I find it strange how life moves on. It doesn't stop for anyone. The trees keep growing, the birds keep singing, and the rain continues to fall. Doors open and close, and windows do the same. Wheels keep turning. The sun rises each morning and sets every evening, with the moon following closely behind. Earth continues to spin. And people just keep moving. People die all the time, and almost nobody stops. Nobody cares because they've all got things to do.
It's those who have suffered greatly around death that don't know what to do after. They sit and wonder and wait. Wait for anything. A bus. A letter. A Sign. For the dream to end. For it all to be over. Sometimes, when people have been through something traumatic and have watched people die, they end up suffering from something called survivor's guilt.
Guilt is a human emotion, a feeling that tells you that you are responsible for something, and you end up blaming yourself for the things that have happened. It's one of many of those complex feelings that are stuffed in our brains. So, at least I still know I'm human, right? Survivor's guilt is slightly different. It's a guilt that you shouldn't be guilty of. One you know for sure isn't your fault. And yet you end up blaming yourself anyway. You end up blaming yourself for everyone else's death. You blame yourself for the event. And you feel guilty for surviving. It feels wrong to keep living. It should have been you laying on those stretchers, all bloody and bruised. Completely lifeless. Not them. Never them.
Some have it worse off than others. Those who don't have it as bad struggle to cope with those who have it worse. They don't know what to do, think, or say. They don't know if they should comfort them or not. If they should walk away. And so they tell them that it's all going to be ok. They also end up completely ignoring their own feelings, too busy babying others. Those are the ones that crumble suddenly. They fall apart at the most random times and spiral from there. It's all that bottling that causes them to pop because they're too busy trying to stay strong for others.
Those who have it worse end up pretending to be ok because they don't want others to worry. They feel as though they should suffer alone and not burden anyone. They crumble in silence away from preying eyes. Some end up becoming completely lifeless afterwards. To the point where there isn't much difference between life and death. They sit on that thin line between life and death -because they are too tired to stand- and hope that a strong wind blows them one way or another. They spiral out of control very early. And it takes a lot to get back on track.
Everyone tries to keep themselves busy at the start. Try to take their mind off it all. Until they either burn up and lash out, almost drinking or drugging themselves to death. A steady hand can get them back up, though they will be doing it a lot as these people relapse over and over again. Or they shut down and slow to an almost complete stop. They stop doing and sit in silence, trying to feel something, anything. Getting them back up onto their feet is harder because nearly all emotion has drained from their bodies.
There are very few people who do neither and continue to work and move and carry on. These people do not talk about what happened and work and work and work without stopping. Their bodies end up like machines and continue to run like normal. These people are the last to crumble. It'll take one set of hands to hold them back from whatever it is they're doing and tell them that they should mourn properly for them to finally break down and grieve.
You get angry grievers and sad grievers. Grievers who go out and party almost every night and drink until they are numb. Grievers who change everything around them. Grievers who don't want to change at all. You get people who suffer from flashbacks and nightmares. People who no longer wish to be touched and people who want to be held all the time.
And then you get the crazy ones. The ones who break down at first but come face to face with death again and thrive on the rush, on the adrenaline. These people don't know it yet, but they crave the feeling, like a drug. It's a high they begin not being able to live without. Sometimes, it can be because they've faced it so much that they need it to feel something again, and sometimes, it's a new feeling that starts becoming an addiction.
Hopefully, I won't shut down completely. I don't want to sit in a dark room for the rest of my life. Right now, I would love to never move again and seize up in some weird chair, wasting away, but not forever. And I feel that if I started now, I wouldn't stop.
I can only hope no one gets hurt or dies because of me while I grieve.
+++++
No one ever tells you how to deal with trauma; you won't find anything on coping in any book you read. And anyone you ask will tell you to look after yourself because 'you're doing so well' It's a load of bollocks if you ask me. And people expect everything to move and work as it did. They expect the person who's gone through it all to have not changed, not even a little bit.
Well, at least that's how Ginny felt. She couldn't cope with me. After watching dozens of people I care about die, after seeing Hogwarts -the only real home I've ever had- crumble right before my eyes after suffering through all three unforgivable curses. After all I've been through, Ginny can't stand and watch me struggle through the aftermath. She says she's got problems of her own and doesn't have time for my moping. I guess your own problems don't mean anything once you've saved everyone.
It's been just over three months since I defeated Voldemort. I left the scene at Hogwarts not long after it was all over and returned to the Burrow with the rest of the Weasleys; it was early morning by that time. It took a whole two hours before reporters from the Daily Prophet started showing up at the Weasley's front door looking for 'Their saviour' and any sort of statement from anyone about the events that occurred at Hogwarts. Molly hid me well as soon as she saw them, knowing I was too exhausted to deal with them.
A day later, the new Interim Minister of Magic -a tall, beefy man named Reginald Formby- asked me to witness the trials of some of Voldemort's followers. Both Molly and Arthur told me that I didn't have to do anything if I didn't want to. I told him I would, but I needed at least a month to rest and recover.
He gave me two and a half months -the nicest thing anyone has done for me all year.
I've been to countless trials over the past few weeks. I've been constantly coming and going, in and out of the Ministry, watching over these bloody trials. The acting Minister thought it was a good idea if I had a say in the future of some of the Death Eaters. Every time, I was met by crowds of reporters all asking me questions, none of which I answered, partly because it all just sounded like gibberish but mainly because I was still too exhausted for them.
All the trials were for Voldemort's followers, many of whom were sentenced to Azkaban, including Alecto Carrow, Antonin Dolohov, Corban Yaxley, Augustus Rookwood and Lucius Malfoy. Very few got away without imprisonment. From what I'd seen, only Narcissa Malfoy and her son Draco were able to walk away freely, though I did hear rumours that Thorfinn Rowle got away too, but I didn't see his trial.
I sought to it that Draco wasn't sentenced to Azkaban and would walk away without any consequences. I knew he didn't want any of it and felt forced into following Voldemort through fear, so I ensured he was untarnished. Narcissa, however, got off on her own; I have no idea how she did it. It probably had something to do with the fact that she is the only Death Eater who didn't bear the Dark Mark, though I'm not entirely sure. Whether the Dark Mark makes you a Death Eater, I have no idea. The Malfoys were stripped of most of their properties and fortune, but not all; enough was left to live off, but not enough for Narcissa to go without a job for too long, especially with the way they live.
I've been living at 12 Grimmauld Place for the past two months, on my own, well apart from Kreacher, the horrible little house elf 'that serves the house of Black'. He does make sure I eat every day, so I guess he's not all bad. I'd thought a lot about staying at the Burrow and living full time with the Weasleys, but with Fred's death and Ginny and I's break up, I thought it best not to. They need their space and time just as I do.
Hermione has been living there with Ron. She couldn't really go back home to her family; She'd erased all memory of herself from them before Bill's wedding. It was just last week when Ron and Hermione packed up and left the country for a few weeks to see the world. They'd, of course, asked me multiple times if I wanted to come, but I said no every time. I told them they needed time together, alone as a couple. But I think I just need space and time away from... well everything and everyone.
I did also think about going back to the Dursleys. Only for a moment, though. I figured they wouldn't want me back. And living with them has always been horrible. However, being around people again might be good for me, even if it is them. And I would like to know if they are alright. I haven't seen them in almost two years. I also realised that it would probably take some time to find them as they left Privet Drive, and I have no idea where they moved to or even if they're still in the country.
Kingsley had helped me profusely in the past two months, setting up wards and making a great effort to make sure that Grimmauld Place was hidden from everyone and no one could find me unless I wanted to be found. No one apart from Kreacher and me had access to the building. Kingsley also made sure that the street was blocked off from reporters. Don't ask me how he did it, but he mentioned it having something to do with the street displaying itself as normal to everyone unless I saw fit. Kingsley also went to great lengths within the ministry to stop reporters and fans from sending me mail. Being the god he is, Kingsley says he'd intercept my mail, go through it himself, and send me the important stuff. I seriously considered marrying that man.
The other thing people don't tell you how to cope with, is murder. And who are you to ask about such things without being seen as some cold-blooded killer, some psychopath, some lunatic? It was just circumstance; I just lost control. It wasn't meant to be. And the fact that I wasn't tried for any of it scares me because it wasn't just Petegrew that I killed. And it wasn't just Voldemort, too. There were others. Four others, I snuffed the life out of four other people because of the danger they were putting my friends in.
After speaking to the ghost of Helena Ravenclaw, I killed Amycus Carrow as he was going for McGonagall again. She had her back turned, and I just snapped and threw the Sectumsempra curse at him. No one saw me do it. On our way to the shrieking shack, Ron, Hermione, and I got caught in a duel. There were too many of them to just stun. They would get up not long after they were knocked on their arse, so I used a curse I found in the Black Library. I summoned a hundred daggers and launched them at the Death Eaters without a care in the world. Two died, swimming in pools of their own blood. The fourth was an accident. A nameless Death Eater that got caught in the crossfire between Voldemort and me. I couldn't even tell you the curse that got him. I was too focused on surviving Riddles's wrath. He crumbled to the floor, and the Dark Lord flicked him away like a piece of flyaway rubbish.
... I don't feel bad about any of them. None. Yeah, ok, they were all a shock in their own right. But if I hadn't killed each one of them, I'd be dead. We wouldn't have won. We would all be suffering under the Dark Lord and his army of chickens.
The only people who witnessed me murder those Death Eaters were Ron and Hermione. I'm certain, hence, why I'm not rotting in Azkaban right now. They would never out me in such a way. They know what happens in war. We all make sacrifices. All I wonder is if five -six if you count the Dark Lord- murders makes me a serial killer.
Probably.
+++++
A light tapping pulls me from my sleep. It's probably just Kreacher making a racket. I turn over and lay on my stomach, groaning. The tapping continues for another five minutes, and that's when I can't take it anymore. I slide out of bed in just pyjama bottoms and slip my glasses on. It's 06:23, and an owl is knocking on my window. A bloody owl. What kind of sick person would send an owl this early? I walk closer to the owl; I recognise it, though I have no idea who it is. It's not Kingsley's. There's a small, gold-ish letter fixed in its beak. I open the window and take the letter from the bird before it shoots off, sending a gush of cold wind at my face.
I flip the letter in my hand while closing the window again. I see the delicate gold lettering on the front of the envelope. It's from Hogwarts. I finished school last year, so why am I getting a letter from Hogwarts? I rip the seal and pull out the folded paper. I place the envelope on the windowsill and lean against the wall before opening the paper.
Dear Mr. Potter,
I am pleased to inform you that all individuals from the class of 1998 are cordially invited to return to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for an additional academic year. This invitation is extended in light of the considerable disruptions experienced during the previous year, particularly concerning the pedagogy of Professor Snape, which was deemed unsatisfactory and unwelcoming. We would be delighted if you could rejoin us for another year, although participation is not obligatory, and students retain the option to choose not to return.
I am looking forward to welcoming those who decide to accept this offer.
Enclosed, you will find your Hogwarts Express travel ticket along with a comprehensive list of the requisite equipment for the upcoming year.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Well, that's new. I will probably end up returning because I have nothing better to do, and I have no idea what to do with my life, but I need to talk to Ron and Hermione when they return. I slip the paper back into the envelope and drop it on the desk by the window. I pull my glasses off and run my hand down my face before slipping them back on.
I've been sleeping in Sirius's old room, cleaning it and refurbishing it a bit, but not enough for it to be unrecognisable. I want to keep him around for as long as possible. I've been finding lots of old things that were in Sirius' possession, things like lighters, paintings and art supplies, letters from Regulus in French, rings, old school ties, an old frayed deck of cards and a small ashtray with the Marauder's names carved into it.
I slip on a hoodie and slowly wobble down the dark stairway to the kitchen. It's quiet, like always. It's nice... most of the time. Some of the time, though, it's just lonely. I pick up the nearest bottle of liquor and take a swig. I don't know what it is I'm drinking, and I don't care. It's a new coping mechanism I've developed. It isn't the greatest, but it gets me through the day. Ron and Hermione don't know about it, and I can only pray they never will. Hermione would beat me senseless if she knew.
+++++
I walk along the street in jeans and a hoodie, hands in my pocket, hood over my head. The light rain against my skin feels good and refreshing. I like to walk around London a lot, it clears my head... sometimes. I usually walk to the nearest corner shop and buy some form of alcohol and run into reporters looking to interview me, and quickly disappariting away before they can talk to me. But today, I just walked around the park and bumped into no one. It feels good; I feel lighter. It's around half-eleven, and no one is about as the weather is pretty bleak, but it is nice nonetheless. I walk back along my street, kicking a small rock along the pavement. I turn to climb the steps leading up to my new home, but I'm stopped.
A man sits casually on the steps. He has blond hair and is dressed in an all-black robe, which creates a contrast with his hair. It's Draco Malfoy. Shit, I was not prepared for human interaction today. I look at him, and he straightens when he sees me. What's he doing here? "Malfoy," I say simply, stepping on the first step leading up to my door.
"Potter," He says calmly. He slowly stands. He's definitely gotten taller and slightly more muscular by the looks of it. He's still his usual lanky self, but it does look like he's been working out, probably keeping himself busy. "Can I talk to you?" He asks softly as if approaching some rabid dog, too careful, too soft. Scared, I may bite. Given what I've done, I wouldn't be surprised, but I hadn't realised he knew.
I open my mouth to speak, to tell him to piss off and annoy someone else, but before I can, he cuts me off. "I have a letter," He says quickly, digging in the breast pocket of his robe. "From Granger," He pulls out a small envelope and lets go of it. The envelope floats over to me and opens slightly before the sound of Hermione's voice rings from it.
"Let him in, Harry," She says. "He means no harm, trust me. Says he's spent the better part of three months trying to find you." She continues with a bit of humour. "When he came to me, I thought he'd finally lost it, but he means well, Harry, just hear him out, ok, for me, please." I can almost feel her hand on my shoulder as she says this. The letter then closes and quickly bursts into flames, leaving a small pile of ash behind.
Looking back at my former classmate who stands there, weary, with his hands in his pockets, I review Hermione's letter. He doesn't look like he wants to pick a fight, which is odd for him, but he could be plotting something. Then again, Hermione had already seen him; if he truly were up to something, she would know. So I nod at the entrance to my haven and step up to the door. "Come on in, then," I say, and he follows, stepping into the house with me. It must be something important if he's not trying to kill me.
I lead Malfoy into my newfound home, walking straight to the living room -my favourite room. Too often, I have fallen asleep in this room and woke up the following morning with a sore back and neck.
Malfoy slumps onto one of the sofas in the living room as I walk over to the small table in the corner of the room, which has about a dozen bottles on it. Most are empty, some are half empty, and very few are full. I grab a half-empty bottle of Malt Whiskey and look at Malfoy. "Want some?" I offer, but he shakes his head. I turn back and sit on the sofa opposite Malfoy.
"This is the House of Black," Malfoy says shortly, scanning the room. "How'd you get it?" He asks.
"Sirius had it, my godfather, one of your cousins, I think," I say. "But he's dead. It was Headquarters for The Order, but they think it's either yours, well, Narcissa's, or Lestrange's." I say. "But it's not; it's mine. Sirius left it for me," I state. We both then hear a loud crash from upstairs, stupid elf. "And Kreacher's. That godforsaken House Elf that will not leave," I sigh before taking a swig from the bottle. I've offered that elf so many pieces of clothing, but he refuses each time and says something about how he can't leave this house or his master's side.
"...You do know that's not good for you," Malfoy says, looking from the table in the corner to the bottle in my hand.
"I don't really care," I say, taking another swig. It's true I don't care; it helps; that's all that matters. And besides, were last year's events or any prior year good for me? No. So what's a little drinking going to do?
We sit there in silence for a bit, and it gives me time to realise that this House is part of Malfoy and his mother must have a history with it. It's his family, his bloodline. Not mine. This house almost has nothing to do with me; I was just gifted it. The silence also gives me time to realise that I remember seeing Malfoy on the wall in the tapestry room.
I get off the sofa and place the bottle on the floor at the foot of the couch, "Come on, I want to show you something, " I say, watching as confusion forms on Malfoy's face. "Come on," I say again, nodding to the door that leads into the hallway. Malfoy gets up off his arse without saying a word and follows me out of the room.
I walk up to the door of the tapestry room, which is not far from the living room, and open the door. I step to the side and gesture Malfoy into the room first. "Ladies first," I say, plainly mocking him.
Malfoy shoots me a glare, then peeks into the room -not seeing much as the room is bare apart from its walls- and then looks back at me. "You're not going to kill me in here, are you Potter?" He asks before slowly stepping inside.
"And why would I do that?" I ask, following him inside. He steps into the middle of the room and opens his mouth to speak but quickly shuts it, catching sight of the family tree embroidered on the wall. I fold my arms across my chest and lean against the door frame, watching Malfoy scan every inch of the wall. Malfoy's eyes eventually find himself and his mother embroidered on one of the far corners of the wall.
I watch his eyes travel to the dark scorch marks covering Sirius and then flick to the others dotted along the wall. He steps closer to the wall and runs soft fingers along the scorch marks above Sirius' name.
He looks over his shoulder at me and stands there. A few moments of peace pass between us, and I push myself off the wall. "I'll be in the living room," I say softly before turning around and leaving Malfoy alone in the tapestry room.
I walk straight to the living room and slump on the sofa I was sat on earlier. I pick up the latest version of the Daily Prophet off the coffee table that sits between the two sofas. I get Kreacher to pick one up for me occasionally; I like to know what's going on. My name is still in the headline. After three months, it's still about me even though nobody has properly seen me. I find it funny how people have gone from seeing me as a legend, loving me, hating me, fearing me, and now seeing me as some saviour of the world. Someone should make a religion. But people's opinions of me have changed so drastically because of some bloody newspaper. I hope to god himself that Lovegood's Quibbler eventually sells more than the Daily Prophet because then people will be reading the truth rather than the lies that were spread about me a few years back. Or if someone kills Skeeter, that wouldn't be half bad.
I sit there reading for a few minutes until I finally hear the floorboards creak in the hall and watch as Malfoy slowly enter the living room. He gives me a short nod as he walks through the doorway and to the sofa opposite me.
"So, why are you here?" I ask, folding the paper, chucking it back on the coffee table and leaning back on the sofa. "What do you want?" I ask as Malfoy plants himself on the couch opposite me.
"I want to apologise", He finally says slowly. My jaw drops. What the fuck? Draco Malfoy is finally apologising to me. "I'm serious," He says, seeing the shock and confusion that seemed to be written on my face.
"For what?" I ask. Malfoy does have a lot to be sorry for, and it's not like I've apologised to him because I've gotten him into a lot of trouble, too, and I nearly killed him. Now I'm kind of scared he's going to jump up and hex me or something. But he doesn't, he doesn't move. He just sits there looking down at the floor.
"For everything," He says softly. "For all the shit I put you through in school, for leading them to Dumbledore and practically opening the gates to the war." He continues, "I'm sorry for humiliating you, I'm sorry for outing your little army to Umbridge, I'm sorry for breaking your nose." He then goes quiet for a bit. Does he really mean this, or is he just saying it because his mum put him up to this or something? "If it makes you feel any better, I apologised to Granger first, before they left." He says, "You can ask her," He says softly. "And it took me forever to find you," He continues. "I am truly sorry Potter."
I've never heard or seen Malfoy speak and act like this before. It makes me wonder if he is being truthful and is sorry or if this is all just some setup and he's manipulating me or stalling for someone to come in and kill me.
"Did your mother put you up to this?" I finally ask, breaking the silence that had formed.
He lets out a small laugh and shakes his head, looking down at his lap. "No," His own doing? Merlin. This makes me wonder if he's even told his mother or any of his friends.
"Listen, I don't want your apology, Malfoy. We both did some stupid things in school, but it's -it's all over now, it doesn't matter." I say, taking in a breath before continuing. "I appreciate it, but it's not going to make much difference now."
Malfoy just nods, he bites the inside of his lip and continues to nod. It's true, even if I was a little harsh about it. Malfoy's apology isn't going to change a lot, and it definitely won't change the way I feel about him. I hate him, and that will never change because he's made it hard for me. I pick the bottle up off the floor and take a swig before placing it on the coffee table.
"You need to get laid," Malfoy says the moment my fingers left the bottle. He leans back onto the sofa. What? I'm too stunned to speak. Did he really just say that?
"You what?"
"You need a shag," He says again, raising his eyebrows at me, looking at me like I can't understand English.
I begin to shake my head. "No, I really don't", I say.
"You really do," He says. "You broke up with that Weasley girl, didn't you?" He asks. "Did you even date in the first place?" He asks, tilting his head to the side a little. Jesus Christ. I'm honestly not sure if we did or if it was official. We did make out a few times, but whatever it was that was between us was unspoken.
"Uh..." I start, thinking about what he just asked. "Regardless, she didn't want to shag me because I started moping around and drinking all day," I say, still unsure about Malfoy's change in personality.
"Quit moping then," Malfoy shoots back as if it's the easiest thing to do. It's not. I've tried -many times.
"It is easier says than done," I shoot back, mimicking his tone. "Maybe you should piss off and get laid", I mumble, picking up the bottle I placed on the table, bringing the bottle to my lips again.
"I don't need to, I'm alright." He says, bored, looking around the room. Good for you, jackass.
"Yeah, I see that, you're not so scrawny anymore," I say.
"Just tell me I'm hotter, Potter; you don't need to hide it," He says, smirking. Funny. I lift my hands and use both to flip him off while sending him a sarcastic smile. Malfoy lets out a short laugh as I set the bottle down on the floor by my feet and fold my arms across my chest.
I lift my feet, plant them on the coffee table and cross them at my ankles. Malfoy's face scrunches up a little, his eyes flicking from my feet to my face. Looking a little put off by my manners, but it's my house, so I can do what I want.
"Did you get McGonagall's letter?" he asks. I nod. "You going back?" He asks. Am I? That's the question, isn't it? Will Potter return? The thing is, I felt like absolute shit when I read it this morning, so I really don't want to go, but I will definitely think about it.
Shrugging, I say. "I dunno yet... Maybe. Are you?" I ask. He nods and looks down again. So if I do end up going back, I'll have to deal with him for another year, great.
I hear Kreacher's feet thudding along the hallway outside. The noise catches Malfoy's attention before mine, and he watches the door leading out of the room like a dog that just heard a squeaky toy. The thudding gets louder before Kreacher enters the living room and spots us. "Oh, Kreacher sees Harry Potter, the blood traitor and the muggle lover, has brought Draco... Malfoy into this home. Mistress never did like the Malfoy's after Abraxas left. Always whining, she says," Kreacher carries on. "Pompus the lot. Oh, if my Mistress knew..." He mutters. Well, it looks like we've been suffering from the Malfoy's long before Draco.
"Piss off, Kreacher," I hiss to the elf. Kreacher sneers and turns, mumbling under his breath and waddles out of the room. "Ignore him," I say to Malfoy, who flicks his gaze between the elf and me.
"See, this is why you're moping around all day. You live in this big, lonely, dark house with a grumpy house elf," Malfoy says as soon as Kreacher's pattering footsteps can no longer be heard. "No wonder you're drinking." Well, when he says it like that... The thing is, I don't want to leave this big, lonely, dark house. I'm safe and untouched here. It's like I don't exist because no one is around to remind me that I do.
I hate to say it, but he is right; it didn't feel this horrible at the Weasleys, but I can't go back there; they need their space, too, and I don't want to burden them any more than I have done. "If I go back, y-" I start to say.
"When", Malfoy corrects.
"If," I say firmly. I find it odd that Malfoy thinks I will end up at Hogwarts again. He's probably right in thinking I will; Hogwarts is my only true home and I do miss it; I feel like I didn't get a proper goodbye. "You better not act like this. I don't know what I'd do if I had to put up with you like this for an entire year," I huff.
Malfoy laughs shortly. "Done," He says. There are a few moments of silence as we sit there content for a brief moment in each other's orbit, only a moment, though. I don't think I could have done that for any longer.
"Right, go on, get out," I say, standing up. Malfoy rolls his eyes and sighs before matching my movements and getting up off the sofa opposite me.
"But we were just getting cosy," Malfoy says mockingly, stepping in front of me out of the living room, a slight smirk painted across his face.
"Leave," I say, shooing him out of the room and following Malfoy out of the house. He steps out of the house and down the steps onto the street.
Malfoy stuffs his hands in his pockets and turns to face me. "I'll see you at school, Potter," he says in his usual snide tone.
"Yeah," I say, looking at the steps in front of me. "Tell your mother I said thank you," I say softly, stepping back into my home and closing the door before he could ask what for. Thank you for saving my life.