Firewhiskey Therapy
Kreacher dislikes inviting anyone over and he certainly wouldn’t choose the Weasley’s if he were to deign to do so, blood traitors as they are.
However, the Weasley couple have always been good to his Master and Kreacher is limited in choice due to his Master’s unique circumstances. Besides, Kreacher’s Master has long since forbidden any nonsense of blood traitors in Grimmauld Place and Kreacher isn’t one to willfully disobey.
Few living souls even know where his Master is, and Kreacher will not be the one to destroy his Master’s escape from the clutches of the Wizarding World. Oh, how Kreacher’s fellow house elves would shame Kreacher for such a thought against their world. Still, Kreacher has naught left in this world apart from what his Master has given, and Kreacher will not betray his Master’s trust.
Therefore, Kreacher floo calls the detestable Ronald Weasley and requests his presence immediately.
Ron floo’s into Harry’s supposed-to-be-a-cabin, only to find himself in the floo parlour of Grimmauld Place with Kreacher standing angrily in the doorway.
“Youse be taking much too long,” Kreacher chastises, tapping his long foot angrily. “Come now, Master be needing you.”
And Ron follows dutifully, knowing Kreacher would never have called him if it weren’t serious. In fact, to hear the floo go off and to find Kreacher’s wrinkly face in the flames had scared Ron more than he’d like to admit. Kreacher’s face wasn’t made for fire. And the implications of why he would be calling were less than desirable. Ron hasn’t even contacted Hermione yet, because he wants to see just how bad it is first.
“What happened to the cabin?” He asks, looking around at the familiar sage green painted walls.
He remembers spending a whole day teaching Harry the spells needed to paint the walls, only for Harry to turn around and do it the muggle way. It had been interesting to watch—the long stick with a rolling brush is an ingenious invention, of which he’d had many a conversation about with his father. It hadn’t taken Harry much longer than the spells would’ve, really.
“Kreacher be thinking the cabin be insufficient for Master.” Kreacher glares over his shoulder as though daring Ron to argue.
“I spent a long time building that cabin,” he mutters under his breath.
He continues along behind the elf, marvelling at the speed at which Kreacher can get going when he really tries. He’s always seemed so lethargic, it’s almost comical to see the way his legs flick out in the hurry. But Ron isn’t amused for long, when he finds Harry lounged across the chaise, half-empty bottle of firewhiskey in one hand and a hand-rolled cigarette in the other.
“That bad aye, mate?” Ron asks, shuffling past Kreacher and into the room.
It smells sweet and the aftertaste is acidic on his tongue. It’s more than moonweaver grass, of that Ron is sure. He’s smoked his own share with Neville before but it never was this strong and it never burned the back of his nostrils.
“Some strong stuff this time. You mind?” Ron coughs slightly, batting the smoke away.
The room is practically all smoke—a feat, for one with such high ceilings. Harry waves his hand drunkenly and the smoke disappears, along with the joint. He takes a swig from the bottle instead.
Ron sighs and plops down on the only free chair left, reaching out and grabbing the bottle from Harry’s limp grip, taking a sip. He strategically places the bottle on the table to this right, furthest away from Harry, and shucks his Auror robe off. The red material is unceremoniously dumped on the floor.
“What happened, mate?” He asks after a minute and Harry rolls on the chaise, turning so his back faces Ron and his face is buried in the couch.
“I don’ wanna talk ‘bout it.” Ron can barely hear Harry’s muffled tone.
He wonders if this is what it’s like to have a teenager. If Rose might be like this when she hits eighteen. It’s been on his mind before, whether Harry’s emotional state is stunted because of his status, his frozen age doing more than just keeping him looking young. Perhaps it actually keeps all of him young, immature. But it’s a mean and sad thought to have—that his best friend might be stuck with the emotional state of a traumatised eighteen year old forever. One he and Hermione refuse to believe.
Harry changed a lot in their period of preparation and his mental state improved tenfold after visiting the mind healer regularly. That doesn’t mean it is perfect or that Harry is even stable by most people’s standards. It's probably hard to be stable when you’re the Master of Death. Hard to truly get therapy when there’s so many secrets you can’t let slip, even to those with unbreakable vows.
Hermione’s been studying mind healing lately. She thinks Ron hasn’t noticed the new addition of textbooks on the floor next to her bedside table, or the focus in her eyes as she scribbles notes, cross-legged at the coffee table with a tea charmed perpetually warm next to her. Ron might have been a bit of dullard as a teenager, but he’s not so anymore. He’s observant and logical, and he’s watched Hermione for years. Loved her for the same amount. He knows Hermione’s habits, especially when they come to Harry. He knows she’s trying to do what she can for Harry—to become what he might need before it’s too late. Before they’re gone, and Harry’s alone with those secrets of Horcruxes and death and the Deathly Hallows.
“C’mon, mate. You gotta talk about it. Otherwise I’ll have to get Hermione.”
Harry groans loudly and rolls over, sitting up and facing his best friend, whose face is aged in ways he'll never get to experience. He wants to scream at the world. He wants to scream at Death. He wants to kill Voldemort all over again just to kill something that’s not himself for once.
“Don’t use Hermione as a threat,” he grumbles.
“Don’t make me.” Ron shrugs. “C’mon. Drink this.”
He grabs a sobriety potion from a small tray on the table, paired with glasses of water and small dinner rolls. Kreacher obviously tried many times to get through to Harry before contacting Ron. It makes him a little sad, to think of the old elf begging Harry to drink something non-alcoholic, to nibble on a piece of bread to ease the side effects. Harry drinks the potion down after only a slight scowl.
“You know, ‘Mione has ten different American mind healers vetted and is ready to book an appointment the second she thinks you’re slipping again. Is that what you’re doing? Slipping?” Ron asks after a minute, letting the potion sink in and seeing his friend’s eyes refocus.
It’s true she has mind healers ready to go. She obviously thinks Harry needs someone he can truly talk to, secrets and all, but she’s prepped for all scenarios. Harry going off the deep end and needing a mind healer regularly again is one of those.
Harry runs his hands through his hair and his knees jump rapidly in agitation. The Auror in Ron sees a man about to lie. The best friend in him sees a man in an emotional trench he doesn’t know how to climb out of.
“No, I’m not slipping.” Harry looks away from Ron’s unimpressed face. “Look, maybe a little, okay? It’s just…” Harry trails off. “I dunno. I felt so happy those first few days, you know? But then, like, I realised how alone I am. How alone I’ll always be and it just…” Harry goes silent and shakes his head. “And then I went to that muggle school and everyone was so happy, for Merlin’s sake. I just felt like a giant dementor in a school of good memories.”
Ron nods slowly and thinks over his response carefully. “So, interacting with the muggles is a bad idea? It makes you feel worse?”
“Yes! No! I don’t know!” Harry exclaims, gripping his hair tightly. “It was nice for a bit, to be surrounded by such normal people. But then it just hit me—that, that I’m not one of them. Not any more. And someone reminded me of Luna literally first thing in the morning and then I was thinking about everything that happened to her at Malfoy Manor and—” Harry cuts himself with a huff. “It just went downhill.”
“Right.” Ron fiddles with the loose third button on his shirt. “I get it, mate. It still happens to me, you know?” Ron almost avoids Harry’s eyes but stops himself, turning his gaze back, locking eyes in a declaration of his effort.
He’s never been the best at these emotional talks. Hermione’s helped him to be better at it, to tell her how he feels and things he thinks. And he knows Harry needs it now. Ron wants to support Harry, for as long as he can, because there’ll be a day Harry is stuck here without either of his best friends, and Ron can’t think of anything worse.
“Sometimes I’ll just be hanging around, everything fine, and then someone will do or say something and suddenly it’s like I’m back there. Like I have that blasted Horcrux hanging from my neck again.” They both shudder at the memory. “Sometimes that’s just what happens. But what’s important is how you deal with it, Harry. You shouldn’t cope with things like this,” Ron waves his hand around generally at the couch and alcohol. “You can’t live like this forever.” He winces at his wording. Hermione’ll have his head for it when she hears.
“Actually, I can,” Harry scoffs, rightfully so, at the reminder. “And that’s the problem isn’t it? That no matter what I do, it doesn’t matter any more. Not really.”
“It does matter,” Ron argues, scrambling to catch his footing after plunging off the cliff of wrongly worded advice.
“Why? I’ll be back anyway. You could Avada me right now and I’d be back in twenty minutes after a nice nap.”
Ron flinches at the word, at the visual. At the memory of Harry walking into a forest and being carried out. At the first time he found Harry dead and how it wasn’t the last. At the way the word rolls off of Harry’s tongue, practiced and natural.
“Isn’t it a good thing?” Harry whispers, tears bordering his eyes. “I didn’t kill myself today. I wanted to. Salazar knows I wanted to. But I didn’t. Doesn’t that count for something?” Harry begs, eyes boring into Ron with a weight he doesn’t know how to receive.
“Of course it does, Harry.” And he means it. The relief he felt when he walked in to Harry alive is indescribable. He’s had enough of seeing Harry’s corpse, even if he knows it doesn’t take long for Harry to liven up. “But Kreacher’s worried about you. I’m worried about you. Mione too. We just want you to learn to live again, Harry.”
And Harry can’t help the bitterness swelling in his gut.
“How am I meant to do that, Ron? How am I meant to live when I can’t even die?”
Ron remembers the days when Harry was the brightest in their class. Always happy, just excited to be there, in Hogwarts and away from his horrible family. He was bright eyed and smiled at everything and everyone. He was shocked when there was a table of food. Overjoyed at a bed and a trunk reserved just for him. Everything Ron had taken for granted was looked at as a blessing by Harry, and that was without the allure of magic. That Harry seems long gone.
“That’s what you need to figure out, Harry. You need to learn to live because that’s all you have now.” Ron reaches out and grips his best friend’s hand as tight as he can, wishing he could hold onto it, to be there for Harry forever. “Don’t give up, mate. Please. For us. Give it a chance and see what happens. If it doesn’t work here, we move to the next place. The world’s a big place, Harry. I know you’ll find a spot you belong.”
Harry grips his hand back and doesn’t say anything for long moment.
“I am trying, Ron. I promise.”
Ron nods his head and they stay like that for a while, Harry clutching Ron’s outstretched hand.
When Ron leaves an hour later with promises to bring Rose and Teddy around next weekend, Harry is emotionally fraught and ready for bed. He manages a slight thank you and goodnight to Kreacher before crawling under the covers of his bed. With a wave of his hand, the chilly night air flows into the room. He shudders under the sheets but leaves it open, eventually falling asleep to the slight howls he can hear in the distance.