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He feels like his life has no meaning anymore.
Voldemort is dead – finally – the crying of people still loud and clear, ringing in his ears. Something that had been so numbingly loud was still fresh in his memories, even when days and weeks and months had already gone by. The soft flicker of the body turned to dust had burned on his skin, when touched.
Perhaps those were the signs for Harry’s humanity. The only way to tell he was no longer just a shell meant to hold The Dark Lord’s soul.
Still. Everything just feels so empty still.
…
First days of the New Era (even if it wasn’t so new) he spends walking like a ghost through the dusty hallways of Grimmauld House. Something is missing. Something doesn’t feel right.
As if his bones are all wrong. As if his body is wound up wrong, skin stretched too tight - as if he is under the Imperius curse. He starts to think that it might be just that for a few seconds. Believes that nothing has changed after all.
He wishes Sirius were here right now.
He wishes someone could just be here for him. For once, he actually wants someone to tell him what to do now.
…
Sleep is hard. Impossible on some nights.
Harry wakes up screaming, crying into night. The tears are hot against his sweaty skin; the shivers ripping through him make his breaths short and hard. His throat is raw and scratchy, like he had been screaming for so long already. His lungs hurt.
Nights like these he sits in the cold kitchen, a cup of steaming tea cooling in front of him as the hours slowly tick by.
He doesn’t eat much anymore, but it’s hard to notice with his body wrung out so thoroughly by the war. There is no one to notice anyway. No one to care much about the black tar seeping into his whole being. Drowning him from the inside.
…
A month has gone by already and all Harry can feel is the steadily growing panic and loneliness that seeps from all the corners of the house. Each sleepless night, each torn up memory that resurfaces in small bursts of light and headache bring him closer to… to something.
He stares at the sharp silver knifes lined up in the kitchen cabinets when Molly floos over, worry etched on her face.
Perhaps she had felt it; known that Harry is breaking down. A mother’s intuition. A woman’s heart beating for those that she loved. Whatever it was – it made her come and collect the child others thought was best left alone. To grieve, to rest.
But, really, he only broke down and died a little with each passing day.
…
The nightmares continue. He knows now to put up silencing spells, to make sure no one hears. He’s gotten good at them – sometimes doesn’t even need a wand to cast them.
He still doesn’t eat. Not enough to stop feeling tired all the time.
Sometimes he pukes everything out even if he does eat, for once.
Molly doesn’t give up on him and Harry thinks that she can see the cracks of his mind, the wounds that run too deep. He’s not sure how to feel about that, but is thankful that someone sees him as something more than just the Boy Who Lived and a Hero.
…
Hermione and Ron, two more soldiers that have been burdened with the leftover of the war (but not as severe as Harry), sit together with him in the dark now. They huddle together. Search for the warmth that only responds to the three of them.
Harry doesn’t want to get in the middle of their union and he tells them just that. The two smile, warm as the morning sun, and hug him close.
You’re the reason we are, Harry. We won’t abandon you, not when we love you so much.
The tears come to him so suddenly, so unpredictably. A part of him melts and comes back to life. Perhaps a small reason to continue on with this life comes back to him, as well. At the moment he is just glad that he has these two to lean on, to trust with every part of himself wholly. Without hesitation.
…
He is never left alone now, not after the accident (but only Harry calls it like that, everyone else refers to it as the attempt). Perhaps this was why he had done it in the first place, taken the broken glass and watched it paint red across the paleness of his skin.
It wasn’t to escape. It was to get someone to stay with him, because the hollow corner inside of him had come back so quietly. As if it belonged there.
His own magic is feeding him life, healing the wounds and scars away. He uses it to channel out some dark parts of himself, with small spells and charms that make the wind chimes ring with serene calm.
“What is wrong with me? In your opinion.” He asks, stretched out in the shade of midday clouds, breathing in deeply.
George looks at him, cheek squished against his own palm. “Probably the same thing I have. Just stronger.”
It made sense, somehow.
…
He starts to eat more – not much, though. But the food stays down, his body seems to regain some of the strength and mass it used to have. Somehow, it feels easier to exist the healthier he gets.
What a paradox. To him at least, in some mysterious ways.
He also starts to talk about the things that run through his muddled mind, about the feelings he does’'t know how to name. To Ron and Hermione, to Molly and to George, who understood the best out of all of them.
His life still seems so empty and meaningless now. His blood circulates with the buzz of war still, looking for a reason to pump faster for. His magic seems to be the only part of him that finally is at peace. Or maybe that is one of the changes brought on by the death of Voldemort.
It is the first time that Harry notices this. The contradictions living inside of himself.
…
For the first time he sits down and reads Hogwarts: A History. He mouths the words quietly to himself, goes over the lines with care and attention. The magic woven into the old and yellowed pages, between the inky black letters and in the colorful images floating around him, breathing with him.
Hermione is with him, sleeping on his shoulder as he reads. The warmth coming from her is a reminder of all the good memories hidden in the old brick and welcoming reds of the Gryffindor common room.
He wants to go back there, someday.
…
He sits under the safety of the small patch of roof that stretches above the porch as the rain falls down in heavy drops. George is a warm presence next to him while the coldness crawls towards the both of them. Two steaming mugs of tea (and just a dash of firewhisky, dear) sit by their feet.
Harry has finally given words to the emptiness inside of him. His life has no meaning and now George knows it as well. Before that Ron and Hermione had listened to the sobs that had wrecked Harry’s whole being and held him close. Perhaps they understood the best, after all.
“I used to think the same.” George finally says, quiet. It was weird for him to hear the other like this, so overlapping with layers of pain and sadness of loss. “In a way. But then I remember my reasons to continue.”
Deep down he wants to find them as well, these reasons everyone spoke of. But at the same time he wants to stay the same – torn away from life and duties. He doesn’t know which choice is the best one.
…
He takes up gardening, to keep his mind empty and away from the things that made it hard to keep walking. The feel of the soft, warm soil between his fingers relaxes him. The smell of life growing around him, because of him, becomes the reason he had been looking for.
In a way.
Sometimes Hermione joins in, adding her favorite flowers and plants to the things to plant. Ron helps with the weeding and gnomes, all summer evening laughter and sparkly eyes. The redhead finds his own kind of therapy in these simple things.
Molly looks relieved that life seems to have come back into him. She helps with fertilizers and tips, oftentimes crouches down next to Harry and shows how to better do this and that. Arthur sneaks him some questionable seeds, promising that they will be worth it once the plants bloom. George gets dirt and bits of wildlife tangled in his hair and under his nails, but he laughs the loudest of them all.
Harry looks over his small patch of garden in the evening, his lips cracking from the smile he hadn’t used in so long and muscles stinging from the hard work. This had been the first time after the final battle that he had felt so alive.
…
The first day outside of the Burrow Harry spends in George’s shop, safely tucked inside the backroom and away from unwanted looks of adoration and exclamations of gratitude and love. He never had gotten used to the attention and right now so much of it could easily push him down under the surface all over again.
The Invisibility Cloak is tucked safely in his bag, along with food. In case he wants to take a walk or is found out. Molly almost didn’t let him go at all.
He listens to the laughter, the chatter of so many excited voices. Catches every word that floats through the wooden walls while he scratches in the blanks of the shop’s bookkeeping. A sense of accomplishment echoes in his mind, knowing that all of this was safe because of the sacrifices he had made. Because of the scars he will need to carry until the end of his life.
Getting back out there, in the world that seemed to be moving on without him, seems less frightening now, but he isn’t ready yet. Not yet.
…
He is tending to the small garden, with Ron spread out in the cool grass and naming all his favorite Quidditch players one by one, when Arthur comes by to check on the seeds he had given Harry. The man beds down to ruffle his son’s hair and then crouches down next to Harry.
The two of them chatter about muggle things while Harry plants a new batch of herbs right next to some white lilies. Ron joins them with some funny things he’s seen or heard from someone else about telephones and coffee machines, about the flower arrangements he’s seen in the muggle houses while training in the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad.
Arthur puts his hand on top of Harry’s head before he leaves and ruffles the sweaty black strands, just like he had done with Ron. “You’re my kid now, Harry. And this will always be your home as well, your family. Let us take care of you now and don’t worry about a thing.”
After the man leaves, Harry is left to wonder if some of his uncertainty had showed through the things he did, the way he had talked. He had felt like a burden for staying so long, for not getting better faster. And now those worries seemed to be so silly and meaningless.
“Dad’s right, mate. You’re a Weasley now, even if you’re not really.” Ron leans all of his weight against Harry’s back and pretends he didn’t see the tears sliding down his friend’s cheeks.
…
He and George are taking a tea break, in the same backroom of the Weasley twins’ shop. Harry holds the cup of tea close to himself, listens to George humming along to the songs playing on the radio. Old and new wizard songs, he knows none of them, except for the few that had been playing on the Wireless while Molly made dinner.
“You seem to be better, lately. Not as haunted.” George blinks at him, a grin on his lips. “I’m glad you’re finally getting out of that dark place.” The pat on the back that follows is light, but the right thing that Harry needed, perhaps.
There aren’t any right words that he could use to somehow reply to George, so Harry just leans forward and pulls the other in a hug. Human contact, warmth of someone alive and breathing worked the best lately.
It looks like George took comfort in something so simple as well, if the tightening of his hold on Harry’s sweater was something to go by.
Finally, he can help someone else again. Not just be the one helped.
…
Together with Hermione and Ron he takes the first steps back into the society that had already spun so many rumors and tales about him, speculated about what he was doing and why he didn’t show up anymore. Not even one theory was even close to the truth. As if nothing like that could ever happen to him. Or, perhaps, it was ignored on purpose.
George watches the tree of them go, promising to get them if something happened (a panic attack, Hermione had called them once, during the year they spent hiding in forests and hunting down pieces of Voldemort’s soul). Harry smiles at him in thanks, warm and alive.
His hair, now long enough to be taken in a ponytail, hide his scar. Some of his face. Those who did not look close enough, did not search carefully enough didn’t even notice him. As if he was nothing but a shadow – thank Merlin. His friends are his shields, guarding and teaching him how to walk through the crowds once more.
Bookstore, owlery, he picks up a few potions for his garden. Then, later, he buys seedlings and small potted plants, carefully choosing them out of the huge variety before him. Ron keeps insisting on some dangerous plants with bright pink and yellow blooms that close the second someone comes close. Hermione asks about the muggle flowers, ones that remind her of her mother’s garden. One she had not been in for so long now.
Harry gets something to represent both of his friends, flowers that the two chose themselves.
…
He is still not sure about the new place in the world that he must fill now. Was there even anything out there meant just for him, a reason just as important as being The Boy Who Lived? But he is no longer a boy. The war had made him a man. The countless losses of those that he loved and cared for… those had made him a man.
Sometimes the world still stops spinning and everything quiets down. With just his mind and thoughts being so loud and deafening he forgets to how to breathe. How to get out of the dark by himself.
It feels like dying all over again. But the first time it was less painful.
These attacks pass by on their own. Mostly he has someone bring him back with a warm touch, a gentle question, and small shake of his whole body. They are so patient with him, everyone. It still feels awkward to cry after so many years of holding it in, but Harry feels like doing just that whenever he sees only acceptance and love reflected in those around him.
After coming back he holds hands with someone as if to remind himself that yes, he was alive. Yes, he had a place here. Yes, it wasn’t a mistake that he had returned from the bleached King’s Cross.
…
Two days. Two whole days it took for everyone to know that he has started working in George’s shop. Reporters from magazines and papers that Harry had never even known existed come and leave only when the shop closes. Fans and gratitude seekers, girls who wanted to get in his good books. And those who wanted to touch him for good luck.
Those first two days were hard but he survived. There was a kind of pleasant tiredness settling in his body by the end of the day, especially when George would drop the you did good today, Harry, good job over his shoulder.
And then constant panic attacks start, together with the reporters that flash their cameras and yell out their questions. He hides in the backroom for most of the day, trying to keep it together as much as he can. George’s solid body wrapped around him, fingers sliding through his hair keep the shaking at minimum, the monsters away from his head.
“Sor—sorry for… for this. I, I am so--…” He clutches onto George’s suit, curled up in his lap. In and out, breathe, in and out. A mantra to calm down, a mantra to stay here.
George shushes him, pulling Harry’s head under his chin. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Harry. Calm down now. Nothing is your fault, love.”
…
He stays home for a while before going back once more – this time to work behind the scenes, doing inventory and bookkeeping. Cleaning up rooms after experiments and sending off orders, those are easy and don’t need contact with those who overwhelm him. It was hard, even when Ron and Hermione were there, to come out of hole he fell into because of the attention.
He doesn’t want to go back to that. To the dark creature he had become when Molly found him in Grimmauld House. The scars on his skin are still too fresh. Too open.
Molly forbids him from working on the counter as well. She had listened quietly to him talk through the experience, drinks of something warm and calming placed between them on the worn kitchen table. The hug he had received afterwards had been one of a worried mother, of a loving mother that carried safety with her.
She also scolded George for being stupid. Although her lips pulled into a smile as she reminded her son about it being too much too soon. Harry’s between his two best friends, protected and sleepy. Hermione smelled like fresh mint from the candies in the pockets of her sweater and Ron’s hair tickled Harry’s nose – but it was so, so perfect like that.
…
He’s somewhere between sleep and waking up, head pillowed by George’s thigh, when the voices float into his unconsciousness – quiet enough to not fully wake him, loud enough to be heard. Someone pushes a lock of hair away from his face lightly, as if it was done by wind.
The black locks are wild and untamable, though, and soon the fixing is dusted away as if it had never happened.
“You hurt him and we hurt you.” Ron says. He sounds pleased, happy. Teasing, perhaps. Though, the seriousness of the threat is strong under the acceptance that flows bright through the words. Harry thinks that he could have never asked for a better friend to have, except Hermione.
But he always has thought of the three of them as one whole, no matter what.
It’s Hermione who keeps brushing his hair, soothing his cheek with gentle presses of her fingertips against the dirt stained and sun browned dimples there. “We love him, Geroge. So much.” She is wrapped in mint again, fresh parchment wound tightly in the middle.
He doesn’t hear what Geroge replies. And he only manages to remember that the two of them have yet to name what they have, have yet to even decide if there is something to name (but something is there, something young and growing). It doesn’t matter. Not really.
…
Once more he’s elbow-deep in the moist soil. Grunting, he digs through the roots of plants and gnome caves, picks out seedlings to save for the next year or replant in the new patch of land Molly has given away to him. She liked the collection of colors that had bloomed in Harry’s flowerbeds one misty morning.
Arthur’s and Ron’s seeds have their own row, where the blooms can snap at each other and not destroy the herbs and the muggle plants. He even has one of Arthur’s gifts surrounded by a fence – for safety.
Ron and Hermione are there, helping him sort through the new seeds and old ones, covered in pollen and dirt. Ron’s taken up the battle with the nastier weeds, the ones that never seem to truly go away, with the sort of glee that might be maniacal, if not for the childish amusement shining in his eyes. Never did grow out the joy of breaking things, that one.
Hermione points to random plants and mutters their uses to herself, moves the ones Harry has chosen to move in the right order they had to be planted in. She takes some of them for herself and the small flowerbeds that sit on the windowsills of her and Ron’s apartment. Harry sneaks some herbs meant for relaxation in with the bunch.
George keeps away from the three of them, but not without placing a small kiss on Harry’s forehead before moving further away to work on something new and devious for his joke shop. The feeling of those lips lingers throughout the whole day.
Molly and Arthur lounge by the house. Their eyes are soft around the edges as they watch them all, him in the middle of the laughter and jokes thrown around.
This is his new meaning.
His new reason, Harry knows.