Surprisingly, going through war as a child wasn’t what broke him. It wasn’t going against the whole wizarding community either or fighting with a madman out to get you since you were a baby. It wasn’t finding himself in a cabin in the middle of nowhere with no recollection of the last seven years or so; it wasn’t realizing his usefulness had come to an end now that the world wasn’t burning anymore. A full-on war didn’t do it for him, no. It was much worse, much more confusing, and somehow embarrassing.
It was his bed. The fluffy and really pricey bed that broke him. Again, it wasn’t having to sleep on the cold, hard floor for months that did it but a soft, warm bed that brought back all his childhood memories. The terrors, the fear-filled nights, the hoping, and the wishing on a star for an end.
The bed was good; he paid a lot of money for it; he charmed it to be as comfortable as possible and as warm as it could be, and it was wide and open. There was so much space for him that it made space for loneliness to creep in.
Harry remembers the cardboard under the stairs, how small it was. He used to bump his head every time he entered and walked out, and at the end of the day he had a bump the size of an elephant. He remembers envying Dudley for his big room, with so much personality, so much love. His room didn’t have that place.
No posters on the wall, no decorations unless you count the spider webs, no heat, nothing to protect from the cold of December or the warmth of June. There was nothing but a bed and him, and no place for anything else.
It was not the best. He was a child, an orphan, and he desperately wanted his own room, his own wide bed and comforter; he wanted his own show of affection, but he slept in the cold and dark of the cardboard under the stairs, and he wished for the stars.
Now it was different, a good difference, a cold one but still good. He has more money than he knows what to do with. He was rich; he could buy clothes for a full ten years and still wouldn’t put a dent in his wealth. It was good; things were good, even if sometimes the good seemed so vast, and he felt like a lost child.
The bad didn’t crash into him like waves; it didn’t explode in his face or break his knees and every defense he had on the spot. It came slowly onto him, so slowly that he realized too late where he was standing.
The loneliness took its time, watching from afar before coming into his bed at night, never in the morning, never showing itself to the light, and maybe it was scared that Harry would recognize it and avoid it, but he doesn’t think he would’ve been able to escape it even if he wanted to.
So it came to him at night, held his hands like he was a child, and for a second he wondered if the warmth he felt was the same Hermione felt from her parents.
It kept him company, stayed until he fell asleep, and went as far as to sing him lullabies. It brought him company.
But it wasn’t alone; it didn’t come without at least two of its friends.
At night, one of their friends brought with them some memories he thought to be lost. Memories of the cardboard under the stairs.
The times he hid in his room, in the dark, while Vernon was screaming and pounding on the door, and the darkness never felt more comforting.
Memories of birthdays spent in the cold, clutching the rag he called a comforter because it brought him comfort.
Countless memories, thought to be forgotten, were brought back in a few nights.
He thanked the friend; he thanked the stars for making him remember, and he cried himself to sleep.
The other friend stayed in the dark, lurking and waiting for their turn, and they waited a long time. They really waited until he brought back down his walls. It waited because it didn’t have anything else to do, and neither did Harry.
When it finally showed itself, it knocked the air out of him; suddenly the room was too small, the walls too close, and the world not big enough to contain the new emotion it brought. It overflowed from everywhere, and it was drowning him.
The sheer force of this new emotion broke him in two. One that was still a child, still yearning for a family, for unconditional love, and craving affection more than anything, and the other one.
The second one was all about anger, rage, and the shock of realizing he held the weight of the world on his shoulders all throughout his childhood.
It was the side that, one day, saw an eleven-year-old and thought about how innocent and naive they looked and thought about himself at the same age, same small build, same ignorance about the world and naivety, and remembered fighting one of the strongest wizards of the world.
This side, the adult one, the one that realized too late, kept remembering his desperate will to survive and no one but other children to help him. He remembered being torn apart by the wizarding world, called names, shouted at, accused of being a liar, and especially not being protected.
He couldn’t help but build resentment.
As nights went on and days came, his anger grew, burned him more and more, and hurt his entire being, and somehow that made him angrier. His obsession with his past swallowed him; the injustice he went through sustained his fury, and he felt completely shattered to bits.
Once he saw, once he realised, he couldn’t go back to the oblivious Harry who didn’t know anything. He couldn’t go back and act as if nothing was wrong and that the new age that started after voldermord’s death was good. Things were still wrong, things felt wrong, it wasn’t the same anymore.
He was tainted now, tainted by memories, sullied by fury. If he were to go out at Diagon Alley now, everyone would see the wretchedness that inhabited him, the grief that spilled from him. The anguish, the agony that drowned his lungs. He wouldn’t be able to hide the ugliness inside of him.