Chapter Text
Harry saw the silver glint of the knife flash in the corner of his eye and looked up at the night sky instead. For a fleeting moment he could have been anywhere. Leaves rustled in the gentle summer breeze and he ignored the sharp pain that darted down his arm. If he stared up through the branches and looked at the stars he could pretend none of this was happening.
But then his scar burned white-hot and he cried out, screams muffled by the rag in his mouth. The illusion was broken. He looked down into red, snake-like eyes.
Voldemort had returned.
“You’ve been taught how to duel, haven’t you Harry? First you must bow. Bow to me. Bow to death.”
The Death Eaters had laughed as Harry thrashed wildly in pain on the ground. He wanted to scream but his throat was so raw he made no sound. He would have begged for death if he'd been able to.
But then the pain stopped and he was still. The graveyard grass was damp with dew. It soaked through his robes, through his skin, into his bones.
“That hurt, didn’t it?” Voldemort asked. “You don’t want me to do that again, do you Harry?”
He lay there, face pressed into the ground, breathing in the smell of mud and death.
Nobody was coming to save him. This was the end.
"Answer me! Imperio !"
Later, when he was in the hospital wing, he looked down at his arm, at the blood. It was dry by then, cracked and scabbed. Some of it flaked off when he touched it. Even after it had been cleaned away, Harry still found himself staring at the same spot, at where the scar should have been. But someone had healed him, and now there was nothing but pale skin.
The days passed. Time kept moving but Harry couldn't keep track. One moment he was in the common room. But then his vision swirled, and he was sitting in the Great Hall, staring down at an empty plate.
“You need to eat,” Hermione said softly. “You didn’t have anything yesterday.”
“He didn’t eat yesterday?!” Ron asked, and Harry flinched at the volume, knocking his fork to the floor. “Hermione! Madam Pomfrey told us to –”
He leant down to pick up the fork, but then when he looked up he was back at Privet Drive, standing in the hallway. Uncle Vernon was shouting but Harry's ears were filled with white noise. Harry stared at him blankly. His uncle grabbed his arm and dragged him up the stairs. His bedroom looked different. He couldn’t quite place what it was that had changed. Vernon kept shouting as Harry traced his fingers over a spot on the wall where the paint was cracking. A piece of blue paint flaked off and Harry watched as it fell to the floor. When he looked up, Vernon was gone, and Aunt Petunia was standing in the doorway instead. She handed him a glass of water and ushered him to bed.
He woke up screaming. Cedric. The graveyard. Voldemort. There were heavy footsteps and he squinted into yellow light that flooded his room.
“Everything's fine,” Vernon shouted down the hallway. “It’s just the boy.” He turned to look at Harry. “Keep quiet.”
He screamed again the next night and the next, but Vernon didn’t check on him again. One night he woke in a panic, arms flailing wildly, and knocked his lamp off the bedside table. The bulb smashed and Harry stared at the shards of glass that were scattered across the floor. He picked one up. It sliced into his skin. He hadn't watched when Pettigrew sliced through his flesh, but he watched this, watched the small pool of blood gather in his palm. The pain grounded him.
After that night, time started to come back to him. But he still felt like a passenger, observing the world through frosted window panes.
Harry rolled up his sleeve and stared down at the razor blade in his hand. He pressed the blade into his skin and watched curiously as small beads of red pooled out. It stung. It grounded him. A dead person wouldn’t bleed. A dead person wouldn’t hurt. This was his proof. This was how he convinced himself that this was real. He was here.
Once should have been enough, if that was the only reason he was doing it.
But Harry dug the blade in again, harder this time. He noticed other cuts that he didn’t want to remember making. Some of them looked a few days old, others more like weeks. He mostly tried to ignore them. The days had all merged into one; the monotony made it hard to tell the difference between past and present, fact and fiction.
He remembered writing letters to his friends, but not what he actually wrote. He remembered having long conversations - with Dudley, of all people - but not what either of them actually said. Sometimes he would get a letter from Ron or Hermione or Sirius and have no idea what they were even talking about - the words might as well have been in a foreign language. At some point he stopped replying to them. He glanced over at his bedside table. The pile of unopened letters was larger than he remembered.
Petunia didn’t give him chores, and Harry forgot to ask her for them. He pretended not to notice the worried glances they all gave each other when they thought he wasn’t looking.
“Who’s Cedric?” Dudley asked one morning, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
“What?” Harry asked slowly. “What do you mean?”
Dudley suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Sorry,” he said.
How did he know? None of them were supposed to know.
Harry was grateful that he didn’t ask about it again. Maybe he’d never asked in the first place.
The letters piled up higher. Harry almost wanted to burn them. Now that he was slowly making his way out of this haze, it was getting harder to ignore the guilt eating away at him. His friends were probably worried. He'd have to do something about it at some point.
Harry was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, when Hedwig pecked gently on the window. He took a couple of seconds to sit up. Sometimes she would peck again impatiently but this time she just stared at him with her large dark eyes. He leant across, opened the window, and she hopped inside with a gentle flap of her wings.
“Hey girl,” he said, stroking her with a shaking hand.
Harry took the envelope from her and sighed. Sirius’ handwriting. The letter went on the table with the others. Hedwig stared at him quizzically for a moment before hopping back out of the window and flying off again.
Harry stared back up at the ceiling. His heart thudded in his chest so loud he could hear it. He didn’t want to deal with any of this. For once it was better being here, with the Dursleys. He could pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. He could pretend that everything was okay. That Cedric wasn't dead.
He woke up screaming again. He was back in the cemetery, Voldemort standing over him. His face twisted and morphed, red eyes turning blue. The mist cleared. And suddenly Harry was back in his bed, drenched in sweat, panting for breath. It wasn’t Voldemort standing over him, but Vernon.
“What in God’s name are you playing at?” he barked. “It’s 4 AM –”
“Vernon, please –” Petunia interrupted from Harry’s doorway, her shrill voice piercing his ears.
“What will the neighbours think?” he asked. “We’re lucky nobody’s called the police. Every bloody night it sounds like someone's getting murdered. I’ve had enough.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry heard himself say.
“You’re sorry? You’re –”
“Vernon,” Petunia warned.
Vernon grabbed a fistful of Harry’s hair and yanked him up. “You need to do better than sorry, don’t you?” he said, pulling Harry up further so he was standing, covers tangled around his legs.
“I don’t –”
“You. Need. To. Fix. This.”
He let him go and Harry stumbled, limbs flailing. The side of his face hit against the windowsill and he saw stars. There was silence for a second but suddenly Petunia was screeching and hot blood was pouring from his nose. Someone - Petunia - helped him up. Harry collapsed back into his bed with a groan, shielding his eyes from the bright light in his doorway. The door slammed shut and he was left lying in darkness.
The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He had to sit up so he wouldn't choke on it.
“No, no, he’s fine,” Vernon said from the landing. “He’s fine. It’s just a nosebleed. Go back to bed and . . .”
Harry heard muffled voices arguing, but that slowly faded and then there was silence.
There was a gentle knock on Draco’s bedroom door.
“Come in,” Draco drawled.
He looked up just as the door creaked open and Theodore Nott entered. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking a little lost.
“Come in then. Sit wherever,” he said. “Or stand. Up to you. I don’t really care. Just close the door behind you.”
Theo gulped and Draco just about managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Theo and Draco had never really been close, much to both of their fathers’ dismay. Theo was too quiet, too hard to read, even for a Slytherin. He kept himself to himself in school, which was fine because that meant Draco didn’t have to talk to him. But nevertheless, every summer their fathers would bring them along to every meeting, every party, every catch-up, with the hopes that maybe this time they’d realise they got along. The forced smalltalk and awkward silences only further cemented Draco’s desire to avoid Theo whenever possible. This summer was different than usual though. The visits were more and more frequent - almost daily now. And they both knew why.
Theo walked over to the window and looked out. The early morning sun shone against his face, exaggerating his already prominent cheekbones.
“Do you think we’ll see him tonight?” Theo asked, his voice piercing the silence
“What?” Draco said, his patience already wearing thin.
“You-know-who,” said Theo, his voice wavering slightly. He stepped away from the window and turned to face Draco. “Tonight. He’s coming here again. I heard my father talking about it.”
Draco made sure his expression was blank. He was good at this now. He had to be. “I expect not,” he said. “Unless you want to stare out of that window like some gormless idiot all day waiting for him to arrive.”
Theo laughed nervously, and Draco rolled his eyes.
“You know,” Theo said, after a couple of moments of silence. “I really liked Diggory.”
Draco pursed his lips and sat up. There was more silence, and it was almost painful. “I didn’t know him,” he finally said.
Draco tried to avoid these sorts of conversations as much as he could. His father told him exactly what had happened that night in the cemetery, as if he expected him to be proud, as if he expected him to be excited about Voldemort’s return.
Theo gave him an odd look. “He seemed like a decent guy though, is what I mean.”
Draco shrugged. “People seemed to like him.”
There was another long silence, and Theo turned back to the window again. “It was a shame. The whole thing.”
Draco clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes. Was this some sort of test? Was he trying to catch him out? “The Dark Lord has returned,” he said, almost automatically. “I would hardly call that a shame.” The words stung like acid in his mouth.
“Of course, no, of course,” Theo blurted out. He rubbed the back of his neck and turned back to face Draco. His eyes were pleading. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
Draco relaxed a little. He almost wanted to take back what he had said, almost wanted to tell him how he really felt. He could feel the words bubbling in his throat, like water on the verge of boiling over. But he pushed them down. It was too dangerous to be honest with anyone.
“It’s fine,” Draco said.
There were a few more moments of silence, and Draco watched as Theo clenched and unclenched his fists. He finally sat beside Draco on the bed and laid back, amber eyes focused straight up at the ceiling above him. Draco stared at him. He didn’t want to worry, especially about someone he didn’t want to care about, especially when this whole conversation could have just been an act. But he couldn’t help himself.
“What’s wrong?”
Theo gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. His pulse was beating rapidly against his neck. He closed his eyes and a small singular tear ran down his cheek. Draco looked away and pretended he hadn’t seen it.
“Has your father spoken to you about taking the dark mark?” Theo asked, voice hoarse.
Draco took a moment to answer. “My parents have been arguing about it,” he admitted. “But I doubt the Dark Lord would ever let a bunch of idiots like us anywhere near his plans, no matter what our fathers want. At least until we come of age, anyway.”
Theo smiled slightly, the silent tears now dried stains on his cheeks. “He’s barely been back for two months and it’s all my father wants to talk about.”
“Tell me about it,” Draco said. He stood up from the bed. “But come on, we don’t need to talk about this. Let’s go outside and get some quidditch practice in.” He tried to smile. “Merlin knows you need it before school starts.”
Theo looked up at him with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Speak for yourself, Malfoy.”
Draco grabbed his arm and pulled him up to his feet. “Once we’re back in Hogwarts things will be better,” he said quietly. “More distractions.”
Theo nodded. “I know. I’m counting down the hours.”
Me too, Theo, Draco thought. Me too.
Harry opened his eyes and could hardly move. His bones ached and his muscles were stiff. He’d been asleep for too long. The lighting in his room was all wrong. He glanced at the clock.
15:45.
Fuck.
It took a little while to stand up and even longer to remember what had happened, why everything hurt so much. There was dried blood caked down his face and he had what looked like the start of a black eye. But it could have been worse.
He dunked a tissue in a half-drank glass of water and wiped away as much of the blood as he could before getting changed. Eyes downcast, still half asleep, he swung open the door and trudged out of his room, straight into Aunt Petunia’s path. She yelped, and Harry snapped his head up to look at her.
Harry was about to speak, but then she gasped. She was staring down at him, at his arms.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
She grabbed his forearm with her bony fingers, nails digging into his flesh. “What is this?” she hissed.
Harry tried to pull his arm back but she wouldn’t let go. He felt his chest constrict in panic.
Stop touching me.
“Nothing,” he said. “Please, it’s nothing .”
Merlin, I’m an idiot. Short sleeves. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She frowned. “You stupid boy. What good is that going to do?”
Harry looked away and said nothing. Petunia faltered for a second but then she tutted at him and let his arm go.
“Just - just don’t do that again,” she said. Harry thought he almost detected concern in her voice, and guilt fluttered in his stomach.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
She shook her head at him. “Go and change,” she said quietly. “God knows what Vernon would say if he saw you like this.”
Harry slammed the door shut. He took a couple of seconds to breathe, to get his body back under control. He grabbed a baggy long sleeved shirt from his wardrobe and chucked it on. His hands itched to grab his blade again. Everything was too intense. He needed something else to focus on right now. Somewhere else to direct his attention.
He was about to reach for the razor blade when he heard voices downstairs. He paused, breath hitched in his throat, ears straining to hear. One of the voices was Petunia. The other voice sounded familiar, but Harry couldn’t place it.
The talking stopped and then footsteps pounded up the stairs. Harry looked around frantically for his wand, but then his door flew open and he stumbled back. He stared in confusion at the figure standing in front of him. It took his brain a few seconds to process what was happening.
“Remus?”
“Harry, it’s good to see you. How are you?" There was a pause but Harry just stared. "You haven’t written to anyone in - Merlin, what on earth happened to your face?”
Harry adjusted his glasses nervously. “Oh, don’t worry about this,” he said. “Just a scuffle with Dudley.” Remus’ posture relaxed. “What – why are you here?"
“You didn’t get the letter about coming to stay? From Sirius?”
Harry felt his stomach drop. Hedwig squawked from her cage. He glanced over at his bedside table, at the pile of unopened letters. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks.
“Oh, the letter,” he said, trying his best to disguise the panic in his voice. “Yeah. No, I got it last night. Sorry. I just - I thought Dumbledore wanted me to stay here for most of the summer.”
Remus smiled at him strangely. “That’s okay, Harry,” he said slowly. “But what - what do you mean? About Dumbledore?"
Harry frowned, confused. “Oh, it's fine. It's just, you know, didn't he say something about that? I only got here last week. I thought he would want me to stay a bit longer, that's all.”
"Last week?" Remus asked.
Harry nodded, confused.
Remus blinked slowly and shuffled from foot to foot. “It's been a bit longer than a week. But no matter, no matter.” His voice was strained. “We thought it would be good for you to stay with us until you go back to Hogwarts. Pack some things. We can always pop back here to pick up anything you forget. I’ll … I’ll go talk with your aunt while I wait.”
“Right,” Harry said.
He looked over again at the letters on his table. God, how hadn’t he realised? Of course it'd been longer than a week.
The guilt made him want to throw up. How long had he been here, then? He had no idea. Trying to figure it out seemed impossible.
Sirius had obviously been waiting in the hallway for them. Harry could see his shadow through the frosted glass in the front door. Remus hadn’t even finished opening it before he barged past him, elbowing him out of the way, to wrap Harry in a bone-crushing hug. Harry tried his best not to push him away.
“Harry,” Sirius said. “Merlin, we’ve been worried sick, you know. You - you really need to get better at replying to letters.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Sirius squeezed him tight. “I missed you.”
Harry stepped back and smiled up at him. “Missed you too."
And it was true, he had missed him. It felt like he hadn’t seen him for years, and he was struggling to remember the last time they’d been together in person.
Sirius pushed him back suddenly, hands on Harry’s shoulders, eyes narrow. “What on earth happened to your face?”
Harry attempted to laugh, but even to his own ears it wasn’t convincing. “It was just Dudley,” he said, trying to keep his voice bright. He felt a pang of guilt over blaming his cousin. “You know – we fight sometimes.”
Sirius’ eyebrows furrowed and his eyes darted towards Remus and then quickly back. He didn’t look convinced. But before he had a chance to question him, Remus pulled Harry aside.
“Let me heal that for you,” he said, drawing his wand.
Harry had his back pressed against the wall in the hallway, and then he was back in the graveyard, tied up against the marble headstone. Harry closed his eyes and shook his head. He couldn’t look. He couldn’t watch it happen.
Stop. Stop.
He smelled the mud and the grass and braced himself for the cruciatus curse he knew was coming.
Remus was speaking, but his mind couldn’t focus. It was like he was underwater, straining to hear what was happening up above the surface.
“Please,” he said shakily. He could hardly hear himself. “I can’t - I can’t do this.”
Slowly Remus’ voice became clearer.
“Harry?” Remus said gently, and Harry could sense he had stepped back from him. “Can you look at me? I’m sorry. You're safe here. I won’t - I won't do anything you don’t want me to do.”
Harry opened his eyes. Oh. He was standing in the hallway. And now Sirius and Remus were staring at him with worry, with questions undoubtedly ready on their lips. Harry opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to find the words. Sirius had never looked like this before, not as long as Harry had known him. Tears pricked at Harry’s eyes.
“The cemetery,” he said finally. The words were barely whispers, but the effort it had taken for him to say them left him drained.
Understanding flashed over their faces. Remus smiled sadly, Sirius frowned, and Harry looked down at his shoes, embarrassed.
Merlin, this was worse than he thought it would be.
“Of course,” Remus said quietly. “Of course. Harry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you of - of that.”
Harry’s breath shuddered out of him in small gasps. He dug his nails into his palms and looked up again. “It’s okay,” he managed. “It’s fine, really. Sorry. I don't know what – what happened.”
Sirius and Remus looked at each other; Harry could sense their concern. Couldn't he just act normal for five fucking minutes? Was that too much to ask of himself?
“How about I show you your room?” Sirius said finally, his voice gravelly and thick in his throat. He went to put his hand on Harry’s shoulder then stopped himself, as if he was scared to touch him. “Everyone's eating right now, I don’t think they even know you’re here yet. Should give you some time to get settled in.”
Harry forced a smile at his godfather. “Great, thanks,” he said. “Sounds like a good idea.”
Remus placed a firm hand on Sirius' shoulder. “Hang on, Sirius. A word?"
Sirius’ eyes flashed with concern, but he composed himself quickly. “Of course,” he said. “Stay here, Harry, we won’t be a minute.”
Sirius followed Remus into a room down the corridor, closing the door behind them. When they returned their expressions were indecipherable.
“Right, come on then,” Sirius said through a forced smile. “Let’s - let me show you your room. Remus can bring up your bags later.”
He led Harry up the stairs. The air was cold and damp and wallpaper was peeling off the walls. The stairs creaked under them as they made their way up to the second floor. They reached a wooden door. Sirius opened it, revealing an ornate bedroom with two twin beds. Harry spotted Ron’s clothes strewn about the place, and his stomach dropped.
His nightmares had woken him up almost every night when he had been at the Dursleys’. The thought of Ron witnessing him like that made him want to shrivel up into a ball and disappear. But maybe things would be better here? Maybe the dreams wouldn’t be so bad now that he was somewhere new.
Harry walked in and heard Sirius close the door behind them with a gentle click.
“So,” Sirius said, turning to face Harry, his expression indecipherable. “I feel like you haven’t been completely honest with me.”
“What do you –”
“In your letters,” Sirius said gently. “You haven’t sent any for a while, and that’s okay - we all need space. But in the ones you sent before, you said everything was fine.”
Harry’s stomach knotted. He looked down at his feet. He could hardly remember what letters Sirius was even talking about, but he knew admitting that would just make everything even worse.
“I should have known,” Sirius said quietly. “I’m sorry Harry. I just didn’t think.”
Harry rubbed the back of his head. “I’m fine. Really. I mean, I’m mostly fine. It’s just . . . a lot. A lot to deal with all in one go.”
Harry looked up, and Sirius was staring at him with one eyebrow raised, gesturing for Harry to elaborate.
Harry gulped and looked down again. He could feel his cheeks starting to redden. He hated this, hated how fragile he felt. “Just . . . with everything that happened.”
“Yes. Of course,” Sirius said quietly.
Harry almost wanted to open up, to be honest, wanted to scream and cry. But he was starting to feel hot and cold and sweaty all at once. The words were all there in his mind, but arranging them into sentences and forcing them out of his mouth was another issue entirely.
“Sometimes the memories come back,” said Harry, his voice barely a whisper now. “And it feels like I’m back there again.” He looked up at his godfather.
Sirius nodded at him to keep talking, and Harry felt the world spinning around him. He swayed on his feet and hoped that Sirius wouldn’t notice.
“But most of the time I don’t feel anything,” Harry heard himself say.
“Would it help to talk about what happened?” Sirius asked. His voice sounded so far away.
Harry wasn’t sure who he’d even told about what had happened. He must have talked to Dumbledore. That was the only thing he was certain of, even if he couldn’t remember it. He wasn’t sure how much Ron and Hermione knew. And now the way Sirius was acting made Harry think he hadn’t given him all of the details either.
Harry gulped. The room felt like it was caving in on him. “Have I told you what happened?” he asked.
Sirius shook his head. “We - I thought it would be best for you to talk in your own time.”
Harry looked up at him. “Pettigrew was there,” he said.
Sirius tensed up at the name. “Yes,” he said. “I know.”
“He killed Cedric,” Harry said. It was almost like someone else was speaking, like he was watching from within his own body as somebody else was piloting it. Stop talking. That’s enough. He doesn’t need to know anything else. “And he…” Harry shook his head. “It was so quick I didn’t realise what had happened. There was nothing I could do. Or maybe there was. Maybe there should have been. If I - if I had just thought, if I had realised something was wrong, I - I -”
“None of it was your fault, Harry,” Sirius said quietly. Harry fought back against the urge to correct him.
“And then . . . I thought he would . . . I didn’t know what he was going to do, but at least he seemed human. But with Voldemort. . . When he used the - the unforgivables, I . . . I just -” Have I even told anyone about that? He wasn’t sure. He thought he would feel relief, letting this out, but all he felt was an odd tightness in his chest.
What is Sirius thinking? That I’m weak? That it’s my fault? That I deserved it?
Sirius made an odd sound, but said nothing.
Harry continued. “I can’t forget how it felt. Sometimes it’s almost like I can still feel it. And I thought . . .” He dug his nails into his palms. His heart was hammering in his chest.
“What did you think?” Sirius said softly. There was an unusual undertone to his voice; it was more than softness, more than gentleness. It was caution, as if he was talking to a wild animal that had been cornered.
“I thought,” Harry said, voice wavering, tears pricking at his eyes. “I thought it was the end.”
Sirius suddenly had his arms wrapped around Harry again, but this time Harry didn’t feel the urge to push him away. He hugged his godfather back, burying his face into his robes.
“Shh,” Sirius said gently, one hand in Harry’s hair. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
They stood like that for a little while, Harry with his hands gripped at Sirius' robes and Sirius rubbing gentle circles on his back. Then Harry let out a strangled sob and felt his legs wobble. Sirius stepped back from him. He felt himself being guided backwards and sat down on the edge of the bed. Sirius was kneeling in front of him now, holding his hands, telling him to breathe. It took a little while, but eventually Harry’s breathing slowed and the world came back into focus. He snatched his hands away, embarrassed.
“God, I’m sorry,” Harry said finally. “This is ridiculous, I know. I feel like a child.”
Sirius shook his head and sat beside Harry. They were quiet for a moment, but then Sirius spoke. “I shouldn’t have let Dumbledore send you back to those muggles. I didn’t think - Merlin, I should have thought - I didn’t realise how this would affect you.”
Harry sighed and placed his head in his hands. “Neither did I.”
“But that night, Harry, I had no idea about - about the - the curses. I can’t imagine . . . why didn’t you say something? Does Dumbledore know?”
Harry’s stomach was doing flips. He felt sick. “I think so,” he said after a few seconds.
“You think so?” Sirius asked.
Harry nodded.
“What does that –” Sirius shook his head and sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Harry clenched his fists. “I - I didn’t think it was important.”
Sirius looked like he wanted to scold Harry for that, but he must have stopped himself because instead he sighed again. “Of course it’s important.”
They were silent for a little while, and Harry could feel himself start to lose focus of what was happening. He dug his nails into his palms again, trying to concentrate. Trying to stay present.
“Remus told me that you thought you’d only been there for a week,” Sirius finally said.
Harry felt his stomach drop. He didn’t reply.
“You were at Privet Drive for 6 weeks, Harry,” Sirius said. “Six.”
That can’t be true.
“Oh,” he said. He gulped. “What - what’s the date now, then?”
“The 17th of August,” Sirius said.
Harry blinked. “I see.”
It simultaneously felt like it was yesterday and years ago that he was last at Hogwarts. Nothing seemed to make sense. How could he have lost five whole weeks like that? Like it was nothing.
There was a light knock on the door.
“Come in, Remus,” Sirius said, voice loud enough to make Harry jump slightly.
“Got your things here,” Remus said. Harry’s trunk and Hedwig’s cage floated in behind him as he walked through the doorway. “Did you manage to talk?”
Harry stared at Sirius pleadingly, but Sirius had his eyes fixed forward. “We did,” he said.
Remus looked towards Harry. “Good,” he said. “Very good. Well, Harry, we’ll leave you to get unpacked. Sirius and I need to, uhh, sort a few things out, nothing to worry about.”
“Wait,” Harry said, panicked, trying to think of anything to delay them talking about him again. “There’s something else.”
“Go on,” said Remus.
“I . . . Is there a potion that can help me sleep? I . . . I don’t want to disturb Ron.”
Remus nodded, his expression softening. “Dreamless sleep. Of course,” he said. “We must have some around here somewhere.”
Harry nodded, not wanting to meet his eyes. “That would be great. Thank you.”
There was a short silence.
“Right,” Remus said. “We won’t be long. Unpack, and then we can take you downstairs.”
“Can’t I just go down by myself?”
They looked at each other.
“I think we need to talk to Molly, first,” Remus said slowly. “I promise we won’t be long.”
Mrs Weasley? What are they going to tell her?
They left, and not even thirty seconds later Harry heard Sirius shouting. He could only make out a few words, 'cruciatus' being one of them, and their voices trailed off and down the stairs. Harry stayed sitting on the bed, unsure whether there was even any point in unpacking. He figured he could live out of his trunk; he would only be here for two weeks, afterall. He dragged the trunk under his bed and placed Hedwig’s cage on top of the chest of drawers.
When they returned they were both composed. But Sirius’ eyes were red, and Remus’ face was paler than usual. They glanced at each other before Remus gestured for Sirius to speak.
“Ready to go downstairs?” Sirius asked.
Harry attempted a smile. “Sure.”
He wasn’t ready, though. He wasn’t ready for these next two weeks. And he certainly wasn’t ready for what was to come after it.
Harry drifted through the house like a ghost most days, unsure what to do with himself. He’d been expecting anger from his friends about the letters - they had all been so worried about him, after all, and he'd apparently ignored them for weeks. But Ron and Hermione never brought it up. Everyone was treating him like he was made of glass and Mrs Weasley looked like she wanted to cry every time she as much as looked at him.
Harry’s efforts to act normal weren’t working, then.
Nobody wanted to let Harry be on his own for too long, either. If he left dinner early, Ron or Hermione would follow. When he needed a break from helping with housework, Sirius would oh-so-conveniently need one as well. If they were trying to be subtle about it, it wasn’t working. Harry wouldn’t have minded the company if it wasn’t for the fact that he needed to be alone sometimes. To think. Or to cut - when his thoughts got too overwhelming, or when he felt like he was living in a dream. He had been half-tempted to tell Sirius about it; maybe if he explained why he did it, he would understand.
No, he wouldn’t get it. None of them would.
Harry managed to leave the kitchen unnoticed one evening. There was no Ron or Sirius straggling along behind him. He needed space to breathe, to gather his thoughts. This was the last night before returning to Hogwarts, and Harry wasn’t ready for that yet.
He made his way up the stairs, but as he approached the landing he heard noises. Crying.
“H-hello?”
There was no answer. He walked across the landing and pushed open the drawing-room door.
Arthur Weasley lay sprawled on the floor, eyes open and glazed, blood trickling from his mouth. Harry’s breath hitched in his throat. His brain couldn’t process what he was seeing. He looked up. Mrs Weasley was cowering against the wall, wand in her hand.
No, no. He couldn’t be dead. He was downstairs, Harry had just seen him. Hadn’t he?
“Mrs Weasley?” Harry croaked.
“R-riddikulus!’’ she said.
The body turned into Fred’s, and Mrs Weasley let out a small whimper.
“No . . . riddikulus! Riddikulus!”
Dead Ron.
Dead Ginny.
Dead Harry.
Harry had been about to speak, had been about to tell her to get out, to wait while he found someone else to deal with the boggart. But the words were stuck in his throat. He stared down at his body on the floor, at the lifeless green eyes that almost looked like they were staring back at him.
The door behind Harry flew open, hitting him in the shoulder. But he didn’t move.
Sirius had come running into the room, with Tonks stumbling in behind him. Sirius looked at the boggart and froze. He looked up and down between it and Harry.
“Get away from it,” he said, voice hoarse, and pulled Harry into his chest, so he couldn’t look. He held him there tightly, and Harry could feel him shaking. “Molly. Molly, don’t look at it.”
Tonks pushed past them into the room.
“Riddikulus,” she said calmly.
Sirius let out a shuddering sigh and gripped Harry’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Mrs Weasley said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
Tonks led her out of the drawing room and downstairs. Sirius’ grip on Harry loosened, and Harry pulled away. Sirius was staring at the spot on the carpet where Harry’s body had been, and Harry stared down at it too. They stood like that for a little while, in silence.
Harry wanted to see it again. The boggart. Something about it had felt more real than it should have.
“Come on,” Sirius eventually said, and ushered Harry out of the room. “Let’s go downstairs. I’ll make us a pot of tea.”
Harry didn’t take his Dreamless Sleep that night. And instead of Cedric’s body, he dreamt of his own. Of blank green eyes and ice-cold skin.