Fissures
July 9th 2169
Masufatu, Japan
The Golden Rose, 32nd Floor
The Emperor Suite
A few days after his meeting with Death, Harry had found it hard to separate his knowledge from Other Harry, so Harry had dusted off his rudimentary mind arts knowledge, from when he and Hermione had been trapped in that tent with nothing better to do, joining Luna for her morning meditation.
Harry had firmly declared that his mornings belonged to his family, renovations or not, so after meditation with Luna, Luna would start breakfast, while Harry would start Teddy's morning routine.
Thankfully, Teddy seemed to be an exceptionally good sleeper for an infant, and usually was still asleep when Harry came in to wake, change and feed him, and remained mostly soft and sleepy in his arms until Harry carried him out of their room to join the others.
He would eat breakfast with his family, then hand Teddy off to Luna and Neville, who had firmly shut down Harry's offer to hire a babysitter, and head off to work. Harry made it a point to always be home for dinner, which Harry had gotten into the routine of making, since Luna always made breakfast, and Neville often delivered lunch, either leftovers or takeout, to the worksite.
Whatever responsibilities he had in this new world, Harry was determined that his family would always come first.
By now, Harry had only been joining Luna for morning meditation for just over a week, but he had seen significant improvement.
Harry had never gotten to the point of a mind palace with Hermione, but now, with the horcrux gone, his increased power, and Luna's calm explanations, his skill in the magical art had skyrocketed. Harry would never be a Master, not the least because the three of them were the only people in this world that knew what the Mind Arts were, but the Mind Arts were both exactly the kind of magic Harry tended to excel in, and also not.
Despite the deceptive name, most peoples mind palace weren't an actual palace, and everyone started with a single room, usually an office or a library, and many couldn't expand beyond a certain point.
Maintaining the room also took a steady low current of magical power, which made it an Art suitable to those with more magical power. The Art required using raw power and will to create mental objects, and tethering previously free floating memories or knowledge, which Harry exceled at, but it also required a finesse and attention to detail that Harry... did not excel in.
Harry had no problem building and maintaining a simple room, forming the room and creating the objects within the room had been deceptively easy.
He'd started with a simple 40 by 40 square room, with ten foot high ceilings, antique wall sconces, and a single large window across from the door overlooking a constantly changing scenery. He'd lined the office with sturdy oak floor to ceiling bookcases, he'd added a comfy armchair and a small table with an antique lamp by the window, and a large fringed Gryffindor red rug for the center of the room.
Even tethering knowledge to the various books and knickknacks that soon filled the cozy library had been relatively easy.
It was keeping it organized that was proving to be a nightmare.
"There's something your not facing, and until you do... I don't think you'll be able to progress" Luna explained when Harry had complained to her about it, and then gently kicked him out of her study to go bug Neville, who was swaying gently with a fitfully sleeping Teddy.
(Harry had never heard of a baby that loved sleep as much as Teddy, and Harry just knew that it was an omen that Teddy was going to be an absolute hellraiser as a toddler)
"Maybe you just need to get out of here; you could join me for my physical therapy" Neville suggested, and Harry felt him he'd just been bludgeoned.
Harry knew the dark magic curses Neville had taken during the Final Battle couldn't be healed with magic, Hermione's scar paste helped with the pain, but the damage was too severe.
Luna had been helping Neville with the exercises back in Grimmauld Place, but Harry had been so consumed by grief and Teddy that it had faded to the back of his awareness. He knew Neville had been hurt badly, it was hard to miss the fact that one of his brown eyes was a cloudy grey, the scar that nearly bisected his face, or the hints of thick lines of scar tissue that lashed Neville's chest, back, arms and legs that he'd seen.
But he hadn't really processed the visible marks the War had left on his friend, or the effect they would have on him for the rest of his life.
(For all that Harry felt like the War had stripped the flesh from his bones, he'd actually gotten away with very few physical scars...)
"Of course I'll go with you" Harry said instantly, and Neville's lips quirked up in amusement, but his eyes were sad as he took in whatever expression was on Harry's face.
"Its only my second appointment" Neville told him, and Harry swallowed thickly.
"Do they help?" Harry asked quietly, and Neville rubbed his back.
"Yes" Neville smiled, and Harry eagerly took his waking son into his arms, and followed Neville out the door.
AN: stop here if above topics are triggering for you: depression, child endangerment, grooming, panic attacks and suicidal thoughts
The nondescript building Neville lead him to was smack in the middle of a row of nearly identical offices, on a side street away from the hustle and bustle of downtown, it blended into its surroundings seamlessly.
Harry never would have realized what it was unless he walked through the door.
"How did you find this place?" Harry asked, while Neville talked to the young fire haired (literally) receptionist, who was only a handful of years older than them.
"Well, this the recommended physiotherapy clinic for injured heroes" Neville admitted quietly, and static filled Harry's head.
... Right, this world liked their child soldiers, he'd almost forgotten...
"Right" Harry choked out, and gratefully sank into one of the cushy chairs while they waited for Neville's name to be called.
"Harry, I wont ask if your okay, I know your not, but you can talk to us about it. We understand" Neville said quietly, and Harry's face felt cold and bloodless, his skin tight and chills rushing down his spine.
"No, you don't" Harry murmured, and Neville's eyes met Harry's, and he didn't say anything else as they waited.
For Luna and Neville, the war started when Death Eaters took over Hogwarts, but for Harry... The war had started with his parents deaths. Harry had been expected to save an entire society from a mad man since he was still in diapers, he was groomed for it. He'd been purposefully placed in an abusive home, isolated from most of his peers, separated from any adult that might have helped him, so that he wouldn't have any reasons not to sacrifice himself. He'd bounced from one danger to another his entire life, each death threat a carefully calculated test to measure just how ready he was to sacrifice himself for the 'Greater Good'.
He'd only known brief moments of peace his entire life, and one by one... Even those were stolen from him...
... How could anyone understand that? No, talking about it might be an option for others, but Harry was just going to have to grow a thicker skin... He had a son now, he couldn't afford to fall apart...
"Longbottom-san!" a cheerful voice called, shaking Harry from his thoughts, and Harry rose to follow Neville into the office.
Harry tuned out the exchange between Neville and the man.
He was in his late thirties, tall and thin, with chestnut brown hair and warm hazel eyes, the beginnings of laugh lines around his eyes, there was no obvious signs of his quirk, except for light blue pads on his fingers. They tingled like mint to Harry's senses, and even without touching him, Harry knew that they were some sort of diagnosis or analysis quirk.
Useful for a healthcare professional, Harry mused, but then all sound turned off like Harry had been stuck in a vacuum as Neville pulled his shirt off, revealing gagged lines of pale scars crisscrossing nearly every inch of Neville's chest, back and arms, like someone had tried to press him through a meatgrinder.
The physiotherapist said something to him, but Harry didn't hear it.
Ash coated the back of Harry's tongue, his vision narrowed, and the clinic office faded away
"away from my daughter-" the smell of burning flesh filled his nose
-"for my brother, you fucker!" a hoarse scream, followed by howls of agony and fury-
-"bring him to me!" a sibilant voice hissed above the crowd-
-In the distance, an explosion rocked the ground, the South Wall fell, and the high pitch shriek of terrified children was cut off by shouts of spellfire-
"We'll see you when your done" warm hands gripped his, green eyes met warm brown eyes, ringlets of bushy brown curls spilling out of its bun
Vacant brown eyes looked up at nothing, those brown curls lank and heavy with water, large freckled hand intertwined with smaller hands, united even in death, blue eyes starring at Harry accusingly-
Warm arms wrapped around Harry's chest, pulling him back and suddenly-
Harry blinked and found himself sitting on the floor of a nondescript office, Neville was sitting behind him on the floor, the warmth of his bare chest pressed against Harry's back, his slow even breaths encouraging Harry to match him. Large warm (so warm; alive) hands gripped Harry's, the shades had been pulled down over the windows, and the door blocked out the movement and sound from the rest of the office.
Harry didn't see the man, he must have stepped out of the room to give them some privacy.
"Its okay" Neville rocked Harry softly, his voice a constant low thrum of gentle encouragements, and tears spilled down Harry's cheeks, splattering his knees, and as soon as the floodgates opened, everything came flooding out.
"No! Its not okay!" Harry sobbed, and Neville didn't say anything, simply holding Harry as words of vitriol spilled from Harry's lips.
The Dursley's abuse, the cupboard under the stairs, the clawing in his stomach as he was denied food for the third day in a row, the broken arm after he'd been thrown down the stairs after the Shrinking-Sweater-Incident, the grease burns down his back after Petunia hit him with the hot frying pan after he'd accidentally burned the bacon at 5 years old. The quiet condemnation of school teachers and social workers who all wiped their hands of him, and claimed he must have been making it up, his poor relatives-
Harry's first kill at only 11 years old, flesh bubbling under his skin, noxious smoke filling his lungs with the smell of charred flesh. His next kill a year later, was Diary Tom really a person? He sure screamed like one- The basilisk fang in his arm, poison rushing through his veins, his vision darkening- Dementors pressing in on him, the faint outline of a glowing light being pulled from his lips- The whole school turning on him, Ron turning on him, why whywhy- Dragons, he was supposed to face a bloody fucking dragon-
-Cedric's dead eyes looking up at him accusingly- The Ministry, how could they refuse to see it, didn't they know he was only 14, didn't they realize he'd just seen a friend die in front of him- Umbridge's stupid quill, evil eyes smiling at him, you must not tell lies, Mr. Potter-A single year of peace, ruined by forcing a beloved mentor to drink a vile potion as he begged Harry to stop-If Harry had known what he did now would he have liked it? Is he a monster? A year of running, starving in a tent, he would have stayed there forever if he knew what was coming- Discovering the truth-
Dumbledore's manipulations, pushing him away from anything Slytherin and 'dark', Molly's blundering through Kings Crossing with no regard for the Statue of Secrecy-asking where the platform was, as if she hadn't taken that train herself for 7 years, then brought 5 children to the same platform-did Dumbledore put her up to it? Did she know? Was all the warmth and motherly affection a lie? Had she ever even loved him-
Walking to his death, but at least Ron and Hermione and the Weasley's and Neville and Luna and everybody else would live-
He was alive.
He was alive, but Ron and Hermione and most of the Weasley's and Andromeda were all DEAD!
It was supposed to be him!
Why wasn't it him?
It should be him.
Maybe if he died, the screaming would stop.