Shadows
Harry tries to ignore the heaviness in his chest as he walks into the Great Hall. The vast chamber stretches before him, its four long house tables glistening with the remnants of morning dew that lingers faintly on the polished wood. It is early, far too early for most students to be awake, but the faint hum of conversation from a few scattered tables greets him like the murmur of a distant tide. The enchanted ceiling above mirrors the soft, pale colors of dawn, clouds rolling languidly across an endless expanse.
The magical illusion is peaceful-tranquil even. It clashes starkly with the turmoil churning inside him. The flickering light of the floating candles bathes the Hall in a warm glow. To Harry, the light feels muted, unable to reach the shadows lodged in his mind.
The ancient stone walls, which once radiated a comforting sense of permanence, now feel imposing, as though they bear silent witness to the grief that lingers in every corner of the castle. Hogwarts is still in ruins, the cracks in the stone and the occasional patch of scorched ceiling serve as grim reminders of the war that reshaped everything.
The benches, scuffed and worn from centuries of use, seem emptier these days, with gaps where friends and classmates used to sit. The once-familiar sight of students leaning close to share secrets or laugh over breakfast feels ghostly, a memory playing on a loop just out of reach. Even the house banners, hanging proudly from the rafters, seem subdued, their colors less vibrant, their magic dimmed as though mourning along with the rest of the castle.
He spots Hermione and Ron sitting at their usual spot near the middle of the Gryffindor table, their presence offers a fragile anchor in the sea of uneasy stillness. Ron is hunched over a plate piled high with toast and eggs, his usual enthusiasm for food oddly comforting in its predictability. Hermione, ever composed, sips from a steaming cup of tea, her brow furrowed in concentration as she reads from a thick, leather-bound book propped open beside her. The faint scratch of her quill against parchment is just audible over the soft chatter, a sound so familiar it tugs at something in Harry's chest.
He hesitates for a moment, his feet rooted to the cool stone floor as if the weight of his thoughts has seeped into his limbs. Then, with a deep breath, he forces himself forward, past the gaps at the other tables where ghosts of faces once sat, past the smiles that now feel strained and fragile. He joins his friends, the brittle smile he wears feeling as out of place as he does.
"Morning, Harry," Hermione says brightly, though her eyes flick over him with the kind of scrutiny he has come to dread. She has always been observant, but lately, it feels as though she is studying him, searching for cracks he cannot hide. "Morning," he mumbles, sitting down across from them. He reaches for a piece of toast, though the thought of eating turns his stomach.
"You're up early," Ron says through a mouthful of food. "Figured you';d want to sleep in, what with-;" He trails off, his ears turning pink. "You know. Everything."
Hermione shoots Ron a warning look, her lips pressing into a tight line. Harry watches the exchange, the silence between them thick with unspoken tension. It's a familiar dynamic, Hermione always trying to fix Ron's lack of tact, but today, it grates on him in a way it never used to. Something about her stern expression, the way she steps in to shield him from Ron's clumsiness, feels suffocating. He doesn't want her pity, doesn't need her constant concern. At least Ron';s awkwardness feels honest, unvarnished by the careful considerations that Hermione always wraps her words in.
Herm turns to him, her eyes softening as she asks "How did you sleep"
Harry feels his chest tighten. Her tone is careful, as if she's afraid of pressing too hard and breaking something fragile. The sincerity in her gaze only makes it worse, and Harry feels a surge of irritation rise unbidden. It's not fair, he knows it, she's just being Hermione, just trying to help; but in this moment, her concern feels like a mirror held too close, reflecting the cracks he doesn't want to acknowledge.
He fidgets with the edge of his sleeve, avoiding her gaze. The words she doesn't say hang in the air between them: We’re worried about you. You’re not okay. You can’t keep doing this.
He shrugs, his voice flat when he finally replies, "Fine." Harry shrugs, breaking his toast into smaller and smaller pieces.
"Fine," he lies. He isn't about to tell them about the nightmares that yanked him out of sleep, or the hours he'd spent staring at the ceiling, unable to shake the ghostly images of faces long gone. Hermione doesn't look convinced.
It’s a lie, and they both know it. Hermione doesn’t look convinced—of course she doesn’t—but she presses her lips together as if swallowing whatever reassurance or advice she was about to offer. Harry knows what she’ll say if he lets her: You’re not alone. We’re here for you. You can talk to us.
The truth is- he doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to talk. What could he say that they haven’t already heard? What could he admit that wouldn’t make their worried stares even harder to bear?
Ron shifts uncomfortably beside her, stuffing another piece of toast into his mouth to fill the silence. Harry is grateful for the distraction, even as the tension coils tighter around him. He breaks his own piece of toast into crumbs, letting the pieces scatter on the table.
Hermione doesn’t look convinced. "Harry, if you ever want to talk—", he cuts her off, sharper than he intends. “I said I’m fine.”
The hurt flicker in her eyes is quick but unmistakable, and guilt twists in his stomach, he winces at its force, eating him from inside out. He hates this—hates the way his own frustration spills over onto the people who care about him. He doesn’t apologize, doesn't want to give his friends hope. Instead, he pushes his plate away and stands, the bench scraping loudly against the floor.
“I’ll see you in class,” he mutters, turning before either of them can respond. The weight of their concerned gazes presses against his back, and he forces himself not to look over his shoulder. By the time he steps out of the Great Hall, his chest feels heavy with regret, but he shoves the feeling down. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with it—not now, not ever.
--
Classes feel like a cruel joke. As Professor Flitwick’s high-pitched voice carries on about advanced charms, the words blur into meaningless sound, a faint buzzing that swirls around Harry’s head. The classroom feels smaller than usual, the walls creeping closer with every passing moment. The air feels thick, as if he’s breathing through a wet cloth, and the warmth from the crowded room presses against his skin like a suffocating blanket. His hand clenches around his wand, fingers trembling as he forces himself to remain still.
His chest tightens, the steady rhythm of his breathing faltering as the panic rises. It starts as a dull throb in his stomach and spreads like wildfire—up his throat, into his lungs, filling every corner of his mind. His heart pounds violently, each beat loud and irregular, drowning out the faint laughter and chatter of his classmates. Their joy feels alien, distant, like a world he can no longer touch.
Harry stares down at his desk, his vision tunneling. The neatly written notes in Hermione’s handwriting on the parchment in front of him blur together, the ink smudging in his mind’s eye as if melting under invisible heat. He hears Flitwick call for a demonstration, his voice sharp and expectant, and the pressure mounts. Someone taps their wand on the table behind him, the sharp sound echoing in his ears like the crack of a spell.
Not here. Not now. He tries to ground himself, to anchor his spiraling thoughts, but it’s like trying to hold water in his hands. He grips the edge of his desk so hard his knuckles turn white. It doesn’t help.
A familiar wave of helplessness crashes over him, his mind flooding with images he doesn’t want to see—faces of the dead, twisted with pain, the deafening roar of spells colliding, the suffocating scent of ash and blood.
A chair scrapes beside him, the sound cutting through the haze. Neville slides into the seat next to Harry, his presence steady and unassuming, like a lifeline thrown into a storm. Harry glances at him, his vision still swimming, and meets Neville’s calm gaze. There’s no pity there, no questioning concern. Just quiet understanding, as though Neville knows exactly what’s going on without needing it spelled out.
“You okay, mate?” Neville asks softly, his voice low enough that it doesn’t carry to the others. His tone isn’t heavy with worry or probing curiosity; it’s even and steady, grounded in a way that makes Harry feel like he can breathe again.
Harry nods, automatically, as he learnt to do, though it’s not entirely true. His grip on the desk loosens slightly, and he focuses on the calm energy Neville seems to radiate. Neville doesn’t push, doesn’t expect anything more. He just sits there, a silent presence, his hands folded on the desk as if he’s simply waiting for Harry to find his footing again.
"Yeah. Just tired." he adds. For the first time all day, Harry feels like he isn’t drowning. He takes a shaky breath, the panic receding little by little as Neville turns his attention back to his own notes, giving Harry the space he desperately needs without making him feel abandoned. There’s something about Neville—his quiet resilience, his unspoken solidarity—that feels like a balm to the jagged edges of Harry’s fraying nerves.
As Flitwick’s voice carries on and the classroom buzzes with activity, Harry leans into that steadiness, grateful for it in a way he can’t put into words. He doesn’t have to. Neville understands.
After what feels like years, Neville breaks the silence once again. He leans closer, lowering his voice. "I know what it’s like," he says softly. "Not… exactly the same. But after everything, sometimes it feels like the walls are too close, like the castle is too quiet. Like it’s waiting for something." He hesitates, then adds, "Or maybe it’s just us, waiting for something to change..you know, sometimes it feels like we’re all pretending. Like everything’s normal again. But it’s not, is it?"
Harry turns to look at him fully, the weight of Neville’s words settling over him. There’s only understanding in Neville’s expression—a shared recognition of something broken. Neville, too, has his scars, he carries his burden differently, but he carries it all the same.
“How do you manage it?” Harry asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He doesn’t expect an answer, not really, but he can’t stop himself from asking.
Neville shrugs, a faint, rueful smile tugging at his lips. "I try to remember the people we fought for," he says. "The ones who made it, the ones who didn’t. I think about what they’d want—for me to keep going, to try and make the world they believed in. It doesn’t always work, but… it’s something."
Harry nods slowly. He doesn’t respond, but Neville doesn’t seem to expect him to. They sit in silence for a moment, the hum of the classroom fading into the background. For the first time in what feels like days, Harry feels a faint glimmer of peace, fragile but real.
Neville gives him a small, understanding smile before turning back to his wandwork. Harry watches him for a moment, a strange mixture of gratitude and guilt curling in his chest. Neville has lost so much too, but somehow, he seems to be holding it together better than Harry ever could.
As Flitwick calls for their attention, Harry forces himself to focus, his thoughts quieter than before. Neville’s presence remains a steady anchor, a reminder that even in his darkest moments, he isn’t entirely alone.
--
The day drags on, each class blurring into the next. By the time lunch rolls around, Harry is itching to escape. The corridors feel quieter than usual, the chatter of students muted as if the castle itself is still in mourning. Every step echoes in his ears, each familiar hallway a reminder of battles fought and lives lost.
As Harry passes the familiar stretch of blank wall where the Room of Requirement used to appear, his pace slows. Something about the spot tugs at him. He stops, his hand brushing against the cool, unyielding stone. The corridor is quiet, almost too quiet, the only sound the faint echo of his own breathing. The space feels heavier here, as though the room’s magic hasn’t entirely faded but lingers in the cracks and corners, waiting.
He closes his eyes, and the memories rise unbidden. Nights spent huddled with Dumbledore’s Army flash vividly before him—the way the room transformed into a sanctuary for them, a place of defiance against the suffocating grip of the Carrows and Voldemort. He can almost hear the murmur of whispered strategies, the low buzz of spell practice, and the occasional bursts of nervous laughter. The room had been their secret weapon, their hope when it felt like all hope was lost.
But the memories don’t stop there. They shift, darkening, to that last, desperate stand during the Battle of Hogwarts. The room had become a battleground, its magic bending to their collective need for protection and survival. He remembers the frantic shouts, the searing light of spells ricocheting off walls, and the overwhelming terror that consumed him as the battle raged on.
His fingers curl against the stone, his knuckles whitening. The weight of all they lost presses down on him—Fred, whose laughter once lit up the darkest days; Lavender, torn apart by Greyback; and so many others who had trusted him to lead them, to save them. He couldn’t save them all.
Harry opens his eyes, staring at the wall as if willing the door to appear once more, to offer him the comfort and purpose it once did. But the wall remains blank, indifferent to his silent plea.
The Room of Requirement, for all its magic, had always been a reflection of those who needed it. Now, with the war over and his purpose blurred, what would the room even show him? He wonders if it would remain empty, as hollow as he feels inside.
The air around him feels heavy, laden with unspoken grief and lingering regrets. He presses his forehead against the stone, closing his eyes again. He wants to apologize—to the room, to the people who had fought and died, to himself. But the words stick in his throat, unspoken, as the weight of everything he has endured crushes him from within.
The sound of footsteps in the distance jolts him, and he straightens, stepping away from the wall as if caught doing something forbidden. He casts one last, lingering look at the spot where the door used to appear before turning and walking away.
As he moves down the corridor, he feels as though he’s leaving a piece of himself behind, a fragment of the boy he was when he first discovered the room. Harry mourns it all. The friends he lost, the innocence that will never return, and the part of him that still believes he could have done more.
"Harry?"
He hears Ginny’s voice, soft and tentative, and turns to find her standing a few feet away. Her usual fiery hair looks subdued in the dim light, and her expression is a mixture of concern and hesitation. It’s like she’s unsure whether to approach, unsure if he’ll let her, as if he's a feral animal waiting to snap.
"What are you doing here?" she asks gently, as though she’s afraid her presence might only make things worse.
"Nothing," he replies, his voice distant, almost empty. He turns his face toward the window, trying to block her out, but his shoulders feel heavy, like a weight he can't shake. "Just thinking."
Ginny steps closer, her brow furrowing with worry. "You’ve been doing a lot of that lately," she says softly, her voice edged with frustration. "You never actually talk to any of us, Harry. Not really. It’s like you’re slipping further away. I don’t know how to reach you anymore."
"I don’t know what you want me to say," he answers, his voice trembling with the effort to keep it steady, but the crack is there. "
Her eyes search his face, they are filled with pain but also an unwavering desire to help. "Harry… I just want you to let us in. Let me in. Please, I’m trying to understand, but you keep pushing me away, and I—"
"I don’t know how to stop," he blurts, the words spilling out before he can catch them. He immediately regrets it, but it’s too late. "Maybe I’m just… better off alone."
The silence that follows is suffocating. Ginny's expression falters, a brief flash of hurt crossing her face, but she doesn’t pull back. She holds her ground, her gaze never leaving his, trying to steady herself even though her heart feels like it's breaking. She sees the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his shoulders slump as though they’re carrying a burden too heavy to bear. She knows, she knows this isn’t the Harry who laughed, who fought for the people he cared about, who always found a way through even the darkest times.
"Harry," she says, her voice firm now, but still gentle, "I don’t want to push you away. But you have to let me help you. You don’t have to carry all of this by yourself. You don’t have to keep pretending that you're fine when you're not. I see it, Harry. I see the hurt in your eyes, and it’s breaking my heart that you think you have to go through this alone."
Her words hang between them, raw and vulnerable. She takes another step closer, then another, until she’s standing directly in front of him, close enough to feel the weight of the silence around them.
The desperation in her voice is so quiet, so pure, that it feels like she’s reaching out to him with everything she has. She’s not asking him to be fine, not asking him to suddenly feel better. She’s just asking for the chance to be there for him, for him to trust her enough to lean on her when the weight of everything feels too much.
The air between them feels charged, heavy with all the things neither of them have said. Harry’s chest tightens as the emotions swirl—guilt, shame, and a yearning for the comfort she’s offering, but he’s afraid. Afraid of what it means to truly let someone in again, afraid of how vulnerable it might make him feel.
And just like that, the space between them feels even wider.
She turns and walks away, leaving Harry standing alone in the corridor, his heart sinking under the knowledge that he will never, truly, be whole again.
--
That night, Harry finds himself standing alone in the Astronomy Tower, the cold wind biting at his skin as he leans against the stone railing, his fingers numbing from the chill.
Once, the stars had been so close that they could touch him, hug him, promise him a life full of joy. A family. Sirius and Andromeda had been his stars.
Now, stars above are distant and indifferent, their sharp, crystalline light mocking the storm of emotions swirling within him. He stares up at them, feeling small, insignificant, as if they are a world apart—an unreachable eternity far beyond the mess of thoughts that constantly race through his mind.
The wind howls around him, tugging at his clothes, ruffling his messy hair, but it doesn’t reach the space inside him—the cold, empty place that has only grown larger since the war. The faces of the fallen linger in his memory like ghosts, their voices trapped in the silence, their eyes pleading for something he could never give them.
He closes his eyes, tilting his head back to feel the full force of the wind against his face, trying to clear his mind. For a moment, the roar of the storm drowns out everything else.
A soft sound breaks through the wind—a whisper, so faint it could have been carried on the breeze, or maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him. But it’s there, a soft, insistent murmur, and his body reacts before his mind catches up. His hand moves instinctively to his wand, fingers closing around the familiar wood, the comforting weight of it grounding him even as his heart races.
The sound disappears as quickly as it came, leaving only the rustling of the wind and the relentless beating of his pulse in his ears. But something lingers. The silence feels wrong. It feels charged with an energy that isn’t his.
His breath catches as a strange sensation prickles at the back of his mind, a tugging, an almost magnetic pull, as if something—someone—on the other side of the universe is calling to him. A presence, unfamiliar and yet intimately known, like an echo of a life he never lived, a voice he’s heard in his nightmares but can’t quite place.
He shakes his head, trying to shake off the sensation. He doesn’t have the energy to confront whatever it is tonight. He’s tired—so tired of the constant weight pressing down on him, of the constant fight to keep it together when everything inside him feels like it’s unraveling.
Turning away from the stars, he leans his forearms against the cold stone, his eyes closing again. His chest tightens as he breathes deeply, trying to steady himself.
"You’re alive, Harry," he whispers.
The words feel hollow, slipping through his lips like air, meaningless. After everything he’s been through, after all the sacrifices, all the lives lost— those words don't reach the emptiness inside, doesn’t touch the gnawing ache that never seems to fade.
It’s like a void within him that nothing can fill. Not the quiet comfort of Ginny’s presence. Not the laughter of his friends. Not even the weight of his life—because it doesn’t feel like living. It feels like… just existing.
He exhales sharply, rubbing his face with one hand.
What am I longing for?
The question hangs in his mind like a shadow, and for a moment, he dares to reach for the answer, to let himself ask it fully. But the thought slips away, just like all the others—slippery and evasive, like he’s chasing something he can’t even name.
The cold wind continues to whip around him, carrying with it something darker, something he can't yet name. But he feels it. It’s there. And no matter how much he tries to fight it, a part of him wants to understand it.
And that scares him more than anything.