Chapter Text
I'm not here
This isn't happening
I'm not here, I'm not here
In a little while
I'll be gone
- Radiohead, “How to Disappear Completely,” 2000
December, 2006
They tell him he can’t see the sun. It isn’t temporary. It’s permanent. They put him in a room with no windows, and when they shut the door he blinks and he’s six years old again, locked in a closet and crying for a mum he can’t even remember. He’s afraid of the dark. Even now, all these years later.
When his friends come to visit he tries to make a joke about it. The boy who lived, finally dead. Only no one thinks it’s funny; Hermione gets upset and cries and tries to explain that he isn’t dead, he’s not, it’s more like a disease. A chronic, magical, degenerative disease. He’s like an almost-corpse, a body reanimated. That’s how he understands it, anyway. Technically, not so different from how he was before.
There’s a lot of paperwork to do. Robards tells him the Ministry can keep it quiet, keep it out of the papers, but he still has to register. And then, of course, there’s the question of whether to press charges.
“What?” Harry says, at first, when they ask him, “No. No, she’s just a…”
Kid. Except he’s not actually sure whether that’s true. Vampires don’t quite age the same, is the thing—Hermione tried to explain that, too. Something about blood intake and magical cores. She looked like a kid when they found her, huddled on a moth-eaten blanket in the corner of a mouldy basement during one of the biggest creature-trafficking ring busts in years. Harry remembers thinking Christ, she can’t be more than thirteen. That was right before she leapt at him, snarling, and tried to rip his throat out with her teeth.
They tell him, in the hospital, that she’s twenty-two. Her name is Samantha Munphry. She was a muggleborn, taken before she turned eleven—reported missing to the muggle police, which is why nobody looked for her. She was too young for Hogwarts, too young to be on the Ministry’s radar, and with magic her captors had no issues evading the muggle authorities. It’s a common tactic, in trafficking rings. Muggleborn kids are the easiest targets, and once they’re turned into werewolves or vampires there’s no place for them in the wizarding world anyway. Nobody says it, but they all know she was probably kept young on purpose, blood-fevered and easier to control. Most of the vampires they find look like kids. A few weeks without blood, and they’ll age rapidly. It’s an easy fix.
Still, Harry can’t shake the feeling that she’s just a kid. A child, kept locked in the dark. She hasn’t seen the sun in over a decade. Turning a wizard is a capital offence; if convicted, she could face a dementor’s kiss.
“No,” he says, imagining her locked away again, this time in a cell at Azkaban. There’s a special ward for vampires, he knows. A basement, like the one she was kept in. “No, I’m not pressing charges.”
Robards grimaces.
“Harry,” he says, in his familiar, patronising way, “The Ministry will be pressing charges regardless; she’s a danger to society. She can’t just be allowed to roam free…”
“What about the rehabilitation program?” Harry asks, glancing over at Ron, waiting for backup. Ron shuffles his feet, looking down like it wasn’t his wife who spearheaded the creature rehabilitation programs. Robards sighs.
“That program is for creatures who can actually be rehabilitated, Harry,” he says, in the tone of voice that means Harry’s already meant to know this, but they’re all just going to ignore that, “Turning a wizard is an automatic disqualifier.”
Harry’s stomach churns. He can hear both their heartbeats. It’s disorienting. He’s hungry.
“Forget it,” he says, “I’m not testifying.”
“Harry…”
“I’m not.”
Robards sighs, looks at Ron. Ron shrugs, guiltily, as if to say I told you so. Harry watches them have their silent conversation, the same silent conversation they’ve had about him a thousand times. Like he isn’t sitting right there, watching them.
He clears his throat.
“Are we going to move my desk?”
Ron’s eyes dart back over to him. Robards frowns.
“What?”
“My desk,” Harry repeats, pressing a fist into his stomach to keep it from growling. “There’s a window in my office.”
More silent, guilty conversation. He can hear Ron’s heartbeat kicking in his chest.
“Er…mate,” Ron says, after a moment, “Don’t you think it would be best to, you know…take some time off?”
Harry squeezes his fist, digging knuckles into his ribcage.
“No.”
“Harry,” Robards begins, exasperated, and Ron hurries to interrupt,
“Just while you’re recovering, Harry.” He attempts a smile, urging, “Come on, when’s the last time you had a holiday?”
“Where am I meant to take a holiday, Ron?” Harry asks, voice flat, “The catacombs?”
Ron winces. Robards looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but doesn’t. Prick.
“You’re on mandated medical leave, Harry,” he says, and lifts a hand when Harry opens his mouth to protest. “I’ve already put the paperwork through. It’s done, so don’t even bother arguing.”
Harry closes his mouth, grinds his teeth. His canines nick the inside of his lip, drawing blood. His stomach growls. Ron winces again.
“Fine,” he grits out, “But you’ll keep me updated on the case, yeah?”
Ron hesitates, glancing again at Robards before he answers.
“Yeah, mate,” he says, “Of course.”
* * *
When they finally let him go home, Hermione’s already got the windows covered. She’s done something, used some charm he doesn’t know, so no matter what he does the windows stay dark and black as though some giant’s wrapped its fist around the entirety of Grimmauld Place.
“Hermione,” he says, “Why can’t I take this down?”
“Hmm?” She glances over her shoulder, busy attempting to eradicate some of the stubborn dust clinging to the top of a bookshelf. “Oh, just a precaution.”
Harry stares at her. She goes on ignoring him, cleaning his house.
“A precaution against what?” he asks. Her shoulders go tense. Ron moves forward from where he’s been hovering in the doorway, eyebrows scrunching. They haven’t spoken much since Robards’ visit in the hospital.
“Sorry?” Hermione asks, with that horrible, forced cheer in her voice.
“A precaution against what,” Harry repeats. He wants to hear her say it.
Hermione pauses her dusting, lowering her wand and throwing Ron a helpless look. Their heartbeats are both stuttering, off-beat, a jarring, arrhythmic noise. Ron moves again, positioning his body between the two of them. It’s subtle, how he moves to shield her. But Harry notices.
“Just want to make sure you don’t hurt yourself, mate.”
The anger throbs, bruise-like, beneath his skin. He looks at his friends, watching him with the sort of wary pity typically reserved for stray dogs. Like he’s something they’ve just caught sight of out by the bins, crawling from his pile of rags with sharp teeth to beg for scraps.
“Right,” he sneers. Hermione’s face falls, and it makes his heart clench, and it makes him want to shout at her. I didn’t ask for your pity. I didn’t ask for your judgment. I didn’t ask for you to come here and clean my house and look at me like you can’t understand how I live like this, how I let it get this bad.
He turns his back on them, both of them, pretends that he can’t hear their hushed whispers start up the moment he leaves the room. He goes to the kitchen, pulls open the pantry, stares at the empty shelves. Slams a fist against the wall, willing all the anger in his body into the knuckles of his hand.
“She threw it out,” Ron says.
When Harry turns, he’s standing in the doorway. Lingering, again.
Harry ignores him, slams the pantry door, stomps over to the cabinets. He crouches down, throws open the door with the squeaky hinge, ignoring the way the overcrowded pots and pans clang and clatter as he fishes through them. He finds the cauldron in the back, pulls out the bottle of firewhisky hidden inside. Then he straightens up, glaring at Ron, belligerent. Daring him to say something—anything.
Disgust bleeds across Ron’s face, mixed with pity, mixed with disappointment. He stares at Harry like he’s a stranger. Like they’re two people who’ve never met. Harry watches it happen, some sick sense of satisfaction already twisting in his empty stomach as he uncorks the bottle with his teeth.
He went through the worst of the withdrawal in St. Mungo’s, sweating and shaking and choking on air and bile while the healers all politely pretended it was his body adjusting to the change, and nothing more. Still, the relief is immense—the warm, familiar burn breaks over his tongue, slides down his throat, and Harry fights the urge to slump against the counter and sigh.
“That won’t do anything,” Ron tells him.
Harry knows. The alcohol will run down to his stomach and sit there, undigested, unmoving. His body can no longer process food, or water, or anything other than blood. He’ll have to force himself to throw up if he wants to empty his stomach.
He swallows the liquor anyway, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. His canines poke at the skin, sharp and hungry for blood. He stares at Ron, letting the silence stretch thin between them. Then he raises the bottle again.
Ron turns.
“I’ll tell Hermione you said goodbye,” he mutters, “She doesn’t deserve to see you like this.”
And under the words, an implication: I don’t deserve to see you like this.
We don’t deserve this.
We deserve better than this.
We deserve better than you.
Harry clenches the neck of the bottle, resisting the urge to chuck it at the back of Ron’s head. He lets the anger buzz under his skin, simmering, until he hears the sound of quiet footsteps, the front door opening and closing. He wonders if Hermione’s charmed that, too. If he’d even be able to leave after sunrise, or if they’ve locked him in, a prisoner.
He drinks until his stomach aches, until his throat burns, until his tongue feels as though it’s caught flame. He remains sober, nauseous and angry and alone. He throws the bottle at the wall, smashing it, and regrets it immediately. He leaves the mess, dragging himself upstairs and into the cleanest bathroom. The smell is still enough to make him sick.
By the time he finishes heaving his stomach hurts, his throat hurts, his eyes sting with tears. He rinses his mouth with water and spits, then flushes the toilet. As the murky water swirls and disappears, he looks in the mirror.
His skin is sallow, bleached, like something’s tried to leech the colour from it. The circles beneath his eyes stand out like bruises. His lips close awkwardly around the new, sharp canines, distorting the shape of his mouth. When he lifts his sleeve to wipe at the glass, his hand shakes.
He looks like a corpse.
He chucks his glasses somewhere in the direction of the bedside table, once he makes it to a bedroom. He kicks off his shoes and crawls into bed. Then he lies there, trying to think of anything other than the liquor dripping down the wall and puddling on the floor of the kitchen. Eventually, he falls asleep.
* * *
It’s easy to lose track of time. It happens quickly, so much so that he hardly notices. There’s no sun to mark the days, nothing but blacked-out windows and flickering lamplight. He has no job to go to, no cases to work. Ron and Hermione send owls, offering to visit—some of the Weasleys do, too. Molly, George. He turns them down. They all have lives, families, jobs. He doesn’t want them coming to Grimmauld Place out of pity, yawning as they try to stay awake through the night and making stilted conversation. Instead, he sets alarms for sunset. He goes out alone, buying liquor from muggle shops where he won’t be recognised. He drinks it, and stays sober.
He's already lost track of the days when the Ministry owl shows up, so he has no idea how long they waited. The message is clear, though; he’s not welcome back. They phrase it politely, include information about a retirement package, explain the official story: he’s decided to step down after being injured on the job, and plans to spend time recovering in private. Harry writes back, demanding to speak to Robards. He’s informed that the Auror department doesn’t arrange after-hours meetings, except in case of emergency. Also, the decision is final.
He sends Ron a howler, so angry that he feels half-drunk, can’t remember everything he says. Ron shows up the next night, but Harry’s already changed the wards, and he ignores the pounding on the door.
“Harry, come on!” Ron’s fist bang bang bangs, shaking the blacked-out windows, “Just talk to me, will you?”
He won’t. Eventually, Ron goes away.
For the next few weeks, the papers are full of speculation: what’s happened to Harry Potter? What mysterious injury befell him; why has he disappeared? The rumours circulate, growing more and more wild. A few people even guess it right. He arranges with the Ministry to have his blood delivered. The paperwork is a nightmare, and he has to go two weeks without eating. Eventually, they assign him a Case Officer from the Department for Care and Control of Magical Creatures. Her name is Louise, and she’s ninety-six, and she doesn’t seem to know who he is. She delivers his food twice a week: ethically-sourced bags of blood, clean and stale and virtually flavourless. It’s the legally-allotted amount for any vampire registered with the Ministry—enough to subsist, though never enough to feel satisfied. When he gets hungry between his twice-weekly meals, he fills his stomach with liquor just to keep it from growling.
In April, he receives a letter from Andromeda, inviting him to Teddy’s birthday party. They’re holding it in the evening, she writes, so that he can attend.
He doesn’t respond. He spends the day of the party crying, full-body, shuddering sobs, unable to bear the thought of Teddy seeing him—the sallow skin, the sunken eyes, the fangs. He imagines his godson’s face twisting in fear, in horror, scrunching up with frightened tears. Eventually, Andromeda stops writing. So do George, and Molly, and Ron. In June, Hermione’s still trying.
Please, Harry, the letter reads, We need to talk to you. Just let us in.
He burns it, watching the fire dance. If he closes his eyes and puts his face near enough to the flame, he can pretend, for a moment, that it’s the sun.
By June, the papers have moved on from the Mystery Disappearance of the Chosen One. Still, he continues to have the Prophet delivered, so he sees the news when it breaks—tucked away on page seven, a headline that reads: VAMPIRE CONVICTED OF TURNING WIZARD. There’s a tiny picture of Samantha, now looking closer to thirty than thirteen. They must have kept her off blood for at least four months to age her so rapidly. She blinks wet, dead eyes into the flash of the reporter’s camera, hands shackled, mouth muzzled. The story keeps the details vague, failing to mention who she actually turned, disclosing only that it happened as part of a larger creature-trafficking ring bust. Her sentence was lenient for the crime, as the primary victim was unwilling to testify: she only got fifteen years.
On his twenty-sixth birthday, Harry Potter decides that he’s going to kill himself. Or, more accurately, he decides that he’s going to take a walk. He’s been taking walks more frequently as the weather’s grown warmer, donning his invisibility cloak and prowling the streets of muggle London like a monster out of a storybook. He stands outside of bars, watching the muggles go in and out, swaying drunkenly, blood full of liquor. He lets his teeth itch, and his stomach growl, and imagines how it would feel to finally, finally have a drink. It would be so easy. They wouldn’t even understand what was happening.
On his twenty-sixth birthday, though, he won’t go to the bars. He tells himself that—it’s a line he won’t cross. Instead, he’s going to walk as far as he can, away from his home. He’s going to leave his wand behind. He won’t be able to apparate; he won’t be able to send for help. He’s going to find someplace quiet, someplace nice. He’s going to sit, and he’s going to watch the sun come up.
Just one last time. Just one last, quiet time.
After sunset, he starts to walk. He doesn’t have a route in mind, so maybe it’s nostalgia—but without realising it, he finds his feet carrying him towards Diagon Alley. The streets are silent, dark and near-empty as stores shutter and the Leaky turns out its lights. Harry moves like a ghost, something already dead and haunting, invisible and sober and silent. He traces the route he walked when he was eleven, with Hagrid, staring at the dark storefronts of Madam Malkin’s and Ollivander’s, feeling the distant, echoing joy of the old memory. It sputters, like a dying ember, something that will soon grow cold.
He moves on, watching the last few stragglers disappear. He turns, mindlessly, into Knockturn alley, sinking into the cool shadows to which he’s grown accustomed. There are more lights on here; the dark places stay awake longer. There are even people left, scurrying quietly, cloaks pulled up around their heads. Harry drifts. He feels peaceful, numb. The sky is clear tonight. He hopes it stays that way.
And then—something. A flicker, pale and bright, in the corner of his eye. Harry turns, instinctively, a moth to flame. He blinks, wondering if he’s seeing things.
Huh, he thinks, numbly, Isn’t that Draco Malfoy?
The man is moving, quickly, with his cloak pulled up. Harry follows, trying to get a look at his face. The last time he saw Draco Malfoy, they were both eighteen, and Harry was testifying at his trial. It was thanks to his testimony that both Draco and his mother were given reduced sentences—one year and eighteen months in Azkaban, respectively, as opposed to Lucius Malfoy’s lifetime sentence. Harry remembers hearing, vaguely, when Malfoy was released; he knew the parole auror assigned to his case. But he was still a new auror then, still the golden boy of the DMLE, still hunting down criminals with that feverish energy that had him acting like he was seventeen again, on the run with Ron and Hermione, fighting death eaters and hunting horcruxes and feeling horribly, viciously alive. It didn’t cross his mind to wonder what Malfoy was doing, or how he was doing. Harry had put that part of his life behind him.
That’s definitely Malfoy, he thinks, as the man moves past a lamp that briefly illuminates his face. He’s older, certainly; still the same sharp nose, but he’s grown into his features, and the white-blond hair is now scattered with sparse greys. Bit early for that, Harry thinks—but then he remembers Sirius, the grey silvering his hair once he got out of Azkaban, the lines carved into his face. He wasn’t much older, then, than Malfoy is now. Than Harry is now.
Harry follows him down Knockturn alley, watching as Malfoy stops at a plain, unmarked door. He glances over his shoulder, then leans forward and whispers something into the wood. After a moment, the door swings open, and Malfoy disappears inside.
Harry watches, waiting for Malfoy to emerge. He doesn’t, and eventually the sky begins to soften from black to a deep, bruise-like purple. Another hour, and the sun will rise.
Harry returns home. He lets the door shut behind him, blacking out any promise of the sun. He kicks off his shoes, and drags himself upstairs, and falls into a bed.
Draco Malfoy is up to something, he thinks.
By the time the sun rises, he’s asleep.