The Battle After the War

As the sun drew steadily towards the horizon, further and further away, Harry Potter watched from his Gryffindor dormitory window. The cool autumn air forced the leaves from the dry and dying trees. Harsh ripples appeared on the lake outside, which slowly devoured the shore with each pulse of its black waters. Harry sat by the window with his legs tight against his chest, hunched as though protecting himself from the chill outside. His chin rested on his knees and he wrapped his arms around his legs, hugging them to him, wishing that he were hugging someone other than himself, someone who would hug him back.

The memories that haunted him were tearing away at his heart and his soul, leaving nothing but fragile shreds behind, only just enough to feel the pain. Afraid to close his eyes in hopes of dreams, Harry deprived himself of such luxuries, tormented by the nightmares just beyond the veil of his unconsciousness. Every time he tried to sleep, visions of Fred, Snape, Lupin, Tonks, Sirius, Dobby, Dumbledore, Cedric, his mother and father, and the countless others who had died in his place in attempt to protect him crashed around him. Their faces were gruesomely disfigured by his imagination’s perception of blame, their eyes were angry and red, mouths spitting and swearing through sharp clenched teeth. It was all Harry’s fault that they were dead, gone. He could have prevented all of it. He should have just given up in the beginning.

“I’m sorry!” Harry cried out in frustration as tears leaked down his cheeks. “I’m sorry…sorry…” He squeezed his legs closer and buried his anguished face in his knees, still hoping that someone would hold him as close as he was hugging himself. Alone in his dormitory, nobody saw the Boy-Who-Lived crumple beneath the burden of fate. He doubted they’d even see if they were there. They didn’t notice anything, and although this meant no questions, Harry was forced to ask himself if his friends even cared about him. “I could kill myself and they wouldn’t care!”

All the pent-up anger which boiled in his chest reached its maximum and he screamed until the echo of his pain was ringing in his ears. He lashed out at his bedpost, punching it with all of his power. The wood splintered and pierced his flesh, his knuckles bleeding. Harry stared at his blood for a few long seconds, gazing at the beauty of it as it elegantly dripped down his hand, the beautiful dark red contrasting against his pale skin. Mesmerized, he watched for minutes that seemed like hours, the seconds ticking slowly by as each drop fell into the growing pool below.

The sight was too much for Harry; he scrambled to the ground and looked in his trunk, his hand slipping slightly in the blood on the floor. He searched frantically for his razor blade he used for Potions ingredients. With a small triumphant smile, he clasped the shining silver sharp in his right hand and ran it down the length of his other arm. He gasped slightly at the shock, but quickly was relieved as his brain swam in endorphins. Again and again, he pressed the razor to his arm, relief and guilt both washing over him. In the confusion of the two, more tears fell from his face.

A sound outside the door made Harry startle and jump up from the floor. He threw the blade in his trunk and slammed it closed.

“Obscuro!” he whispered, pointing his wand at his arm. Instantly, his arm seemed to have healed itself, the image of the blood on his sleeve disappeared. He threw himself onto his messy bed and turned his head into the pillows.

The door to the dormitory opened and the roar of Gryffindors, so careless and happy, downstairs thundered in his ears for a moment before the door shut again. A moment of silence, then a few creaks as someone walked closer.

“Harry?” Ron Weasley asked. Harry heard his fear through his words. “Harry, mate, are you all right? You missed dinner.”

“I’m fine.” Harry kept his face against his pillows, quite certain that it still held evidence of his tears.

Ron didn’t respond right away, but instead stood beside Harry. Harry squirmed uncomfortably as he was held under his friend’s gaze. “Okay, if you say so,” Ron sighed after half a minute. He shuffled towards the next bed and climbed on top of the covers.

Harry didn’t move; he knew Ron was still looking at him. How could he so obviously be staring at Harry and still not know what he is seeing? How could he just take Harry’s word like that without question? Could he honestly just believe it, that Harry was as ‘fine’ as he said, that he was perfectly happy, that he was safe? Harry felt like laughing at the thought: him, safe? Even if the Order of the Phoenix guarded every door and blocked every means of connection between Harry and Voldemort, he still wouldn’t be safe. They couldn’t save him from himself. Nobody could. Not anymore.