferno was a good idea?” Auror Robards said, doubt written all over her face. “You believed that you could control Fiendfyre?!”
“I was willing to take the risk.”
“It wasn’t your risk to take!!” Head Auror Robards finally exploded. “You see if I accept you into the auror program anytime soon! You obviously don’t know what it takes to murder one seventeen-year-old celebrity wizard! Or how to work as part of a team!”
“Too right, dear,” Auror Robards agreed, looking like she’d relaxed significantly since her husband had lost his cool. She put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Can’t even support his friend, he has to try to kill his bestie’s boyfriend instead.”
“But I didn’t kill him,” Crabbe protested. “Don’t you care that your great Harry Potter, your Boy Who Lived, murdered me?”
Auror Robards was positively shaking him now.
“Harry Potter? Our saviour?” she asked, incredulous. “He can’t have done that.”
“If he had,” Head Auror Robards put in, “he’d be straight to Azkaban. I doubt they’d even do a trial, it would be such a press mess.”
“What?”
Auror Robards was shaking him harder now, and he was losing his balance. He threw a hand out to catch himself on Head Auror Robards’ desk when his hand struck the cup of pencils, which scattered across the floor.
“Ow!”
Harry woke up abruptly.
He was lying on the couch in Ron and Hermione’s house. In front of him, crouching on the carpet and bathed in early spring moonlight, was Hermione. She was holding her cheek, but dropped her hand when she saw Harry was awake. He sat up on the couch.
“Did I hurt you? I’m sorry!”
She sucked in a breath as she shook her head vehemently, curls bouncing.
“No, no!” she assured. “I’m alright. My fault, really: I shook you pretty hard to wake you.”
“Still sorry, ‘Mione.”
“I know. May I?” she asked. She climbed up to sit next to him, pulling her feet up and tucking under his blanket at the other end of the couch. “Freezing. So! Tell me about your dream.”
“How do you know I was dreaming?”
“Harry,” she said, tutting and tilting her head. No getting past her.
So he told her. Because he couldn’t hide anything from her, and wouldn’t really want to try anyhow. He told her about the Webb case, which she seemed to already know from Ron. He told her about Cormac’s lack of accountability and getting yelled at by both bosses together. He told her how, in the dream, Cormac had become Crabbe, who had accepted even less blame for his actions. How everyone expected him to be better because he was Harry Potter, and he is responsible for saving everyone’s day. She listened dutifully, resting her head on her knees and watching him sympathetically.
“Oh, Harry,” she said when he’d finished. “Please don’t suffer the idiots.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, turning sideways on the couch to face her.
“I mean that morons are not your fault, or your responsibility.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Because you can’t help people who won’t take it.”
“Who’s asking me for help?”
“You don’t think it’s helpful to them if you take all the blame?”
“I suppose so.”
“Harry, with your… level of popularity - and who can blame them, you’re great - you need to watch the rumours. It would be a hell of a story for Harry Potter to be even accused of screwing up an auror case. I watch out for this stuff, too, but must you make my job more difficult?”
“I know. It’s a high-stakes job. I can’t be making mistakes like that.”
“Not high stakes, Harry,” Hermione corrected. “It’s high expectations.”
“I don’t see the difference.”
“You do your best. It’s all you can do,” she said earnestly. “You can ask others to do their best. No more.”
“That’s not my life experience.”
“I know, and it makes me sad. But you can only control your own actions and how you feel about them. If they’re stupid enough to expect godlike qualities from a mere mortal, that’s their own problem.”
“Thanks, ‘Mione.”
“Anytime, Harry,” she smiled at him. She reached over to squeeze his arm. “Go back to sleep. You had a busy day, and we have to be at the Burrow early tomorrow.”
~*~
The church was stuffy and warm, and smelled a bit like mold. It was unpleasant. Harry had never enjoyed churches or services, and the few he had attended with the Dursleys as a young boy were not good experiences.
There was a decent crowd, too, more than twenty people who had come to pay their respects. Many were crying softly, holding hands and hugging shoulders. Neville stood at the front of the church, near the coffin, receiving hearty handshakes from those who had paid respect to the body.
“She was a hell of a woman,” Great-Uncle Algie said in a stage whisper, leaning towards Neville. “Brave until the end.”
Harry watched Neville roll his eyes from where he stood in the queue.
“She died of old age, Uncle.”
“My sister was a formidable woman!” Algie said strongly. “I refuse to believe Augusta went down without a fight!”
“Gran died in her sleep,” Neville said, unconvinced.
Harry was getting closer, stepping up onto the dais.
“Have you considered her enemies?”
Harry heard Neville give a frustrated sigh through his nose.
“What enemies? She was an old woman who kept to her embroidery and her family.”
“He shouldn’t be dead, Neville!”
‘He’? Who was he talking about? Harry was next to the coffin now, and as the woman in front of him stepped away, he moved forward to look in the coffin. He had expected to see Augusta Longbottom. After all, it was her funeral. What he saw instead took his breath away.
Because it wasn’t Augusta in the coffin. It was Draco Malfoy, his boyfriend, his partner of almost ten months. His favourite person, who took care of him and loved him, and whom he loved back.
Dead.
Harry backed away, step after step, and stumbled off the dais.
“No,” Harry breathed. “No, this can’t be real.”
“Just because it’s happening in your head doesn’t mean it isn’t real!” Great-Uncle Algie said with a rude bark of laughter.
Harry felt short of breath. He couldn’t feel his fingers, and he was starting to feel light-headed.
“My condolences, Mr Potter,” an old woman said as she passed him, taking the time to shake his hand warmly.
Harry felt sick. This had to be a dream. No, a nightmare! He willed himself to wake up.
Wake up!
WAKE UP!!!
Harry sat upright with a gasp of air. He looked beside him, and there lay Draco, whole and living. Harry spent a few minutes watching him breathe, his chest rising and falling in time with soft snores, and focused on calming down.
After awhile, Harry felt a lot more grounded. He lay back down, but instead of staying on his side of the bed, he put his head on Draco’s lax and bony shoulder.
Draco’s breathing pattern immediately changed. Harry felt his muscles shake gently as he stretched. As he relaxed again, he shifted position so that he could wrap a lazy, protective arm around Harry.
“Hmm?” Draco hummed.
“Just a bad dream,” Harry said before immediately wincing. He sounded like a wreck still, teary and out of breath. “Go back to sleep.”
“Hmm,” Draco hummed again, stroking a hand along his spine. “Nightmares?”
“Just a dead boyfriend, you know.”
“Oh,” Draco said, seeming more awake. “Alright, let’s hear about it.”
So Harry told him. He laid out the shock and fear, the oddness of the interactions. He talked about how sad Neville looked, even in his dreams.
“Longbottom is alright. He’s handling his mourning well,” Draco soothed. “Did you want to give him a deadline to leave our guest room?”
“And go where? No,” Harry denied. “His house isn’t livable yet, and he doesn’t want to stay at the home he shared with his gran.”
“He’s welcome to stay as long as he needs. I was just checking in with you. But if it’s giving you nightmares…”
“I’d have nightmares anyway.”
Draco didn’t respond for a moment, his hand tracing comforting figures on his back.
“I just don’t know why I feel so guilty all the time,” Harry huffed. “Enough that it turns into nightmares.”
“Guilt is subtle, but poisonous. It can sneak up on you.”
“It doesn’t feel like it sneaks. It feels like it’s come to roost, and is living in my brain.”
“You’re a very good man, my Harry. I think you take on more than you need to a lot of the time.”
“A lot of things really are my fault.”
“No, darling. You just take the blame for a lot of things.”
“Hermione said the same thing.”
“Well, she’s a smart pop. Top of her class, I hear.”
“I had one dream where my aunt was talking about my ‘body count,’” Harry confided. “Mr Weasley told me not to listen to her, but it’s not that easy.”
“Whatever I’ve said about the Weasleys,” Draco allowed, “they are undeniably a loving and supportive family. You’re lucky to have them.”
“I am. My mum thinks so, too.”
Draco peeled an eye open to peer at him, looking completely bewildered. His hand stopped its gentle movement and lay, warm and comforting, on the small of his back. But Harry was not forthcoming.
“Alright,” Draco sighed, letting Harry keep his secrets. “So there are many reasons why you might be experiencing this shame. Survivor’s guilt is a big one, which I’d be surprised if you didn’t have.”
“I definitely have it.”
Draco’s hand started moving again on his back, up and down, as he continued.
“There’s also perfectionism, childhood conditioning, the empathy you’re feeling for Longbottom…”
“Empathy is giving me bad dreams?”
“Seems like it, doesn’t it, darling?”
“How is empathy making me feel guilty for calling Mrs Weasley ‘mum’?”
“What?” Draco said, befuddled. “Darling, why do you choose to have these conversations at…” he picked up the watch on his bedside and squinted at the face, “four in the morning?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” he apologised, raising his other hand to move through Harry’s hair contritely. “There’s a thing called ‘false guilt’ that comes from feeling helpless. We feel helpless, and guilt is easier to feel.”
“You think my guilt is false?”
“Is any of it actually your fault?”
“You can’t believe that Cedric’s death wasn’t my fault. Or Sirius, or Remus, or Tonks,” Harry cut himself off with a deep breath. “Or everyone else who gave their lives just to protect me.”
“There’s no ‘just,’ darling,” Draco said gently, stroking his back and brushing his hair back from his forehead sedately. “You’re important and wonderful, even outside of being a saviour.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“I know. Your mind is full of ‘what if’s and ‘if only’s, and it’s a lot less scary to feel guilt than fear over things we can’t control.”
“Maybe.”
“Trust me,” Draco asked. “I’m pretty intelligent.”
“That’s true,” Harry laughed, hugging him closer. The pale arms around him tightened.
“You’re not alone in this, Harry,” Draco said adoringly. “You can share your burdens with the people who love you.”
Harry lifted his head to look at him. Draco looked back, eyebrows raised and face open. Crawling up his body, Harry leaned down to kiss him. They snogged for awhile, touching and caressing each other, until Harry started to feel more at ease in his own skin and was very, very sure that his partner wasn’t dead.
“Go back to sleep, darling,” Draco hushed. “Tomorrow, we’ll have breakfast with Longbottom, then perhaps we can go into the city. We can have a date, if you like.”
“I think I would like.”
“It’s a date, then.”
Harry fell back asleep feeling warm, comfortable, and loved.