The Station
They were staring at him. They were always staring at him. Back when he was a hero like from the stories of old- like Merlin, like Dumbledore. Back when he was the villain that they pushed their kids away from. When he was a saint in their eyes, a martyr for those who knew a little bit more. He was back at the platform, and he was trying to breathe.
He lay facedown, listening to the silence.
No. No, he was standing. The station was not all white. It was not pristinely clean. He knew where he was, he had to know where he was. No one would trust him if he didn’t know that. They would stare, though. They would always be staring. He tried not to look back. He tried not to look at anything at all.
It had the form of a small, naked child, curled on the ground, its skin raw and rough…
He had looked at the benches. That had been enough. He was always remembering, it was his curse. Everyone else seemed to have moved on. Ron was starting auror training, Ginny had joined a quidditch team. Sure some people were clearly changed. Some people never spoke of the war. Some people still woke up screaming. He never spoke of the war, he woke up screaming, he remembered. He was cursed with his memory- he was sure it had never been this clear before.
He had died.
He was supposed to be dead.
He couldn’t forget.
“I let him kill me,” he had said. “Didn’t I?”
Someone grasped his shoulder. He flinched.
Harry whirled around to face the other person. He was expecting a threat. He was always expecting a threat these days, even when he was wrong. It was better to be wrong. He was wrong this time.
Ron smiled at him, “Sorry mate, guess I sneaked up on you?”
Harry just nodded, he didn’t want to speak.
The room wasn’t all white. Ron was there, not Dumbledore, not the shriveled body of the part of Voldemort that had existed inside of him. He was not alone. He was not partially dead. He was alive. He had survived.
“Seeing Hermione off?” He asked Ron.
“And you, don’t forget yourself,” Ron said with a smirk.
Harry tried to smile back. He tried. He was always trying. He wasn’t certain if he ever succeeded. But Ron kept on joking around, and Hermione came over after a moment, and he pretended. He did all that he was supposed to do. He didn’t think about dying. He didn’t think about the war. He didn’t think about Remus, and Sirius, and Tonks, and Moody, and and and… He spoke at the right times. He made the right noises of agreement, of sympathy, as Ron began to describe the training he was going through, as he complained about Harry not being there with him. He listened as Hermione began to explain the classes she was taking, a horribly impressive amount to be sure. He nodded. He cracked jokes. He smiled.
“You were the seventh Horcrux.”
He laughed. He smiled. He cracked jokes. He nodded. He was okay. He pretended. He was doing his job. His throat felt thick, his mind felt heavy, and there was pressure in his chest. He didn’t want to be here, he needed to be.
He had to go back to Hogwarts, had to see it for himself. It was back, they said. It was normal. It was going to be like it used to be. He wanted to be back to what he used to be. He wasn’t sure how, but this was supposed to be the starting point. He needed that. He couldn’t stay cooped up in the house of his godfather anymore. His house. It was his house now. He couldn’t keep ignoring his friends- their letters,their calls through the fireplace, their random appearances. He couldn’t keep being sick, or tired, or busy with nothing. He had to go out into the world again, that was what they said, he had to see it all. He had to get used to the stares. He had to pretend. He had to ignore the ache of his body, the pain in his mind. He had to be okay.
People brushed past him, and he tried to ignore that. He wanted them gone. He wanted to be alone again. He didn’t want their touch, didn’t want the feel of their eyes on him, didn’t even want the voices of his friends washing over him. He wanted to go back to tearing apart Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. He wanted to go back to cleaning it, the muggle way when he needed that, or by magic when he could control it. He did not feel in control right now.
“Harry? Harry?”
It was Hermione. She was staring. Why was she staring?
“What?”
She gave him a concerned look, “You with us?”
He must have been doing a poor job of pretending. He was supposed to be doing better. He was supposed to be good at this, he had plenty of practice after all.
He smiled, “Yeah, of course, sorry.”
She kept on with that concerned look until he reassured her again that he was “all right”. He was fine. He was going to be fine. Everything was going to be fine. The war was over.
But he remembered.
“He killed me with your wand.”
“He failed to kill you with my wand.”
He was alive. Why was he alive? He wasn’t sure of that anymore. There wasn’t anyone to save, there was barely anyone left. There was no war to fight. There was no mission to go on, no woods to wander, no souls to save, and no memories to go searching for. He had his own memories. He had his own war. He should be fine. Everyone was fine or getting there, he should be the same. What had even happened to him that was so bad? What had he gone through that gave him the right to feel like this? Ron had lost a brother. Hermione had been tortured.
But he was the one pretending. What a fool. What an idiot.
Hermione was wondering about the other people coming back to Hogwarts now. Harry listened half-heartedly as she listed the names.
Luna was back. He saw Neville across the platform talking to some fans. Malfoy was standing with Pansy and Blaise- all of them a little bit away from the rest of the crowd. There were others. He wasn’t paying attention.
“Master of Death…”
He was trying not to think about the cloak in his bag, about the stone somewhere in the woods, about the lost wand.
“Hallows, not Horcruxes.”
His own wand hadn’t been working well for him lately. It couldn’t control his fury, couldn’t handle his despair. He was too much for it as well. All of it was too much. No one would want to know him if they actually knew him. If they peered into his mind, if they spent enough time at Number Twelve, if they lived beside him. He was happy that the rooms for the Eighth Years were singles, he couldn’t deal with this all the time. Someone would find out. Someone would see. He couldn’t afford that.
“You cannot despise me more than I despise myself.”
Dumbledore had said that. Had listed all the reasons for Harry to hate him. But Harry could not find it in himself to hate anyone as much as he hated himself. As much as he wished himself gone, as much as he wished himself buried. None of them had deserved it. It had been his fate- written in the stars or the tea leaves- not theirs.
Harry was tired of pretending.
“I’ve got to go back, haven’t I?”
He was tired of being the boy who lived.
“I’ve got a choice?”
He was supposed to be dead.
“I think that if you decided not to go back, you would be able to . . . let’s say . . . board a train.”
The train pulled into the station.
“And where would it take me?”
Where could he have gone? Who could he be with? Harry wasn’t sure what he believed in, wasn’t sure what was even real half the time, but he knew that somewhere something had gotten mixed up. He wasn’t supposed to survive. But there was a train at this station. A place for him to go. He wouldn’t be alone, he wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted. He would be with his friends, he wasn’t sure if he knew them anymore.
“Is this real?”
He grabbed his bags. He walked over to the doors with Hermione. He boarded this train, during this situation. He was not going “on,” he was going to Hogwarts. Everything would be okay once he got there. Once he was somewhere where everything was okay, where everything was back to normal. He would be normal again. His magic would calm down, his mind would get better, and he wouldn’t be so tired anymore. He would be back to the life he wasn’t supposed to live but had somehow gotten. He was here. He was alive. He had to keep going.
He was going back to Hogwarts.
Hermione was by his side. Ron was only a letter away.
The train pulled out of the station, but the memories didn’t leave.
“Do not pity the dead…”
Oh, don’t worry Dumbledore, he also envied them now.