Aftershock
It was now tomorrow and Harry couldn’t help the way his heart beat as he woke up with gaps. He heard the screams and yells of the battlefield. Heard the shouts of curses and the touch of Crusios hit his skin. He felt his skin buzz uncomfortably and his whole body shook with nausea and fear.
He was panting out short breaths as he held his hands together tightly to stop them from shaking. To stop the feeling of the pinpricks on his skin.
His face was moist with sweat and his shirt was drenched, no longer was it a light grey color but a dark grey. Harry’s tongue felt heavy on his tongue as he clenched his jaw tightly to try and breathe through his nose. Try to calm down from his post-nightmare haze.
He still heard the howling of the wind, the smell of smoke stuck in his nostrils, and his hands could not stop shaking…Today was not going to be a good day, Harry decided. He inhaled and exhaled through his nose. He felt his lungs collapse and open beneath his skin and bones. Harry couldn’t help but want to peel it off. The pinprick of his skin was all too much of a reminder of the pain inflicted during the war. During the horror show, he had finished.
Harry wiped at his sweating forehead and decided that a shower was in order. A shower would wash the haze away from his mind. Wash away the shame of the blood that stained his shaking hands.
Harry picked out a nicer outfit to wear, Alfred always seemed to wear his butler's suit. Harry didn’t own one so a nice pair of black slacks and a white button-up shirt would have to do. He grabbed his toiletries and made his way to the bathroom attached to his massive bedroom. He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve this room after everything he did.
Once Harry made his way into the shower he turned the light on and stared at himself in the mirror. He watched as his eyes seemed to glow with a dull green. The color of the killing curse, the color that should have ended him.
Harry ended up bent on the toilet seat puking up the dinner he had last night. Saliva and bile dripped down his chin and he retched emptily into the filled toilet bowl. He felt more sweat build up and fall beneath his skin.
When the man was sure that there was nothing left in his stomach to puke up he shakily made his way to his feet and turned off the lights. He didn’t dare think about what showed in the mirror. He didn’t want to see his hollowed cheeks, the bags underneath his eyes, the glow of them…
Harry didn’t dare wish to see the muscle he had built out of necessity, the scars he had obtained fighting for his life and everyone else's.
Harry turned on the shower and made sure it was cold, made sure he wasn’t wasting any hot water. Despite the fact, Harry was sure they could pay for it.
It had been a quick shower and Harry hopped out shivering from the cold instead of the post-exhausted state after puking. He brushed his teeth to get rid of the rotten taste in his mouth and washed his face. He brushed his hair and noticed he needed to get it cut soon.
Hair held memories Harry had heard once. He didn’t know where he heard it from, maybe in a book or some random fact that Hermon decided to tell him and Ron that day. Harry didn’t want to forget the horrors of what he had been through. He didn’t want to let go of the only memories he had left of his loved ones. Harry would grow his hair out. He would keep the memories no matter how painful.
Harry got dressed in the proper outfit he had set out for himself and fixed himself up in the mirror. He sighed as he looked at the strange white mark he had had since his resurrection. Harry frowned and made his way out of the bathroom and back into his room putting his sweaty clothes in the laundry basket.
Harry made his way downstairs, his steps faltering slightly as he navigated the sprawling halls of Wayne Manor. The meeting with the family last night had left him drained, though not because they had been unkind. Bruce was quiet but imposing, his presence carrying the weight of authority. Tim had been polite, if a little distracted, his sharp eyes flicking between his plate and his phone. Damian, however, had been… intense. The boy’s piercing green gaze had lingered on Harry throughout dinner, as if cataloging his every move, every word.
The food hadn’t helped, either. The dishes Alfred prepared had been too reminiscent of the Hogwarts feasts Harry had once known. The sight of roasted meats, golden potatoes, and perfectly risen Yorkshire pudding had stirred memories he’d rather not revisit—the Great Hall filled with laughter and chatter, Hermione nudging him to try the treacle tart, and Ron stealing extra sausages. It was too much.
This morning hadn’t been any better. Harry’s hands still trembled faintly, the aftershocks of his nightmare and the lingering effects of the Cruciatus curse making it difficult to steady himself. He clenched his fists briefly as he walked, trying to ward off the phantom pinpricks that crawled under his skin.
When he reached the kitchen, Alfred was already at work. The older man’s movements were calm and precise, his quiet hums filling the air along with the comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee and something warm baking in the oven.
“Good morning, Mr. Black,” Alfred greeted him, glancing up briefly from where he was whisking something in a bowl. His tone was warm, though his sharp eyes flicked to Harry’s trembling hands for a fraction of a second before looking away, giving no indication he’d noticed.
Harry offered a small, tight smile. “Morning,” he mumbled. His voice was rough, his throat still sore from the aftermath of his nightmare. “I’m sorry I’m late, I should have taken you up on the offer for you to wake me when you needed me. Can I help out now?”
Alfred studied him for a beat, then nodded. “It’s not a problem Mr. Black. I’m sure you needed the rest after such a day like yesterday. But yes please do help. Extra hands are always appreciated. You’ll find an apron by the door. There are vegetables that need dicing, if you feel up to it.”
Harry nodded, grateful for the distraction, and set to work. The simple rhythm of chopping carrots and potatoes helped steady his breathing, though his grip on the knife occasionally faltered as his hands twitched. He clenched his jaw, focusing on the task, determined to push through.
The sound of footsteps broke his concentration. Harry glanced up to see Damian entering the kitchen. The boy’s expression was calm but calculating, his movements deliberate.
“Good morning, Master Damian,” Alfred said without looking up.
Damian ignored the greeting, his sharp green eyes locked on Harry. He was eyeing Harry with his stern green eyes. It made harry think of Snape’s sneer and Mcgonalgals pinched lips whenever they were mad at him.
Damian crossed his arms, leaning against the counter. “Your hands are shaking,” he observed bluntly.
Harry’s grip on the knife tightened instinctively, but he didn’t look up. “It happens sometimes,” he replied quietly, focusing on the vegetables.
Damian tilted his head, studying him with unnerving precision. “Why?”
“Master Damian,” Alfred interjected smoothly, his tone firm but calm. “It’s impolite to pry.”
The boy didn’t flinch, his gaze never leaving Harry. “I’m not prying. I’m curious. His hands weren’t shaking at dinner last night.”
Harry felt his jaw clench, a wave of nausea rising in his chest. He forced himself to meet Damian’s gaze, though his green eyes were shadowed with something Damian couldn’t quite place. “Sometimes they do,” Harry said simply. “It’s… an old injury.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly, but Alfred stepped in before he could ask further questions. “Master Damian, if you’d like your breakfast ready on time, I suggest you allow us to finish our work without interruption.”
Damian huffed but relented, turning away and seating himself at the small kitchen table. “Porridge with honey,” he said curtly. “And tea, not coffee.”
Alfred nodded, already moving to prepare the boy’s request. He glanced briefly at Harry, who had resumed his task with renewed focus, though his hands still trembled faintly.
Alfred didn’t press further. He could see the tension in Harry’s shoulders, the way his grip on the knife was just a little too tight. Whatever the boy had endured to leave him with such scars—physical or otherwise—was not something to be pried into.
Still, Alfred couldn’t help but wonder. There was a heaviness to Harry, one that even Damian had picked up on. It wasn’t just the way he carried himself but the way he seemed to brace for something unseen, as though expecting a blow that never came.
As the kitchen settled into quiet activity, Alfred resolved to keep an eye on the boy. Harry Black, a boy of mystery which the Wayne family seemed insistent on solving. Tim had gone through Harry’s records, wanting to make sure the new assistant butler was trustworthy and the records showed up clean. He had poor grades in elementary school but they improved drastically once he entered a boarding school in scotland. It was a school for the gifted and the only classes Harry seemed to struggle in were chemistry and history.
Alfred noticed the faint tightening of Harry’s jaw as he sliced through the last of the vegetables. There was a stubborn determination in the boy’s posture, but also a fragility that Alfred couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t just the trembling hands; it was the way Harry moved—guarded, deliberate, as though the act of existing required conscious effort.
“Master Black,” Alfred said gently, his voice carrying an undercurrent of authority. “It is customary for the staff at Wayne Manor to take their meals before beginning their workday. As you’ve had a rather early start, I suggest you sit and have breakfast with Master Damian.”
Harry stiffened, his hands stilling over the cutting board. “I’m not hungry,” he said quietly, his voice tight.
Alfred’s brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t press. Instead, he began plating a modest serving of porridge and fruit. “Be that as it may, one cannot work on an empty stomach. Take a seat, Mr. Black. You’ll find we’re quite insistent about such things here.”
Harry hesitated, his green eyes flickering with discomfort, but he eventually relented, setting the knife down and wiping his trembling hands on a dish towel. Damian, still seated at the table, watched the exchange with sharp curiosity, his piercing gaze never leaving Harry as the older boy awkwardly lowered himself into the chair across from him.
“Do you always look like you haven’t slept?” Damian asked bluntly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.
Harry’s cheeks flushed slightly, but he didn’t look up. Instead, he fiddled with the spoon Alfred had placed in front of him. “Some nights are harder than others,” he replied softly, his voice barely above a murmur.
Damian’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, silence stretched between them. Alfred, meanwhile, moved with efficient grace, setting a pot of tea and a small jug of honey on the table before sitting down with his own cup of black coffee.
“You’re dodging the question,” Damian said finally, his tone almost accusatory.
“Master Damian,” Alfred interjected smoothly, “perhaps you could allow Mr. Black to enjoy his breakfast in peace.”
Damian huffed, crossing his arms, but didn’t press further. Harry, grateful for the reprieve, reached for his spoon. His hand trembled slightly as he scooped up a bit of porridge, but before he could lift it to his mouth, his fingers cramped suddenly.
The spoon clattered against the bowl with a sharp clang, and Harry sucked in a gasp, his hand seizing painfully. He clenched his fist instinctively, trying to quell the spasms, but the trembling only grew worse.
Alfred was at his side in an instant, his hand firm but gentle as he placed it over Harry’s to steady the shaking. “Easy, lad,” he said quietly, his voice calm and reassuring. “Breathe.”
Harry’s chest heaved as he tried to control his breathing, his gaze fixed on the table as though he were trying to will the tremors away. The pinprick sensation beneath his skin flared painfully, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound.
“What’s wrong with him?” Damian asked sharply, his voice laced with concern despite the harshness of his tone.
“It’s nothing,” Harry managed, his voice strained. “Just… an old injury acting up.”
Alfred frowned but didn’t press. Instead, he gently massaged Harry’s hand, easing the cramp until the spasms subsided. “There now,” he said softly, stepping back once Harry’s breathing steadied. “Perhaps you’ll let me know next time such an episode is likely to occur. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Master Black.”
Harry nodded mutely, his face pale and drawn. He flexed his fingers experimentally, relieved to find the tremors had lessened, though his hand still tingled uncomfortably.
Damian’s gaze was sharp as ever, his eyes darting between Harry and Alfred. “You’re lying,” he said finally, his tone matter-of-fact. “That’s not from an ‘old injury.’ Something else happened to you.”
“Damian,” Alfred said warningly, his tone firm.
The boy scowled but fell silent, though his expression remained skeptical. Harry, meanwhile, stared down at his uneaten porridge, his appetite completely gone.
“Eat,” Alfred said gently, his tone brooking no argument. “Even if it’s just a few bites. You’ll need your strength.”
Reluctantly, Harry obeyed, picking up the spoon with his non-dominant hand and taking small, mechanical bites. Damian didn’t look away, his piercing gaze unwavering as he studied Harry with the intensity of someone trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle.
Alfred watched the scene quietly, his own mind whirring with unspoken questions. Whatever Harry Black was hiding, it was clear the boy carried more than just the weight of his own past. And while Alfred respected the lad’s privacy, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the answers—whatever they were—would eventually come to light in the most unexpected of ways.
As breakfast concluded and Damian long gone by now, Alfred gave Harry a small nod of approval. “You did well this morning,” he said quietly, clearing away the dishes. “But your duties are just beginning, Mr. Black. I trust you’re ready for the day ahead.”
Harry straightened slightly, though his shoulders still sagged with a lingering unease. “Of course,” he replied, his voice steady but subdued.
Alfred gave him a long look, then nodded again. “Very well. We’ll start with the basics. Cleaning. I’ll assign you a few rooms, and I’ll inspect your work after.”
Harry nodded, grateful for the clear instructions. His time at the Dursleys had made him all too familiar with cleaning, and he found comfort in the routine, even if it wasn’t particularly glamorous.
Alfred handed him a cleaning kit. “One of your tasks will be Master Damian’s room,” he added, his tone almost cautious. “He prefers to supervise the cleaning himself to ensure his… personal effects are handled appropriately.”
Harry blinked, feeling an odd knot of apprehension form in his chest. “Personal effects?” he asked, but Alfred only gave him a faint smile.
“You’ll see soon enough. Follow me.”
The hallway leading to Damian’s room felt longer than it should have. The heavy silence was broken only by the muffled hum of activity from other parts of the manor. Harry couldn’t help but let his mind wander. The ornate details of the house, the long corridors—it all felt too much like Hogwarts. Memories of wandering the castle halls late at night flooded his thoughts, pulling at the edges of his mind like ghosts. He shook his head, trying to focus. This wasn’t Hogwarts, and he wasn’t a student anymore.
Alfred stopped in front of a heavy wooden door and knocked once, sharp and deliberate. “Master Damian? Mr. Black is here to begin cleaning.”
“Let him in,” Damian’s voice called from within, clipped and authoritative.
Alfred opened the door, revealing Damian seated on the edge of his bed, sharpening what looked like a dagger. Harry’s eyes immediately darted to the weapon, then to the other items scattered around the room—various blades, throwing stars, and what appeared to be a small crossbow hanging on the wall. The room was surprisingly neat, but the arsenal displayed so openly made Harry’s stomach twist uncomfortably. He’d seen plenty of weaponry during the war, but the idea of a boy owning such things felt… wrong.
Damian looked up, his sharp green eyes meeting Harry’s. “You’re to clean only the surfaces I tell you to. Do not touch anything without my permission.”
Harry nodded, his expression neutral, though his hand tightened slightly around the cleaning kit. “Understood.”
Damian gestured vaguely around the room. “Dust the shelves, polish the wood, and clean the floor. Do not touch the weapons, or you’ll regret it.”
Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded again. “Got it.”
Alfred gave a small bow. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Mr. Black, remember what I said about attention to detail.” With that, he left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
Harry set down the cleaning supplies and got to work, starting with the shelves. He worked methodically, carefully avoiding the weapons and other odd items as instructed. Damian didn’t say much, but Harry could feel the boy’s eyes on him, scrutinizing his every move.
As Harry dusted a nearby shelf, he couldn’t help but glance at a small, ornate blade lying next to it. The craftsmanship was intricate, almost ceremonial. He paused, not touching it but studying it for a moment longer than necessary.
“That’s a kunai,” Damian said suddenly, his tone almost smug. “Traditional Japanese weapons. Used for throwing or close combat.”
Harry straightened, unsure how to respond. “Looks… sharp,” he said awkwardly, which earned him a scoff from Damian.
“Of course it’s sharp. A dull weapon is useless.” Damian leaned back slightly, his expression turning curious. “You’re not as useless as you look, though. You move like someone who’s used to being careful.”
Harry shrugged, focusing back on his work. “I’ve cleaned a lot of rooms in my time,” he said simply, hoping to deflect the conversation.
Damian narrowed his eyes, clearly unsatisfied with the answer. “You’re hiding something.”
Harry froze for half a second before resuming his dusting. “Everyone’s hiding something,” he muttered under his breath, hoping the boy wouldn’t push further.
Damian smirked, a hint of challenge in his gaze. “We’ll see about that.”
Harry didn’t respond, focusing instead on polishing the wood of the desk. His hands began to tremble slightly as the pinprick sensation returned, but he clenched his jaw and forced himself to keep going. He wouldn’t give Damian—or anyone else—more reasons to pry into his past. Whatever Alfred or the Waynes suspected, Harry knew he’d have to tread carefully in this house.
As Harry continued to clean the boy’s room there was an uncomfortable silence Harry was not willing to fill. He hadn’t been one for idle chit chat much after everything. It wasn’t important. Harry had a job to do and he would get done.
As Harry finished making the boy’s bed he made sure to get all of the wrinkles out of the sheet and smoothes it down. Damian’s gaze had barely left him the whole time. Harry had ignored it for the most part, he felt the tingling on his neck every time his back was turned and Harry tried to get those tasks done fastest.
Once Harry had reached the bathroom he opened the door and cringed at the sight. There was blood splatter on the tiles and sink. Harry didn’t say anything, just took a breath and brought the cleaning supplies Alfred had dropped off sometime during hsi cleaning. Harry scrubbed at the floor tiles like his life would end if he didn’t. He wiped the blood off of the countertops and put the boys dirty laundry into the basket he would bring down to wherever they put their laundry room.
As Harry worked, the silence in Damian’s room felt suffocating. He could feel the boy’s gaze pressing on him, but Harry refused to acknowledge it. His focus was on the task at hand, though a small part of him wished he could retreat to somewhere quieter. He wasn’t used to being watched so closely—not since the war, when every move could be scrutinized or worse, used against him. The weight of Damian’s attention felt much the same.
When Harry bent to scrub the floor tiles in the bathroom, the metallic scent of blood hit him like a punch to the gut. It brought back memories he would rather have left buried. The blood—so much of it—was something Harry had become far too familiar with. It was a reminder of the things he’d done, and worse, the things that had been done to him. But he pushed the thoughts aside. He had a job to do.
He worked quickly, dipping his sponge into the cleaning solution and scrubbing the tile with a sharp, almost frantic motion. The blood had already dried, making it harder to clean, but Harry didn’t care. He wasn’t thinking about the task at hand; his mind was elsewhere, replaying a thousand screams and curses that had etched themselves into his memory.
The echoes of that night came rushing back—green light, bodies falling, the heat of battle, and the way death had followed him like a shadow. The sight of blood, fresh and old, was a haunting reminder of it all. Harry’s fingers gripped the edge of the counter as he wiped at it, his breath coming a little too quickly. He had to focus. Just get it clean, he told himself.
Damian didn’t say anything as Harry worked, but Harry could feel the boy’s presence growing heavier as the minutes passed. Finally, when Harry began picking up the dirty laundry from the floor, Damian broke the silence.
“Why do you do it?” Damian’s voice was soft, almost curious. Harry froze for a moment, unsure how to respond.
“Do what?” Harry’s voice was quiet, but the tension in his back told Damian that he wasn’t as nonchalant as he seemed.
Damian didn’t look at him, but his eyes were sharp as ever. “Pretend like it doesn’t bother you. Like you’re not haunted by your past.”
Harry’s heart skipped a beat, his breath catching. His hand tightened around the dirty clothes, the fabric crumpling in his grip. He exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself. “Everyone has a past, Damian,” Harry said quietly, his voice far too strained for his liking. “It’s not always a pretty one.”
Damian didn’t press further, but Harry could still feel the boy’s eyes on him, sharp and inquisitive. He hated this. Hated being observed, being the subject of questions that dug too deep. He wasn’t ready to explain the things that lingered inside him, the things that still made his skin crawl and his heart race.
He finished gathering the laundry and walked quickly toward the door, hoping Damian wouldn’t push any further. He couldn’t afford to lose control, not here, not now.
“Alfred will want this,” Harry said with an attempt at indifference, his voice colder than usual. He turned his back on the room, feeling the weight of Damian’s stare follow him out. The door clicked shut behind him, but the silence still echoed in his mind.
Once Harry was out of Damian’s room, he took a long, shaky breath and set the laundry down in the hallway. The hallway was silent and dim, and he allowed himself a moment to close his eyes and breathe.
It wasn’t long before Alfred appeared, having heard the door open. He looked at Harry with a kind, steady gaze. “You’ve done well,” Alfred said, his voice warm but still clipped. “If you’re done with the cleaning for now, perhaps a rest is in order?”
Harry nodded but didn’t speak. Alfred noticed the way Harry’s hands were still slightly trembling. He didn’t say anything about it but filed it away for later.
“Come along,” Alfred said, guiding him away from the laundry. “Let’s head downstairs. I’ll show you where the laundry room is. We can get that sorted out.”
Harry followed quietly, the tension in his shoulders not fully easing. He wasn’t sure how to feel about Damian’s question. There were a lot of things Harry had yet to face, and the boy’s curiosity felt like another reminder of everything Harry wasn’t ready to confront.
When Alfred led him into the laundry room, Harry found himself grateful for the simple, mundane task of sorting through the laundry. It was a small comfort, something he could lose himself in for a while. He set to work sorting the clothes, trying to quiet the buzzing in his head, but the echoes of Damian’s words lingered.
“Why do you do it?”
Harry shook his head slightly, hoping the question would fade. But deep down, he knew it wouldn’t.
Harry knew the answer to the boy's question. He had asked himself the same question every night. Every night as he saw his friends' bodies fall with blood coating their faces just like that damned bathroom, saw their eyes lose their life.
Harry lived because it was in his name, it was who he was supposed to be. Harry lived on after the war because it was all he knew how to do. All Harry knew how to do was survive in the cold and viousos world. He ignored the claws of death dragging him back and he pulled himself away with scars that were still bleeding.
The way down to the laundry room was filled with silence but unlike with Domain this was more abreable. It was more comfortable. It reminded Harry of the nights he and Hermoine would read next to the fire when Harry had woken up from a nightmare.
As they reached the laundry room Alfred led Harry inside and instructed him how the laundry was to be done.
Harry followed Alfred into the laundry room, the soft hum of the machines and the clean scent of detergent a far cry from the horrors that still lingered in his mind. Alfred moved with practiced ease, showing Harry the basics of sorting the laundry—dark, light, colors—and explaining how the machines worked. The routine was simple enough, and for a moment, Harry allowed himself to focus on the mundane, the steady rhythm of folding clothes, and the methodical motions of putting them into the washer. It almost felt like a reprieve, a break from the constant tension inside his chest.
The silence between them was easier now, less charged than it had been earlier with Damian. Harry didn’t feel the pressure of a thousand questions hanging in the air, or the weight of a pair of sharp eyes on him. It was a simple, quiet task, and that in itself was a relief. It reminded him, just for a moment, of those rare nights back at Hogwarts, when he’d wake up from a nightmare, and Hermione would be there, quietly reading by the fire, offering him comfort without saying a word.
“You’re doing fine,” Alfred said quietly, breaking the silence. His voice was soft but steady, offering reassurance without the need for a grand statement. Harry nodded without looking up, focusing on the laundry in front of him. His hands moved methodically, folding shirts and trousers, but his mind was still a thousand miles away, swirling with memories that would never quite fade.
As Alfred finished his explanations of the laundry process, he paused, watching Harry for a moment. There was something about the boy, a certain stillness, a quiet determination that Alfred found both impressive and concerning. He had seen it before, in men who had been through far too much and learned to keep everything buried deep inside.
“Take your time,” Alfred said finally, placing a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder. “There’s no rush. You’re not alone here, Harry. You can rest when you need to.”
Harry didn’t look at him, but the words still settled into him like a soft weight, as if someone finally saw the exhaustion beneath his skin. He wasn’t sure how to respond. He wasn’t used to being looked after, wasn’t used to someone caring about whether he rested or not. He was used to standing alone, to facing everything on his own terms.
As Alfred left the room to attend to something else, Harry continued with his task, but the weight of the words lingered. Rest. It was a foreign concept. Harry had learned to keep moving, even when he wanted to collapse, even when his body screamed for relief. If he stopped, if he allowed himself to rest, then the nightmares would return, and the faces of the people he’d lost would overwhelm him once again.
The laundry room, with its quiet, unassuming atmosphere, felt like a small piece of peace in a world that had never known it. Harry didn’t allow himself to savor it for too long, but he couldn’t help but feel grateful for the simple routine, for the steady hands that guided him through it.
As Harry continued to sort through the laundry, folding clothes with mechanical precision, the weight of the last few days began to settle more heavily on his shoulders. The steady, repetitive motions of his hands—grabbing, folding, stacking—should have been soothing, but they were only a temporary distraction from the storm that raged in his chest. Every small noise in the room seemed to echo in his ears, the quiet clatter of the fabric against the washer, the faint hum of the dryer—it all became too much.
Harry was in the middle of reaching for a pair of pants when his hand twitched. It was a sudden, sharp spasm—like a jolt of electricity—crawling up his arm. His breath caught in his throat, and his hand jerked away from the clothing as if burned. His fingertips buzzed, the sensation more intense than before, like a million tiny pinpricks shooting across his skin. The feeling was familiar, nauseatingly so. It was the lingering effect of the Cruciatus curse—something he couldn’t shake, no matter how many years had passed.
His heart began to race. A cold sweat formed on his forehead as his body started to tremble. Harry instinctively tried to hold his hand still, but it only seemed to make things worse. His fingers curled against his will, spasming out of his control, and before he knew it, a laundry detergent bottle slipped from his grasp, crashing to the floor with a sickening thud. The sound was louder than it should have been, reverberating through the small room like a warning.
“No, no, no,” Harry muttered under his breath, his voice thin, breathless. His body was stiff, his limbs uncooperative as he tried to regain control, but it was slipping away from him, like sand through his fingers. His hands clenched and unclenched in spasms, and his legs felt weak beneath him. His body was betraying him, and it felt like the walls were closing in.
Breathe, Harry told himself. Breathe through it. But the air felt too thick, and the world around him seemed to blur at the edges. The memory of the curse was alive in his muscles, in the way they trembled, in the way his nerves screamed with every passing second.
He bent to pick up the fallen detergent bottle, but his movements were clumsy, and he fumbled with it, nearly dropping it again. He cursed under his breath, his hands shaking uncontrollably as the pressure built up inside him, pushing against the fragile walls of his composure.
A sharp intake of breath echoed in the small room, and Harry’s vision blurred momentarily. He pressed his palm to his forehead, trying to steady himself, trying to block out the images that threatened to flood his mind. Focus, he thought. Focus on the here and now.
But the shadows of the past were always waiting just beneath the surface.
“H-Harry?” Alfred’s voice cut through the panic like a lifeline, and Harry jerked back, startled. He had no idea how long Alfred had been standing in the doorway. The older man’s presence was calm and steady, but Harry could see the concern in his eyes.
“I—I’m fine,” Harry said quickly, his voice shaky, though he knew it was a lie. He didn’t feel fine. He hadn’t felt fine in years. His body was still trembling, but he tried to keep it together. He placed the detergent bottle on the counter with far too much care, his fingers still unsteady.
“I’ll clean up the mess I promise. I’m sorry, sometimes I just have bad days,” Harry said with a sigh as he grabbed a rag and began to clean up the spilled detergent on the floor. His hands and body shook with the aftershocks of the attack and Alfred didn’t say anything for a long while until he finally spoke.
“Why don’t you take a break, Mr. Black? I feel you have done enough work for today. Take a break, I’m sure you can find something to do in this large of a mansion. I’ll call you for lunch,” Alfred’s voice carried a soft tone for it. Harry finished cleaning up the detergent and tried to fight off Alfred saying he could work.
“I—I’m fine,” Harry repeated, his voice rough but insistent as he finished cleaning the last of the detergent off the floor. He knew he was lying, but it felt important to him to try and hold on to some sense of control, especially in front of Alfred, who seemed to be treating him with so much patience. This wasn’t supposed to happen, he thought, trying to shake off the lingering panic. He can’t see me like this.
Alfred, however, didn’t relent. He stood in the doorway with a quiet authority, his arms crossed as he watched Harry work. “No, Mr. Black,” he said firmly, his voice steady, “you’ve done more than enough today. There’s no need to continue pushing yourself.”
Harry opened his mouth to protest again, but Alfred held up a hand. “Take a break, please. The work will always be here, but your health is more important. I insist.”
The firmness in Alfred’s voice made Harry hesitate. He wanted to argue, to insist he could keep going, but a part of him knew that the exhaustion was creeping in—not just physically, but emotionally too. He couldn’t keep pretending everything was okay when it wasn’t.
He sighed, nodding reluctantly. “Okay,” he muttered. “I’ll take a break. Just… just for a little while.”
Alfred nodded in approval, his expression softening. “Good. I’ll call you for lunch. Go find something to do, Mr. Black. There’s no shortage of space in this place.” He gave Harry a small smile before turning to leave, his footsteps fading down the hall.
Harry stood there for a moment longer, letting the silence settle around him. He didn’t feel like returning to the kitchen or even the laundry room. Instead, his feet moved almost automatically, guiding him out the back door of the mansion. He found himself walking through the vast grounds, the air cool and fresh against his skin, yet the weight in his chest didn’t lift.
The garden was quiet, the paths winding around the well-maintained hedges and flowers that seemed far too perfect, too serene. Harry’s eyes wandered over the flowers—bright reds and yellows—and the neat rows of trimmed grass, but none of it felt real to him. It all seemed too far removed from the chaos of the world he had known. How did they do it? How did these people live with so much peace when his world had been nothing but war and bloodshed for so long?
He sat down on a bench beneath a tall oak tree, the wind rustling through the leaves. He leaned back, closing his eyes, allowing the quiet hum of the garden to fill his senses. It should have been calming, but instead, it just reminded him of how out of place he felt here.
He had been away from the war for a year now. A year of wandering, of trying to forget. But it was impossible. The nightmares, the memories, the scars they had left behind—those didn’t fade with time. Every time he closed his eyes, he could still hear the screams of his friends. He could still feel the Cruciatus curse burn through his skin, the heat of it, the agony.
“Are you even still alive?” Harry whispered to the empty garden. He didn’t know who he was asking anymore. Maybe it was for himself. Maybe it was for the friends he had failed to save. He was alive—he had survived—but what did it even mean?
A part of him wondered if it would ever stop feeling like this. Like he was walking around in someone else’s body, someone who didn’t quite belong in the world he found himself in. He had been broken, pieced together again by some twisted force. And now, even when he was surrounded by the comfort of this mansion, he was still haunted by the shadow of the person he used to be.
His thoughts drifted again, this time to the moments with the family the night before. The dinner had been filled with polite conversation, the atmosphere warm and welcoming, yet Harry felt like an outsider. There was Tim, who was quiet but curious, Damian, who hadn’t seemed to show much interest in him, Dick who gave him bright smiles and laughed easily, and Alfred, who somehow made him feel both safe and uneasy at the same time. It was too much, too soon. He didn’t know how to interact with people anymore, not like this.
The sky was beginning to dim, the sun setting low behind the trees, and Harry knew it wouldn’t be long before dinner was ready. He stood up, wiping his palms on his pants, the sensation of the pinpricks still there, though slightly dulled. He took a deep breath, then made his way back inside.
The house was quieter now, the sounds of the family preparing for the evening settling in. He could already smell something cooking, a savory scent filling the air, reminding him that he wasn’t alone here, that there were people who wanted to see him through this.
But even as he stepped back inside, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. That something deep inside him had been broken beyond repair, and no matter how hard he tried to pretend, it would never truly heal.