all the heat and fear
Fifth year has been awful. Harry feels like that’s putting it lightly. Between nightmares about Cedric, the Daily Prophet calling him insane, Dumbledore not looking at him, Umbridge carving into his hand and the repeating dream about a hallway… which is weirdly familiar although Harry can’t identify from where — he doesn’t take note of the hallways he walks through, strangely enough — Harry feels that ‘awful’ is a gross understatement. Truthfully, he feels like each year is worse than the last and each passing second has been blanketed in stress.
The worst part of it all — how he’s feeling, the sleep deprivation, the pain he’s somewhat willingly causing himself — is that he’s been coping with it by taking it out on his friends. Specifically, the two people he loves the most, the two people he would do anything for, wants to be the kindest to. He’s failing miserably at being a good friend this year, because he’s too busy struggling to stay afloat to see if they’re drowning, too. He had a nightmare the other night where he had fallen off a ship into cold, cold water. Ron and Hermione were in the water too. Suddenly, a small inflated lifeboat drifted over and Harry scrambled in, shaking from worry. He grabbed his oars and paddled away, leaving his friends in the cold, cold water. Harry spent the next two days fighting sleep, terrified of what that nightmare meant. Eventually, he passed out onto the library table. Despite this, Harry thinks he’s doing an alright job at managing his emotions, considering what he’s been through. He hasn’t shouted at Dumbledore to fucking look at him although the temptation is definitely there. He hasn’t annoyed Snape enough to lose more than 15 points at once, either. And, maybe most importantly, although Umbridge has insulted him, belittled him and tortured him with a quill he’s almost certain must be illegal, he still hasn’t cursed her. Yet. Harry thinks that’s a show of excellent control.
Maybe his expectations for himself are too low. Oh well. Boo for him.
All that is to say, Harry doesn’t feel particularly bad about how he’s been coping with everything. Really, people need to give him a break. Watching someone die, spending months where he’s unwanted immediately after and then being grilled over his grades? His concentration in class? Whether he can recite the 107 names of the Goblin leaders from 1273 or translate grow into latin? He can’t understand it and he’s still struggling to marry the two experiences in his brain. Often, only the graveyard or school will feel real. Harry likes most of his teachers, but where are their priorities.
The exception, to his blasé attitude about his coping abilities (or lack thereof), is Ron and Hermione. Harry’s yelled at them both too much this year for things that weren’t their fault. He’s been short with them, been stubborn when he should’ve been flexible, shut down when he wanted to open up. Hermione and Ron have had to adapt to him, walk around with worried glances at him when they think he isn’t looking, hold whispered conversations with each other in the library. He knows that Hermione is carrying a book called ‘Supporting a Grieving Friend’ and that she has ‘Effective Practices to Use After Experiencing Trauma’ lined up next. He knows that Ron routinely clears the dorm room of everyone so that Harry has an escape. He knows that all they’re trying to do is help him.
And Hermione isn’t the only one that’s been reading. Over the summer holidays after Cedric’s death when he was essentially excommunicated from the wizarding world, Harry took shelter from the Dursleys at the library. Because his dumb brain wouldn’t think about anything other than Cedric’s death and how it was all his fault, he ended up reading books similar to what Hermione was reading now. So he sorta knows why he struggles so much to contain his emotions around his friends. After years, and with literally no other person who could even be considered, Harry has realised that the two of them are safe. They won’t randomly leave, they won’t hurt him.
The book gave Harry more self awareness, but little knowledge on how to not do that. He hates himself for it, and always accepts Umbridge’s detentions readily when he fails, but he has spent each day of school fighting with himself to not scream and yell and lash out at them.
It’s just before Christmas when Arthur Weasley is attacked, shown in dream-form to Harry. He’s petrified, the Weasley’s are, too. Hermione bites her nails as she flicks her gaze between Harry and the gaggle of gingers, wishing just as much that this hadn’t happened. There’s a rare silver lining in Harry’s life, when Dumbledore (who still won’t make eye contact, as though Harry’s fucking Medusa and can turn him to stone) announces that they will all be staying at Grimmauld Place over Christmas. Harry is relieved, he’s desperate to escape Hogwarts. He’s excited to spend Christmas with his favourite people. He glares at and stomps on the voice in his head that’s screaming at him that he’s dangerous. He needs this.
…
Harry arrives to Grimmauld Place hesitantly optimistic, with part of his mind blurred out, as though someone (he) has taken an eraser to it. The memory of what it was fades more and more with every second Harry spends here, in the dusty, grimy entryway with a Weasley’s elbow in his ribs. Harry thinks there really isn’t enough space for all of them.
He’s pulled away from the pain in his ribs by Sirius, who is yelling his name in pure delight and squeezing him with all of his strength. He’s stronger than Harry expected a man who lived 12 years in Azkaban would be, but Harry couldn’t care less. Everything feels like it’s slotting into place: Sirius, as happy to see him as Harry is to see Sirius, Ron and Hermione behind him, Remus nearby (he hasn’t seen him yet, but where Sirius is…) and the Weasley’s. He can’t help but smile broadly, smile brightly and it’s so out of place in this dingy entryway to a house where rotten floorboards are held together with growths of mould but it’s so right because these are his people. This is his family.
Harry squeezes Sirius back tightly. An ooph of air escapes him and Harry laughs, doesn’t even try to hold it in. He isn’t sure when he last did and he knows Ron and Hermione are equally shocked, staring at him with gleeful smiles because Harry is happy again, even if it’s only temporary. Ron greets Sirius with a solid slap on the shoulder that turns into a hug and Sirius returns it with a “How’s your leg?” and Harry doesn’t even complain that the joke stopped being funny ages ago, since it’s been over a year since Sirius broke it.
Mrs Weasley frowns at the reminder and Sirius pales. Harry decides that maybe the joke is still funny. Things are easier, here. It’s Christmastime, and for the first time in his life, he thinks it might be nice to be with his family.