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The morning it happens Hermione comments that he is finally cheering up. She raises her goblet and toasts to a new year at Hogwarts. Harry hugs her for five long seconds and whispers that he appreciates her “so goddamn much”. Hermione asks if someone has “spiked your pumpkin juice” but she is smiling and not worried about him, for once.
Before Ron can get jealous, Harry lets go of her and hugs his best mate for five seconds as well. The tips of Ron’s ears go pink and he says, rather flustered, “don’t know what’s brought this on.” Harry says that he’ll always be thankful Ron has been in his life and Ron says, a little nervously, “you’ll see us tomorrow, mate.”
Then, Harry lets go. Of them. Of all of it. He walks upstairs to his dorm and spells his curtains closed, begs off for an early night. He feels a tangled mixture of bitter relief and heavy sadness with an end in sight. He takes out his wand, places it to his left wrist, and casts, “Sectumsempra.”
As his arm bleeds and the cuts dance up, up, deeper and deeper, Harry bites on his hand as he cries. It hurts more than he expected. He starts to feel sleepy, and although in pain, he leans his head down on his pillow and goes to sleep. Goodbye, Voldemort Harry thinks. Goodbye Dursleys. Goodbye Sirius. Goodbye Slytherins. Goodbye Mum and Dad.
Goodbye, sweet cruel world.
/
“Vulnera Sanentur! Vulnera Sanentur! Vulnera Sanentur!”
“Minerva, what has the poor boy done to himself?”
“No time. Just treat him, Poppy.”
“Severus, I need four blood replenishers and the draught of aeternum.”
“Selfish brat-”
“Severus, now .”
/
His eyes are glued together with sleep. His whole body aches like he’s been run over. What happened?
“He’s waking up,” Madame Pomfrey says, her voice heavy with exhaustion.
Someone rushes forward and silently jams the necks of potions into his mouth, and vial by vial, tilts his neck back, and spells him to swallow. Harry feels moments of relief from the pain - warmth, rejuvenation, and quiet - before his body throbs dully.
“Stupid boy,” Snape sneers but he sounds wrung out. He has dark circles under his eyes. Harry winces. Why is his least favourite professor here to witness his shame? Why did I not succeed?
Harry manages to open his eyes, even as his body is incredibly heavy. Even though it is the dead of night, various teachers are gathered around his bedside. Hermione is sleeping soundly in a chair to his right and Ron is pale and solemn as he watches Harry wake up.
“Hey, mate,” Ron says, cautiously. “Glad you’re awake.”
Harry feels nauseous at Ron seeing him like this. In his head, he never had to deal with any of these reactions to his death. In his head, he imagined himself in a coffin, covered in a bouquet of roses, and that everyone eventually moved on.
“Hey, Ron,” Harry rasps, throat cracking. He tries to smile. “What did I miss?”
Madame Pomfrey rushes forward and places a glass of water to his lips. Harry sips at it, slowly and weakly.
“Not much.” A little green, Ron looks away. He looks like he has a thousand things to say but cannot bring himself to say any of it. Harry wants him to rage, to call him selfish, to do anything but stand there in silence.
Snape breaks the awful silence. “So, Potter, now that we’ve spent thousands of galleons worth of potions ingredients in keeping you alive, would you like to explain yourself?”
“Oi!” Ron pipes up, glaring at the greasy old man, “Any money spent on Harry is far better than it wasting away in your deep pockets.”
“Thirty points from Gryffindor,” Snape chastens, but his heart is not in it.
As Harry says, stiffly, “I’ll pay you back,” Hermione begins to shift awake.
“I don’t need your money, Potter.” Snape turns his nose up at him and Harry has to wonder if it makes the man feel better to treat him this way, in spite of everything.
No matter Snape’s pride, Harry will be reimbursing him for everything he cost him.
Hermione’s eyes light up with tears of mixed emotions. She leans forward and wraps her arms around him. The steady pressure around him makes Harry feel claustrophobic and loved, free and trapped. She’s whispering, under her breath, convincing herself, “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.”
“Hermione, let him go.” Ron says but she doesn’t. She just keeps holding him, like if she lets go that he’ll disappear.
“I’m so sorry, Harry.” His neck is getting wet from her crying. “I knew something was wrong but I, but I didn’t want to make you feel awkward. How terrible is that? You could have died and I would have just stood by.”
“No,” Harry says, firmly. “It’s not your fault, okay? I made the decision. I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“Just promise you won’t do it again,” Hermione’s voice breaks into a whisper. It’s so soon since he’s woken up. It’s so soon.
“I promise,” Harry says, and he doesn’t know if he’s telling the truth or just telling her what she wants to hear. “I won’t do it again.”
fin