“Only the dead have seen the end of war.”
―
As the fitful grip of sleep loosened, Harry's eyelids fluttered open, revealing wide, fearful eyes. Beads of sweat clung to his brow, rolling down his face, indistinguishable from tears. His breaths came in rapid gasps, mingling with fading screams and burning pain while a queasy knot twisted in his gut. With a violent lurch, he convulsed, expelling the remnants of his haunting nightmare onto the floor.
Just like every other night, the creak of the door pierced the heavy silence, and Sirius stepped into the room. Seeing the aftermath, he quietly cast a Scourgify spell, banishing the acrid smell. Harry released a shuttered breath, attempting to regain control over his racing heartbeat. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Sirius taking a tentative step closer. Harry's body tensed, and he whispered, "Don't touch me."
The sharpness of Harry's command caught Sirius off guard, but he sensed the weight of the plea hanging in the air. "I know," Sirius replied, his voice gentle yet resolute. "Can I sit beside you?"
Harry paused, his mind grappling with conflicting emotions. "You can't touch me," he reiterated, his voice filled with a mix of fear and desperation.
"I won't, I promise," Sirius assured him.
Sirius waited patiently, understanding the gravity of the situation, until Harry finally gave a jerky nod, allowing him to take a seat beside him.
For a while, a stilted silence hung in the air punctuated only by the sound of Harry’s still ragged breathing. Harry’s body still coursed with tremors and Sirius had to resist the urge to reach out.
Time passed, seconds blending into minutes, until eventually, Sirius broke the quiet with a hesitant voice. Like every time, he asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"
Harry's gaze remained fixed on a distant point, his eyes glazed with remnants of the nightmare. And like every time he answered "No.” his voice barely a whisper.
Sirius just nodded. He knew the routine by now, this well rehearsed dance between offering solace and Harry's steadfast resistance. A part of him wondered if he should push till Harry broke and Sirius could rebuild the pieces. But Harry was already so fractured that Sirius worried about his ability to mend him, his soul, his heart, his body.
They sat for a long time, the minutes stretching into hours till eventually pale light started seeping into the room through the windows. Suddenly, Harry’s voice cut through the silence, “It’s strange isn’t it?” he said, voice laced with bitterness, “how you can be living your dreams and nightmares at the very same time?”
Sirius felt his heart clench at the words. He struggled to find the right response. “Life can be cruel that way,” he replied softly. “But people who stand with you-”
“People who stand with me tend to die,” Harry cut in with a voice so acidic that Sirius recoiled slightly. He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his godson’s words. He knew the truth in them, all the losses they had endured together. He hates himself for being unable to find a comforting reply. Abruptly, Harry’s spoke, his voice cracked with remorse, “Sorry this keeps happening, I’m sorry, I-” he cut off, throat getting clogged and took in a shaky breath.
“You don’t have to be,” Sirius said tenderly.
“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled again.
“You don’t need to be,” Sirius repeated. Kind, patient.
“I need to take a shower.”
But before Sirius could respond, Harry had already ran away and all Sirius is left with is fragments of their conversation and the sound of running water enveloped in his helplessness.
Harry stood still under the hot water, almost oblivious to the searing heat that threatened to scald his skin. He barely registered the sting as the water hit the mottled scars on his back, on his legs, on his hips, on his…
His hands trembled and he struggled to steady them. He scrubbed roughly at his skin, desperately trying to rid his body of the phantom touches that gripped him, making him question his sanity. He pressed the heel of his palm hard against his eyes as memories assaulted him one by one. The tears mixed with the hot water, rolling down his body, still clothed. He was lost in his own private hell and fragments of his assault lashed at his eyes. He could see the disgusting faces of Rudolphus Lestrange and Walden McNair twist in sadistic pleasure as his nude body writhed in agony under numerous bouts of the crucio.
And then, within the chambers of his own hell, Cedric materialised. Laughing Cedric. Beautiful Cedric. Cedric who had played with him. Cedric who had dueled with him. Cedric who hugged him … Cedric who had kissed him… Cedric who had … loved him.
Sobs bubbled in his throat as guilt and anguish pressed him down. He leaned against the cool tiles and slid down against the wall and cried and cried and cried. And the water kept falling and falling and falling.
By the time Harry had finally managed to gather himself and change his soaked clothes, steam had started billowing out in soft clouds underneath the closed door.
“Harry?” Sirius called out, rapping sharply on the door.
“Out in a minute,” Harry said, hoping his voice sounded steadier than he felt.
“You okay?” Sirius asked in a concerned voice as Harry stepped into the dining room.
“Yeah, yeah.”
Sirius didn’t seem convinced though and Harry hoped he’d drop it. He did, but then for a second his face took on that pained look that had started becoming more and more common on Sirius. The look that made Harry feel so small and worsened his guilt tenfold. But before Harry can say anything the expression slips off and Sirius says, “You want some breakfast?”
And truthfully Harry hasn’t really had an appetite since…well since everything but he knows how hard Sirius is trying and he’s feeling so guilty that he nods nonetheless and tries to nibble onto a dry piece of toast.
“Ron and Hermione want to meet you,” Sirius says. He’s hesitant, like Harry is a porcelain cup that will shatter if someone knocks it over too hard. And the worst part is, Harry’s worried he’s right. And isn’t that a fucking shame.
“Okay,” Harry replies. Because that’s all he can bring to the surface right now.
“You’ve not been responding to their letters.”
“I was going to, it’s just…” and he doesn’t bother finishing the sentence because he suddenly feels very very heavy.
“Hermione is gonna come over today. She wrote to me finally, she just wants to see you. Is that okay?”
There was a time, Harry thinks, a little while ago, when he was small and scared and stuffed into that tiny cupboard where he would have given anything to have had a friend like Hermione come save him from Vernon’s belt and Dudley’s punches and Petunia’s apathy. But that was before. Before Harry was captured and tortured and and and…
And now? Now, his brain feels like shards of broken glass that not even someone as intelligent as Hermione can put together.
“Harry?” Sirius breaks in, his face taking on that pained look again. “Hermione’s coming okay? Talk to her, please , Harry talk to her.”
And Harry wants to apologise again for being such a bother, for just taking and taking and giving so little back in return. He wants to apologise for being so wrong, for being so much, for being so little. But all he’s able to give back to him is a tiny nod in return.
Harry hears Hermione before he sees her. He hears the soft squelching sound her trainers make on the damp grass.
“Hey!” Hermione greets him, a chirp in her voice which Harry feels is fake. But at this point he isn’t sure if it's Hermione’s voice that’s fake or his mind.
“Hi.” He takes out his wand and whispers a drying charm onto the grass beside him. “Sit with me?”
She doesn’t say anything at first, and neither does he and all they can hear are the crickets in the distance. But then the silence becomes too much for her.
“Harry, why haven’t you written to us?”
“Just been bus-”
“Stop it!” Hermione yells, cutting him off. And she yells and somewhere down Harry is a little glad that someone doesn’t think of him as being held together by tape. “Stop lying! How can you lie to me ?” And her voice is reeking of so much hurt that Harry has to squeeze his eyes shut because she’s fucking right. Because Hermione always stayed. Ron is one of the most important people in his life. He’d die for him, he’d kill for him. But Hermione…she stayed. Even when Ron wavered and left, Hermione stayed. And Harry doesn’t hold it to Ron, never will, but the point is still that Hermione's always stayed.
“It’s hard,” he whispers, his voice sounding like the cracked glass he feels like. “And it’s stupid because it’s hard for everyone. Ron and Ginny lost their brother and Teddy’s a fucking orphan-”
“Stop, just stop.”
Harry does, biting the inside of his cheek till he can taste metal. He starts twisting a blad of grass around his fingers. Over and over and over.
“When I was kept at Malfoy Manor, you know what happened right?” Harry reckons beginning is the hardest part and hopes that’s true because there’s an ache at the back of his throat already.
“You were cruciod,” Hermione replies, her voice deathly soft.
“I-yeah-but there’s…more. McNair was crucioing me but Lestrange, he…he didn’t do that he…” Harry cuts off pressing his palm against his face before starting again, “he cut off my clothes and-”
“He cut off your clothes ?”
“Yeah, yeah. And then he-” and Harry just can’t anymore because that ache has grown too much, “Hermione please don’t make me say it.”
He doesn’t need to because Hermione’s looking at him with wide, horrified tear filled eyes and Harry has to look away because he can feel his own eyes filling as well.
“ Harry . Harry! ”
Harry’s still not looking at her, wet lines starting to trickle down his face. He presses the grass between his fingers so hard, it snaps into two.
“Harry, I- fuck- can I hug you? Please can I hug you?”
He looks up at her, she’s crying herself and unlike him she’s not even trying to hide it. And his face just crumples and fuck it Hermione can’t anymore. She pulls him in and even though he’s taller, she lets him bury his face at the side of her neck while he shakes and shakes and shakes.
In the distance, the crickets are still singing.
Ron,
I’m sorry for not reaching out sooner. I’m sorry for not writing back sooner. I’m not really sure how to start off this letter, because it’s long overdue but then again, it’s you and I’ve never had to think about formalities with you.
I can’t imagine what you’re feeling with Fred gone. It is all so massively unfair because Fred had so much to give, to himself, to us, to the world. His spirit and loyalty will forever remain etched in my memory. He was a true friend, a brother in every sense of the word, he showed me what it meant to have an older brother.
It’s hard for me to find stuff to write in a letter to comfort you. But know that I’m always here for you. Give my love to George and everyone else and please meet me as soon as you are ready.
I miss you.
Harry.
Cedric,
This is such a stupid thing to do. But Ginny thinks it’ll help me. That’s what she’s been doing, you know, she’s been writing to Fred. She says it’s helping her, so maybe it will help me too.
She’s still the only person who knows. Crazy isn’t it, how she’s the only one. We both feel so guilty about the things we’ve done, the things we’ve done to each other. But grief and guilt are so weird. Ginny feels guilty about what she’s done to me, with Dean. But how can she feel guilty when I’ve done the same to her, with you.
But I understand her, because I feel so guilty that I get sick. I loved you. I will always love you. I love Ginny too. But still, I will always love you. But that makes me feel so bad because she deserves more. Even though she says it’s okay. But you deserved more too.
I should have protected you. Why did you protect me? I told you to leave. Why didn’t you leave?
I’m rambling and this letter makes no sense. What address am I supposed to give Hedwig? She can’t fly to heaven.
I miss you. I had to bury you. I dream about you all the time.
I love you.
Harry
Gin,
I did what you said. I wrote to Cedric. I didn’t burn it or anything but I didn’t keep it either. I told Hedwig to just take it and drop it somewhere far away. She looked at me a little weird but I think she understood.
Gin, I’m sorry. There’s so many things for me to be sorry about that I don’t even know where to start. I’m sorry about Fred, I’m sorry I haven’t written to you even though you’ve written to me so many times. I’m sorry about what I did with Cedric. I know you think I don’t have to be because you messed up too but I’m still sorry. I don’t blame you, by the way. Not at all. War is fucked up and it causes us to do fucked up things.
Gin, I love you. Despite everything and despite everyone, I love you. I loved him, but I LOVE you. No one has to understand because I know that you do. And I’m working on myself and one day I’ll be okay enough to tell you I love you again. And I will wait for you. Even if it takes us our entire lifetime, even if it takes us till we’re at our graves, I will wait for you. Because for you, I have all the time in the world.
Take care of yourself. Give my love to Ron and George and everyone else.
Meet me when you are ready. Because I think I am finally getting to that point where I am.
Love,
Harry
In her room, shuffled onto the bed with her knees up to her chest, Ginny reads the letter. Over and over. Once, then twice. Then five times. Then enough times that she’s memorised the words. Her breath hitches and she presses her palm against her mouth because these days, the Burrow is so quiet. Her eyes fill, with overwhelming grief or joy, she isn’t sure anymore. But she knows there’s one thing she wants to do.
Harry,
For you, and for us, I have all the time in the world…
FINIS