Chapter Text
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Harry was running.
He didn’t know where he was supposed to go, only that he was late.
He was always late.
The ground was uneven beneath his feet, debris crunching under his boots, and the air was thick with smoke and something coppery that clung to the back of his throat.
Someone screamed.
He turned too slowly.
A body hit the ground in front of him, hard enough that he felt it in his bones.
He knew the face. He always did. Different every time, but always someone he had failed to reach. Failed to save.
YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE THE SAVIOR.
The words didn’t come from one voice. They came from everywhere. Above him, behind him, inside his skull. He tried to lift his wand and his arm wouldn’t move. His chest felt crushed, like something was sitting on it, heavy and unmovable.
Another spell fired.
Green light flooded his vision.
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Harry woke up choking.
Air tore into his lungs in short, broken gasps, his body jerking upright before he was fully awake. His heart was pounding so violently it hurt, each beat intense and panicked, like it was trying to escape his ribs. It took a few seconds for the room to come back into focus.
Dark. Silent. Too big.
He pressed a hand to his chest, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt, grounding himself in the pain. His skin was slick with sweat, the sheets tangled around him, twisted tight like he had been trying to hold onto something.
The guilt hit before the fear faded. It always did.
Faces, names, moments replayed in fragments. If he’d been faster. Smarter. Better. If he hadn’t hesitated. If he hadn’t survived when they didn’t.
Harry swung his legs out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom.
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The bathroom light was too bright.
It washed him out immediately, turning his skin almost grey. He gripped the edge of the sink and stared down for a second, steadying himself, before forcing his eyes back up.
He used to be tan, sun-browned from being forced to work outside during summer, from flying, from feeling like he could be happy. His body had been solid then, somehow healthy. Now he looked sick. His skin was pale in a way that felt unnatural. His shoulders sloped forward and dark circles sat heavy beneath his eyes.
His hair had grown longer without him really noticing, dark, messy, curling unevenly around his face and brushing his shoulders. It looked unkempt in a way that had nothing to do with style and everything to do with neglect, like he had stopped caring somewhere along the way and never picked it back up.
Harry looked away from the mirror, away from staring into his mother’s eyes. Ironically, they looked more striking than they used to, not because there was more life in them, it's just that the contrast was brutal, too vivid against skin that looked like it hadn’t seen the sun in years.
He looked like someone who had been surviving instead of living for far too long.
“Tempus,” he murmured robotically.
1:00 a.m.
“Happy birthday Harry,” he said quietly.
Twenty-five.
A quarter of his life gone, and he’d never felt further from wanting the rest of it.
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He didn’t go back to bed.
Instead, he ended up on the couch, curled into the corner like the cushions might hold him together if he stayed still long enough. The cottage was quiet in that way only places lived in by one person ever were.
He didn’t live at Grimmauld Place anymore. He couldn’t. The house had been too full of ghosts that wouldn’t stay quiet. But he hadn’t sold it either.
The place still stood, warded and untouched, waiting for him in a way he refused to think about. Some things were easier to abandon than to let go of completely. So he bought this old cottage instead; small, isolated, and empty enough to breathe in.
Harry stared into the flames and for the hundredth time, his mind drifted to Firewhisky.
The thought was sharp and immediate, muscle memory more than craving. He could almost feel the burn of it in his throat, the way it used to take the edge off everything else. Make the noise quieter and the nights shorter.
His jaw tightened. There wasn’t any. Hermione had made sure of that.
Six months sober, she’d said gently, like he was something fragile. Like if she spoke too loudly he might break. She’d cleared the cottage herself, every bottle gone by the time he came back from St. Mungo’s. He hadn’t argued. He never did anymore.
Tonight, though, the itch was still there. It crawled under his skin, restless and familiar. He pressed his palms together, fingers lacing tight, and kept staring at the fire until his eyes burned.
Time passed. He wasn’t sure how much.
Eventually, the fire died down to embers, and the quiet felt heavier for it, but the itch didn’t go away. The guilt didn’t either. It just settled, deeper, heavier, until sitting still felt unbearable.
Harry pushed himself up from the couch and headed back toward his bedroom.
The room was dark when he stepped inside, the curtains drawn tight. He didn’t turn on the light, he knew the way well enough. His hand went automatically to the bedside table to grab a potion vial which was cool against his fingers.
Sleeping Draught.
He didn't hesitate, even though he didn’t remember how many he took that night. Or maybe he did, distantly. Either way, he didn't care and it hadn’t worked. Taking just one potion never did anymore.
So he drank it.
The taste was bitter and familiar. He swallowed and set the empty vial down without looking at it, already moving back toward the bed. His body felt heavy as he lay down, exhaustion sinking into his bones.
Harry closed his eyes.
He didn’t feel it when his limbs went slack. He didn’t notice when his breathing slowed, shallow and uneven. He didn’t feel the moment his heart stopped beating.
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