Chapter 8
Grimmald place was nothing like Harry had imagined. It was almost like his cupboard, dark in a way no amount of light could fix. But at least it already felt like home, seeing as it was his best option for a place to stay.
On the other hand, it was empty in a way that his cupboard had never been. Countless rooms were left bare, without even furniture to fill them. It was nice, sure, no one could question the amount of wealth that went into the house. But even to his standards, it was unwelcoming. He couldn’t imagine a time when a family had lived there, yet he knew he wasn’t one to judge how a family lived or acted, seeing he had never had one.
After he had looked through the house, he picked what looked like the only bedroom that no one had stayed in, possibly ever, by the looks of it. Of course, it was as pristine as the rest of the house, captured in the moment it was last inhabited. It was a small room compared to the size of the others, but it was larger than anything Harry had ever had, so he wasn’t one to complain.
The room had light grey walls, a dark brown, almost black dresser, and a bed frame to match with a light green duvet. Slytherin colors, but he had expected no less; the Blacks were a very prideful family known for their dark beliefs.
A part of him wanted to move into one of the two bedrooms that he had lived in, and maybe it would make him feel less alone. One room had S.O.B. marked on the door, having belonged to Sirius before he ran away to live with the Potters.
It was more or less what Harry had expected, bright crimson lined the room with posters covering all of the walls. There were clothes on the floor, and the room was a mess. It was as if someone was in a rush and grabbed everything that came into their head without thinking of the destruction they were leaving in their wake.
Or maybe the look of someone who lost their wand and was searching tirelessly for it. The room hadn't been changed from the last time Sirius occupied it. Harry would have thought the Blacks would try to erase every trace of their disappointment of a son as they could, yet the room still stood as good as the day Sirius had left.
The next room was marked with R.A.B., which could only have belonged to Sirius’s sibling. Harry didn’t know who this could be, he hadn’t known Sirius had a brother or a sister. Once he walked into the room, he instantly knew why.
The room was everything Sirius’s was not. Filled with different shades of green, yet not the same Slytherin green of the rest of the house. It was perfectly neat, the bed made, and desk chair pushed in.
Whoever had lived here must have been a Slytherin like the rest of the Blacks, otherwise, Harry would have heard about them by now. Someone breaking a generational tradition, even if they were not the first in the line to do so, was speculated about even years after it had taken place.
It’s what he envisioned his room to look like as a child; green had always been his favorite color before Hogwarts. Once he got to school, it had to change. He wasn’t allowed to say how much he liked it, or he would be seen as a traitor or evil. But it was fine; it was an easy fix to say he liked red just as much. He had only slipped up once and was able to laugh it off as a joke.
But it wasn’t just his favorite color he had to change; everything about himself eventually became a lie. It happened slowly; he changed his favorite class, herbology, to defense. Or his favorite animal from a snake(because, let's be honest, anyone's favorite animal would be whichever one they were able to communicate with) to a dragon.
All were harmless things that no one paid any attention to unless you said the wrong thing. It was fine, he learned to anticipate the answer people wanted to hear and say just that instead of whatever he was thinking. Then, it became bigger things like where he was going, who he was speaking to, and the way he spoke.
Nothing about him was left unchanged, and he didn’t know who he was without them. They became who he was, the person he knew he would be, and maybe if he tried hard enough, it would stop being an act. It hadn’t happened yet, but anything is possible right?
Once he headed it back to what would soon be his room, he unpacked his clothes, and that was that. He didn’t have any other belongings to make the room his own, but it was for the best. Nothing in his life was permanent, so why would he assume this would be, either?
Suddenly he could feel a wave of exhaustion hit him, and he decided it was time for him to go to sleep for the night. After all, he had nothing better to do with his time. The bed was surprisingly comfortable, but maybe that was aided by the fact that he hadn’t slept in a real bed in months.
He felt his eyes drift shut and didn’t have it in himself to bother fighting it. Whether he wanted to or not, he would soon be dead to the world.
___
Harry hit the ground, jolting him from his sleep suddenly, and just like that, he was back in the graveyard. He could feel Petigrew pulling him to his feet as he tried to shove himself free to get back to Cedric. He could feel tears burning in his eyes as he frantically tried to blink them away and stay in the present and not drift off into his head.
He was tied to a grave stone while Voldemort yelled about his plans to take over the wizarding world or some shit that Harry tried not to listen to. He felt Petigew's knife dig into his arm, he couldn’t really feel it.
The burning sensation he wanted never came. But oh, how he wished it would. If he felt the sting of the blade, it would somehow make the situation better. He knew it would; it always had in the past, after all.
Then he was cut loose and expected to duel Voldemort as if he had any chance at winning. He knew he had no hope at making it out of the graveyard, Voldemot knew it, and so did the death eaters who had been watching the whole ordeal. So what did he do? He ran and hid behind the nearest gravestone because, despite everything, he wanted to die on his terms. He wanted to walk out with his head held high and pretend he wanted to make it out after all.
He had to try, for Cedric who was now dead because of him. It hadn’t sunk in yet, how he had lost the last good thing in his life. If he gave up now and at least didn’t give the duel his best go it would have been for nothing. Deep down, he knew that either way, it would be for nothing, but he couldn’t think about that now.
Cedric was his better half, the one who was going to make something of himself. Without Cedric, he had no one and was nothing. He should never have been placed in the tournament, he should have been safe in the stands while Cedric was finding the cup. He longed for that more than anything.
He was about to step out from his hiding place behind the grave when he felt a sharp tap on his shoulder. He whipped around, and suddenly he could breathe again, and he knew everything would be alright. Cedric was there, not dead like he had originally thought. The curse must have missed him.
He must have just passed out from his injuries or the shock or something like that. It didn’t matter; all that he cared about was that Cedric was alive.
Harry couldn’t help but smile up at him, “Cedric, you're alright! Merlin, you're really still here.”
He expected Cerdic to smile back that brigher than life smile of his, or make some sarcastic comment about how Harry could never manage to stay out of trouble but he just stared blank faced at Harry.
No matter his initial reaction, Harry couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face while he said, “Cedric, I’m so sorry about getting us into this situation, but I can get us out, I promise. I'll distract him while you grab the portkey, and then, at the very least, you can go home. You can be mad at me all you want once we're both safe. Yell at me, break up with me, anything you want as long as you're safe first.”
Cedric took a step closer, and Harry thought that maybe he would grab his hand and comfort him like he had done countless times in the past. “I’m done with your shit Potter, I don’t know why I ever became your friend let alone dated you. You know there's a reason I never told anyone about us. It’s not because you're a guy or I’m ashamed of who I am. It’s your fault. I’m embarrassed to be seen around you. I thought I could fix you, but I was wrong. You are too broken for even me to save. Good luck finding anyone as patient as I was with you.”
Harry took in a shuttering breath, he knew he was stupid for believing anyone could care about him. It was all just an act. “I know. I’m sorry, but Cedric, we need to go. Voldemort and his death eaters are here waiting for me to come out; you need to leave before they see you. Leave me here. I don’t care about myself; I just want you to live. Please just go.”
Cedric laughed sharply as he said, “Oh, but you already killed me. I’m dead, and it’s all your fault. You didn’t try hard enough to save me, and now I’m gone forever. What are you going to tell my father, or all of my friends? Everyone’s going to wonder how I died, and like the liar you are, you're going to tell them it wasn’t your fault. To believe you when you say you could have done nothing to stop it. But we both know that’s a lie, don't we, and so will the rest of the world. Because that’s all you are, a murderer and a liar.”
He could feel the tears running down his cheeks; no, it couldn’t be true. Cedric couldn’t really be gone, he was right there standing in front of him. He had felt his hand on his sholder, his breath against his face. There was no way that he was gone. He just couldn’t be.
“Come on, Cedric, that’s not funny. Don’t be stupid. You’re not dead; you're standing here talking to me. I would never do something to hurt you, you have to know that by now. I care about you so much, but it’s fine if you don’t. I don’t blame you at all, I wouldn’t either. Like I said, be as mad as you want once we're back at Hogwarts.”
“There is no going back to Hogwarts; for me, that is. I’ll never get to see anyone I love and care about because of you. You're so selfish, only thinking about yourself in everything you do. Not to mention how much you talk, a little tip, no one gives a shit about what you care about or think is important enough to say because news flish it isn’t. All it does is push those who may have tolerated you into hating you. I mean Merlin, no wonder you have no friends; no one can put up with you long enough to get to know you. It’s makes no difference though, once they relized you were this fucked up they would leave anyways so really it’s just saving them the effort of trying to act civil with you.”
Harry started crying in earnest, not caring about his surroundings enough to make any effort at stopping. He knew it, he knew Cedric was far too good for him. That there was no way in hell anyone would be able to put up with him, let alone someone as perfect as Cedric.
Now he was gone, and it was all Harry's fault. He was cursed; everyone he touched or got close to died. Cedric was right; he is a murderer. He had blood on his hands he knew he would never be able to wash off. There was no point in him facing Voldemort; he wouldn’t win, and best of all he had no reason to try to make it back.
Everyone at Hogwarts hated him for entering his name in the cup, something he never did, but of course, no one believed him when he said this. No one ever believed him, and he didn’t blame them. If he had just kept in the shadows and out of the public eye, none of this would ever have happend.
If he had never been born, then his parents would still be alive, and everyone would be happier without him around to cause problems. The world would be a better place, so the real question was why he should let Voldemort be the one to do the final honors. He only had one choice left, it was clear what he needed to do.
He had wanted to die on his terms after all. Well, there was no time like the present, so he quietly summoned Petigrew’s knife from where he had dropped it. Supprisingly, no one noticed the knife flying through the air; maybe his luck was finally turning around.
He caught the knife, nearly dropping it as his hands were slick with blood, yet he managed to keep a firm hold. He looked down at his arms but stopped in his tracks, they didn’t belong to him. His arms had cuts lining them, some silver, others bright pink. Yet these arms were bair of any marks, they were untoutched from the cruelties of the world.
It was a shame he was going to have to ruin something so pure. But that’s just who he was as a person, only caring for himself. If he didn’t do this now, he would ruin every last good thing in the world, and then all that would be left was him and his misery.
He took a deep breath and dragged the knife across his wrists, yet he felt nothing. He looked down at the knife, and it was clean, his wrists just as pure as before. So he tried again, this time pressing harder, jamming the knife into his wrist. Nothing. He was becoming more and more frantic with each failed attempt; all he wanted was to leave this pain behind. Why could he not even do that right?
No, this needed to be done. He needed to forget about his sorry life and, if he was lucky, get to see his parents one last time and apologize. Maybe they would forgive him, maybe they wouldn’t; all he knew was he needed to know this very second. He had waited fifteen years, far too long for a question which would take second to ask if he could manage to get the words out that is.
He dropped the knife; it was useless and clearly was of no use to him if it couldn’t even perform its intended purpose. Instead, he picked up a rock lying on the ground and rolled it around in his hands. It was significantly heavier than he thought it would be, which gave him an idea. It was a stupid idea, he could admit that. One was made out of sheer desperation.
He adjusted his grip on the rock and then, without a second thought, he slammed it into his skull. Unlike the blade this had its desired effect. His knees bucked as he helplessly dropped to the ground. His hands went slack as his head became increasingly foggy. Yet it still didn’t hurt. He felt nothing in what he hoped to be his final minutes, which hurt far more than the rock ever could.
His eyes started to drift shut as it became nearly impossible to keep them open. He couldn’t help the small quirk to his lips that formed. He had finally done it, he had found peace.