A/N: This was written 2 months
ago and then forgotten. Found it today and was like "Whoa! This is good!"
So decided to post it. I don't know if I'll do a sequel
or not, though it has crossed my mind. Depends on how well received this story
is. If you wish to se a sequel, let me know. Thanks.
12 Grimmauld Place
was still save for the quite awake and living only
resident of the manor that once housed the prestigious family Black. It had
been a good 10 years since the last man carrying the Black name had owned the
house, though it didn't show. It had been fixed up and repaired since and now
resembled the grandeur it once held.
However, this failed to truly
represent its legal owner.
While the house no longer looked its
centuries old life, its habitant, only 25, carried himself like an old man.
Dark circles around his eyes and gaunt features were a testament to the last 10
years. 4 of those years had been spent fighting, strategizing, crying, losing
and killing. The last 6 were spent grieving, digging, burying and rebuilding.
No longer did he sleep, or cry, or
truly live anymore. Once vivid, fierce emerald eyes were now
a dull, nearly lifeless, pale hue. Skin once golden with a natural tan
was now a pale beige from his adopted hermitic
This was what had become of Harry
Potter, Boy Who Lived to Kill the Dark Lord, Golden Boy, Savior of the
Wizarding World. This is what was left of one of the most brilliant symbols of
Light, Justice and Hope.
Harry sat in the kitchen scribbling
furiously in one of his many journals. He tended to go through one a week,
jotting thoughts and ideas day and night when he wasn't busy with other things.
His hair was longer then he had allowed while attending school and hung limply
around his face, matted and dirty as he hadn't taken a shower recently. Stubble
had taken up residence on his chin and neck, his clothes oversized and stained.
The picture of deteriorating mental
health, he muttered as he wrote, the words running together indistinct and
making absolutely no sense.
Was it really a wonder, though,
that he had become such a wraith? The closest thing to a family he had ever had
was gone, wiped clean just as he had been able to obtain a firm grip on the
idea. The entire Weasley clan save for Charlie was gone.
Remus, Dumbledore, McGonagle; all dead. Half
of his classmates had met their end in one way or other. Some deaths were epic,
like Ron's who died protecting Dean Thomas from a Dementor.
Others, like Fred's were uneventful. Even more, like Seamus' were mysterious.
And amongst those, there were many that had merely disappeared without a trace.
It was speculated that that most of them had been captured and tortured by
Death Eaters, defected, or simply had gone into hiding.
Of the ones who lived, there were
surprises. Neville Longbottom shocked everyone the
most. He seemed to find himself in the war and caused a sever deficit in the
Death Eater's ranks by poisoning their food and water supplies with the four
classic poisons; hellebore, hemlock, deadly nightshade and aconite. He wasn't
proud of the deed, but did what he had to. He had also developed several
poisons, one of which was used to coat Godric Gryffindor's blade, the sword
that Harry used in battle.
Hermione had also shown her prowess
in battle, using her vast vocabulary and intellect in battle. She even went as
far as to invent and improvise spells on the fly which greatly added to the
arsenal of attacks the Light side could use.
In the end it was a show down
between Harry and Voldemort. Using a trick he had learned at the end of 4th
year, Harry was able to time his spell perfectly as to link his and Voldemort's wands,
as what happened at the end of the
Tri-wizard Tournament. With the connection made, distracting the Dark Lord,
Harry had enough time to pull out his small revolver.
The greatest human rights offender
on the planet, a man known for his hate of all things muggle,
a man who treated such people as less then dirt, the greatest, most terrifying
wizard of the 20th century killed with a handgun made by that which
he made it his life's work to destroy and enslave.
A bullet to the head, and the war
was over. A bullet that Harry had actually inscribed the
letter "T" into the tip of.
And thus, with the death of Harry's
only true equal and great nemesis did Harry himself begin to fall apart.
While most of the survivors of the
war found a deeper companionship in each other, becoming a close family of
sorts, Harry couldn't share in it. The whole thing felt untouchable to him.
They all still seemed to expect him to be their glowing pillar of strength. It
was a roll Harry couldn't and wouldn't take. Hermione seemed to understand and
she and Harry kept in close touch. She even went as far as to round up a group
of people together to help renovate the Black Manor for Harry as the first part
of reconstruction. While he had been deeply appreciative of the gesture (and
utterly shocked by the presence of Snape and even Draco), it did little to
abate the feeling of utter loss in his soul.
Over the years he started losing
track of his mind's processes, random thoughts and ideas he had a hard time
understanding popping in and out of his head. It took a year for Hermione to
pry it out of him, but when she did, Hermione thought that maybe he should keep
a journal. The next week she was flabbergasted by how much seemed to pour out
of the boy's, no, man's mind.
"That isn't even the half of it."
He had told her at the time.
So, it had become a weekly deal.
Harry would continue to write his thoughts and Hermione would try to make sense
of them. While she rarely was able to decipher Harry's writings, they made a
good excuse to see each other regularly (he secretly thought it was so she
could check in on him, though he didn't really mind. It became his only grip on
the real world) and a great conversation piece for some of his writings were
quite humorous. This Harry had begun to grip onto. While others attempted to
try and pull Harry out of his self inflicted solitary confinement, Hermione was
the only one who had been able to keep up what she had set out to do.
Harry had also found it curious
that Snape and Draco had taken to occasionally drop in on him. They had both
seemed so intent on making his life hell in school and now seemed to be making
attempts at saving him from himself. Snape had, in his own subtle, snarky and sarcastic
way apologized for the way he had
treated Harry for the fives years before the war. He even went as far as to
explain why he had treated him the
way he had. In short, Harry's assumption that Snape was judging Harry by his
father's actions was only a small part of Harry's treatment. There was also the
misconception that Harry had been showered with love, affection and constant
praise for being the boy who lived. When he had realized the reality of the
situation his pride had taken over as did the front he had to keep up just in
case the whispers he'd been hearing of the Dark Lord's return proved true.
Harry and the old Potions Master had managed an odd friendship that was mostly
spent slinging insults and criticisms at each other. At least, that had been
the case at first. Harry's ability to retaliate waned as he fell deeper and
deeper into himself. While the aging man hated to admit it, he was growing more
and more concerned for the young man. He tried brewing several different
potions, but along with Harry's altogether refusal to take them they all came
And then there was Draco, who
unlike Snape had tossed his ego to the wind and had a massive breakdown in
front of Harry that ended with Draco's face buried into the dark haired boy's
lap and sobbing out his life story. This had happened during the war after
Draco renounced his family and his name, taking the maiden name of his mother
who had been murdered by his father: Black.
This single incident had formed a
tight bound between the two young men. They watched each other's backs
throughout the remainder of the war and for some time after that. In fact,
there had been quite a few times when Draco had accompanied either Hermione or
Snape on their visits to see Harry.
fact, Harry mused to himself, he never comes to see me on his own...
To compile curiosity upon
curiosity, Harry's doorbell range clear through the overall quiet of the house.
three in the morning, who in their right mind would be awake at this hour?
Harry thought to himself as he made his way to the door, the irony of the
thoughts not lost on him.
The doorbell range again and low
and behold, who was standing at the door but Draco Black, the literal last person
that had been on Harry's mind.
"Hello Harry, I figured you'd be up
still." Said the tall blond. No longer adorned in the
expensive wizard fashions of his old school days, Draco was dressed in straight
leg jeans, a white shirt and a black blazer. No matter what, the blond always
Harry merely nodded and stepped
aside, closing the door as Draco stepped in. The blond cast a worried glance at
Harry, seemingly not noticing the
look started back to the kitchen. "You're alone."
"So it would seem." Draco
responded, following the dark haired one into the kitchen.
"You never come alone."
"Yeah, I suppose I usually come
with Sev or 'Mione..."
Harry stopped and turned to the
blond making eye contact with him "You never
come alone." While the stare wasn't malicious in any way, it was extremely
disconcerting for the blond to stare into the almost dead eyes that were
staring back through the round spectacles.
"N-no, I suppose not."
Harry released him from the gaze
seeming to be thinking about something then turned back toward the kitchen
continuing on his way. "You never stutter either."
Draco was silent as he entered the
kitchen. Spotting the book he peered at the writing. While there were parts
where Harry's tight scrawl became impossible to read, there was enough legible
writing for Draco to catch the gist of what Harry had been writing last. He
looked up at the boy who had gotten a kettle of water going for tea. "What made
you think about the war?"
"What doesn't?" was the none committed reply. It made Draco want to cry to see
the boy who used to beat him bloody in a rage while in school now simply shrug
at everything said to him.
Ten years, was that really so long?
"Good point. When's the last time
Harry stopped moving and started
counting off his fingers. "Five, maybe six days."
Apparently, ten years was forever.
"Why are you here?"
question through Draco off.
"I-I wanted to see you. I worry
about you, you know."
"Especially at 3am." Was Draco's quiet reply.
Harry turned to Draco, once again
catching him with those eyes. This time it was Draco who looked away, unable to
hold the gaze.
"You came for something." Harry
"What makes you say that?"
"People don't visit people at three
in the morning just to see them. You could have waited until tomorrow, or
Friday when Hermione comes to see me. Why now? Why alone."
This was the most Draco had heard
Harry say at once in a long time, years even, and he wanted it recorded, saved in
case it never happened again.
"People don't always stick to the
norm, Harry." People like you, Draco
had almost said, but held his tongue.
Somehow, it seemed, Harry had
managed to pick up on what wasn't said. "Sane people do."
"You're not insane, Harry."
And uncomfortable silence fell
between them that wasn't broken until the tea kettle
whistled. As Harry turned to take care of the tea, Draco sat down and started
flipping through the pages of the journal. Had anyone else but Snape, Hermione
or himself done the same thing they'd likely be met with a frying pan to the
head. However, at least in Harry's mind, the three aforementioned wizards
weren't considered "most people". They were the only ones with even an inkling
of what went on in Harry's twisted, contorted mind. This fact both terrified
and comforted Draco.
"Why do you always come with
someone else." Harry asked quietly while setting the
tea cup in front of Draco.
"Why do you never come alone? Are you
afraid of me? Well, no, that wouldn't be quite right, unless you suddenly
stopped being afraid of me. Or is it a matter of convenience? Do you only come
when someone asks you to come with you? Is that it?"
Draco was almost tempted to allow
Harry to believe that, though he knew he'd never forgive himself if he did.
"I'd never been afraid of you,
Harry. At least, not since we were in school. And I'd never deem you an
"Then why is this the first time
you came on your own?"
Draco stared, lost in his own
thoughts for a moment.
"I was scared, but not of you."
"I love you, Harry."
Draco bowed his head, staring down
at the tea that stood untouched.
"I can't love you back. I'd like
to...but I can't."
"I know, Harry."
Draco looked up and gave him a sad
smile. "It's okay."
"No it's not."
10 years later Draco would look
back on that moment and cherish it for the rest of his life, but right then he
just wanted to dig himself a hole, curl up and die in it.
10 years later and Harry Potter
would find his way again.
10 years later this chapter in his
life would be long past closed and he'd once again be able to hold up a
relationship and interact with the world.
But right then, Harry just wanted
to find a way to express his feelings in a way that didn't sound false and