Lifting the Veil - FIC (Harry at Dumbledore's Tomb, PG-13)
Title: Lifting the Veil
Author: lunalovepotter
Type: Fic
Length: 1975 words
Main character or Pairing: Harry at Dumbledore’s Tomb. Minor H/G
Card: Four of Cups
Card Interpretation: "Everything you need and could hope for is available to you, but your own dissatisfaction or negative outlook is keeping
you from taking advantage of it."
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer:This is non-commercial fanfic.
Warnings: Deals with the emotional effects of depression. Very dark and angtsy.
Summary: In the weeks following the final battle, Harry is having difficulty assimilating himself into a life of normalcy. Despite the fact that he now has everything he could have ever wanted - peace, love, friendship, family- he feels utterly incapable of enjoying it.
Author Notes: Beta read by the incomparable the_vixxmeister. This fic is based on my personal experience with depression, and how it affects the family and friends of those who suffer from it.
Harry Potter knew how he was supposed to feel; how he wanted to feel. The trouble was, he couldn’t feel anything. It was as if he were walking around with an invisible barrier between him and the rest of the world; an impenetrable wall through which no person, no material thing, no essence of feeling, could break through. He ate food, but didn’t taste it. He touched Ginny, but didn’t feel her. He heard Ron and Hermione talk to him, but he didn’t process what they said.
He didn’t know what he’d expected, once the last violent flash of light that nearly blinded him had dissipated, taking with it the most all-consuming evil; the shadow that had dominated his life for the past eight years. A battered, bruised and emotionally shattered shell of himself, Harry had fallen to his knees and dropped his wand, wondering if there would be relief, grief, anger; or perhaps joy, celebration, and laughter.
At first there was the hot sting of salty tears that stung the cuts on his face. His body ached with pain, in desperate need of food and rest. So this was it. It was over. Ron and Hermione scrambled to his side, helping him up, talking to him; their words swirled around his head like a swarm of bees, a mess of sound that he couldn’t process. He saw his best friends, themselves ragged and worn down with their robes tattered and their cheeks sunken, and he felt a twinge of gratitude. He didn’t deserve them. Then, there was nothing. The weight of the last eight years caved in on him and rendered him completely helpless; he was powerless to stave it off.
Once they were home, back at the Burrow that was so much emptier now, he’d slept for days, and for awhile he was left alone. He just needed to sleep, after all he’d been through, so they gave him some privacy and time to heal. For two weeks, no one asked anything of him. Molly Weasley pushed aside her own grief and baked him his favorite foods, which he barely touched; Ginny sat with him, talked to him, and held his hand. Ron and Hermione looked in on him, asked him how he was doing. Often Hermione pestered him with advice, or she would try to coax him into going outside by telling him that the fresh air would do him good. She brought books on post-traumatic stress and depression.
“They’ll help you, Harry, really,” she insisted. “These were written by the most renowned experts in psychology. Please, Harry, you should read them.”
But inevitably Ron would tug her away, when it became clear Harry wasn’t responding. And the books were left on the bedside table, untouched. Eventually they were cleared away, and Hermione never mentioned them again. Once Neville and Luna paid a visit, lingering quietly and making awkward - and one-sided - conversation. Harry insisted he was all right, of course, that he was just tired; because he knew they needed to hear it. Also because he was weary of seeing the disappointment on his friends’ faces. But truthfully he didn’t know if he’d ever feel all right.
Weeks passed, and the fog never lifted. He couldn’t bring himself to leave the house, and sometimes spent an entire weekend in bed. His body was one giant weight; he seemed to have forgotten how to move his limbs of his own accord. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get out, to take a long walk and enjoy the fresh air and sunshine. He would watch the sky lighten at dawn every morning and want more than anything in the world to be able to make himself go outside. He would feel the mattress shift as Ginny moved next to him - having sneaked into his room during the night once her mum was asleep - but she wasn’t really there. Her fiery red hair was splayed across the pillow, a flash of rich, brilliant color. He wanted so much to touch it, to run his fingers through it and feel the pulse of her life throbbing beneath his fingertips; he wanted to be inside her, to envelop her.
Perhaps worst of all, Ginny was starting to pull away. Her nocturnal visits to his bed were growing more sporadic, their lovemaking was nonexistent. For awhile Harry tried, desperate to unearth any passion that might still be buried deep within him. He imagined the spark of excitement, and the thrill of having sex with Ginny right there in her family’s house; her lithe and nubile body moving beneath him, her hot breath on his face and her nails digging into his back. He willed those feelings to come. But they wouldn’t. Before long the sex stopped; now Ginny would crawl into bed and simply lie down beside him. There was a growing distance in her eyes, and far too many hushed conversations with Ron and Hermione, the three of them undoubtedly musing over what in bloody hell was wrong with him. They were losing patience, although they would never admit it. He was a burden; they loved him, but there was only so much they could take. Harry didn’t think anyone could fix him - not now, with so many of his friends and mentors gone; murdered at the hands of the Death Eaters, or simply lost in the chaos of war. He couldn’t save them. He’d let them down, every last one of them.
He argued with himself. That was nonsense, he’d destroyed Voldemort. He’d fulfilled the prophecy. It was because of him that the wizarding world was at peace. Because of him, Ron and Hermione were home safe, the Burrow was still standing, and Ginny was with him. The path was clear for them to have a normal relationship, to have a long and happy life together. There would be no more fear, or worrying about seeing the dreaded Dark Mark hovering over the rooftop when turning the corner for home; a precursor to inevitable death and horror within. No more cries of pain, or shrieks of terror that came with impending death; no more innocent witches and wizards watching their homes or businesses burn to the ground. It was all over, because of him. Yet still, he couldn’t shake the melancholy. He’d even begun to think about leaving, putting as much distance as possible between him and his friends to spare them the burden of having to deal with him.
He had failed.
Then, suddenly, at a few minutes past midnight on an unseasonably cool summer night, he knew what he had to do. He rose from the bed for the first time in three days, stretched his stiffened muscles and dressed in the darkness, then slipped outside. He found his broom in the shed, where it had remained untouched for weeks, and he picked it up. He it firmly in his hand, stared at it for a long moment as if meeting an old friend after a long absence; his grip was weak at first, and he almost dropped it. Then ran his fingertips down the length of the wooden shaft to get the feel of the wood; dusted it off, mounted it, and kicked off into the night sky.
The initial thrust nearly threw him off, but he quickly righted himself. The wind rushed against his face, rippled the sleeves of his shirt, and cooled the perspiration that clung to his body. Without thinking about anything in particular, Harry turned his broom in the direction he knew it needed to go. He flew with a quiet intensity over the hills and trees, and the occasional house - or the ruins of one. The feel of the broom in his hands was both comfortingly familiar and painfully foreign. Part of him wanted to hurry, to get there soon. The rest of him held back, letting things happen as they would. The place would still be there, no matter how long he took. It would always be there.
He touched down by the lake. The night was eerily still; there was barely a sound other than the wind whispering through the trees, and the light lapping of the water against the shore. The moonlight cast long, ghostly shadows across the grass. Harry turned and looked behind him, up the sloping hill. The sight of the castle, still standing but for a few charred holes and a partially crumbled turret, made him want to cry or scream or laugh. But he did none of those things. This castle had been his home, and he’d learned so much there. Hogwarts deserved some measure of his respect; it was there that his treasured friendship with Ron and Hermione had taken root, as well as the friendships of so many others such as Neville, Seamus, Luna, Dean, and the Patil twins all of whom, save Neville and Luna, had been lost in the war. He had learned how to fly, and how to play Quidditch; he’d been given all the tools he would need to fight. Yet now, fully grown and with his battle won, Harry was at a loss for what to do. He didn’t think he had anything left to give.
He set his jaw, and resolutely took his gaze away from the castle. Instead he trained it in the direction of the White Tomb. With his throat tight and his head throbbing as though caught in a vice, he made his way toward it, up the soft slope of the hill.
For the first time since the funeral, a great stab of pain tore across his chest, and the blood drained from his face. It was as if that horrible night had just happened, all over again. He felt weak with grief. “I’m sorry, Dumbledore,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry.” His body released an immense sob, and he let his broomstick fall from his fingers. He then knelt in the grass and began to cry.
He wept for his parents, for Sirius, and for Dumbledore, and all they had sacrificed to keep him safe. He even wept for those who had caused him so much pain - Peter Pettigrew, the Malfoys, Snape. He wept because he felt unworthy of all that had been given to him, because he hated the path that he had been forced to take. He wept for his lost childhood. He wept because of the love he felt for his friends; and for the love and support they gave to him, unconditionally.
“We’re with you, whatever happens.”
“I never really gave up on you, not really.”
“I am not worried, Harry, I am with you.”
Their words were like a comforting embrace. Despite the chill in the air, Harry felt as though he was wrapped in warmth. He didn’t know how long he cried, but it felt like hours. His stomach muscles ached, and his eyes were so dry they hurt.
“Harry, you have nothing to be sorry for. Now go, and live. You have most certainly earned it.”
He heard the voice as clear as a bell; he would have known it anywhere, yet it couldn’t possibly be… Harry jerked his head up, but there wasn’t a soul to be seen. There was no sound, no movement, nothing at all to indicate the presence of another living thing.
“Dumbledore?”
Harry hadn’t expected a response, and none came. Yet still he waited, holding his breath, the blood pulsing in his ears. As he sat there he realized that for the first time in as long as he could remember, he had hope.
The sun began to rise, casting soft pink and orange shadows, and Harry watched it from where he sat on the grass. Then, once the sun was fully stationed in the sky he picked up his broom, kicked off, and headed home.
Author: lunalovepotter
Type: Fic
Length: 1975 words
Main character or Pairing: Harry at Dumbledore’s Tomb. Minor H/G
Card: Four of Cups
Card Interpretation: "Everything you need and could hope for is available to you, but your own dissatisfaction or negative outlook is keeping
you from taking advantage of it."
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer:This is non-commercial fanfic.
Warnings: Deals with the emotional effects of depression. Very dark and angtsy.
Summary: In the weeks following the final battle, Harry is having difficulty assimilating himself into a life of normalcy. Despite the fact that he now has everything he could have ever wanted - peace, love, friendship, family- he feels utterly incapable of enjoying it.
Author Notes: Beta read by the incomparable the_vixxmeister. This fic is based on my personal experience with depression, and how it affects the family and friends of those who suffer from it.
Harry Potter knew how he was supposed to feel; how he wanted to feel. The trouble was, he couldn’t feel anything. It was as if he were walking around with an invisible barrier between him and the rest of the world; an impenetrable wall through which no person, no material thing, no essence of feeling, could break through. He ate food, but didn’t taste it. He touched Ginny, but didn’t feel her. He heard Ron and Hermione talk to him, but he didn’t process what they said.
He didn’t know what he’d expected, once the last violent flash of light that nearly blinded him had dissipated, taking with it the most all-consuming evil; the shadow that had dominated his life for the past eight years. A battered, bruised and emotionally shattered shell of himself, Harry had fallen to his knees and dropped his wand, wondering if there would be relief, grief, anger; or perhaps joy, celebration, and laughter.
At first there was the hot sting of salty tears that stung the cuts on his face. His body ached with pain, in desperate need of food and rest. So this was it. It was over. Ron and Hermione scrambled to his side, helping him up, talking to him; their words swirled around his head like a swarm of bees, a mess of sound that he couldn’t process. He saw his best friends, themselves ragged and worn down with their robes tattered and their cheeks sunken, and he felt a twinge of gratitude. He didn’t deserve them. Then, there was nothing. The weight of the last eight years caved in on him and rendered him completely helpless; he was powerless to stave it off.
Once they were home, back at the Burrow that was so much emptier now, he’d slept for days, and for awhile he was left alone. He just needed to sleep, after all he’d been through, so they gave him some privacy and time to heal. For two weeks, no one asked anything of him. Molly Weasley pushed aside her own grief and baked him his favorite foods, which he barely touched; Ginny sat with him, talked to him, and held his hand. Ron and Hermione looked in on him, asked him how he was doing. Often Hermione pestered him with advice, or she would try to coax him into going outside by telling him that the fresh air would do him good. She brought books on post-traumatic stress and depression.
“They’ll help you, Harry, really,” she insisted. “These were written by the most renowned experts in psychology. Please, Harry, you should read them.”
But inevitably Ron would tug her away, when it became clear Harry wasn’t responding. And the books were left on the bedside table, untouched. Eventually they were cleared away, and Hermione never mentioned them again. Once Neville and Luna paid a visit, lingering quietly and making awkward - and one-sided - conversation. Harry insisted he was all right, of course, that he was just tired; because he knew they needed to hear it. Also because he was weary of seeing the disappointment on his friends’ faces. But truthfully he didn’t know if he’d ever feel all right.
Weeks passed, and the fog never lifted. He couldn’t bring himself to leave the house, and sometimes spent an entire weekend in bed. His body was one giant weight; he seemed to have forgotten how to move his limbs of his own accord. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get out, to take a long walk and enjoy the fresh air and sunshine. He would watch the sky lighten at dawn every morning and want more than anything in the world to be able to make himself go outside. He would feel the mattress shift as Ginny moved next to him - having sneaked into his room during the night once her mum was asleep - but she wasn’t really there. Her fiery red hair was splayed across the pillow, a flash of rich, brilliant color. He wanted so much to touch it, to run his fingers through it and feel the pulse of her life throbbing beneath his fingertips; he wanted to be inside her, to envelop her.
Perhaps worst of all, Ginny was starting to pull away. Her nocturnal visits to his bed were growing more sporadic, their lovemaking was nonexistent. For awhile Harry tried, desperate to unearth any passion that might still be buried deep within him. He imagined the spark of excitement, and the thrill of having sex with Ginny right there in her family’s house; her lithe and nubile body moving beneath him, her hot breath on his face and her nails digging into his back. He willed those feelings to come. But they wouldn’t. Before long the sex stopped; now Ginny would crawl into bed and simply lie down beside him. There was a growing distance in her eyes, and far too many hushed conversations with Ron and Hermione, the three of them undoubtedly musing over what in bloody hell was wrong with him. They were losing patience, although they would never admit it. He was a burden; they loved him, but there was only so much they could take. Harry didn’t think anyone could fix him - not now, with so many of his friends and mentors gone; murdered at the hands of the Death Eaters, or simply lost in the chaos of war. He couldn’t save them. He’d let them down, every last one of them.
He argued with himself. That was nonsense, he’d destroyed Voldemort. He’d fulfilled the prophecy. It was because of him that the wizarding world was at peace. Because of him, Ron and Hermione were home safe, the Burrow was still standing, and Ginny was with him. The path was clear for them to have a normal relationship, to have a long and happy life together. There would be no more fear, or worrying about seeing the dreaded Dark Mark hovering over the rooftop when turning the corner for home; a precursor to inevitable death and horror within. No more cries of pain, or shrieks of terror that came with impending death; no more innocent witches and wizards watching their homes or businesses burn to the ground. It was all over, because of him. Yet still, he couldn’t shake the melancholy. He’d even begun to think about leaving, putting as much distance as possible between him and his friends to spare them the burden of having to deal with him.
He had failed.
Then, suddenly, at a few minutes past midnight on an unseasonably cool summer night, he knew what he had to do. He rose from the bed for the first time in three days, stretched his stiffened muscles and dressed in the darkness, then slipped outside. He found his broom in the shed, where it had remained untouched for weeks, and he picked it up. He it firmly in his hand, stared at it for a long moment as if meeting an old friend after a long absence; his grip was weak at first, and he almost dropped it. Then ran his fingertips down the length of the wooden shaft to get the feel of the wood; dusted it off, mounted it, and kicked off into the night sky.
The initial thrust nearly threw him off, but he quickly righted himself. The wind rushed against his face, rippled the sleeves of his shirt, and cooled the perspiration that clung to his body. Without thinking about anything in particular, Harry turned his broom in the direction he knew it needed to go. He flew with a quiet intensity over the hills and trees, and the occasional house - or the ruins of one. The feel of the broom in his hands was both comfortingly familiar and painfully foreign. Part of him wanted to hurry, to get there soon. The rest of him held back, letting things happen as they would. The place would still be there, no matter how long he took. It would always be there.
He touched down by the lake. The night was eerily still; there was barely a sound other than the wind whispering through the trees, and the light lapping of the water against the shore. The moonlight cast long, ghostly shadows across the grass. Harry turned and looked behind him, up the sloping hill. The sight of the castle, still standing but for a few charred holes and a partially crumbled turret, made him want to cry or scream or laugh. But he did none of those things. This castle had been his home, and he’d learned so much there. Hogwarts deserved some measure of his respect; it was there that his treasured friendship with Ron and Hermione had taken root, as well as the friendships of so many others such as Neville, Seamus, Luna, Dean, and the Patil twins all of whom, save Neville and Luna, had been lost in the war. He had learned how to fly, and how to play Quidditch; he’d been given all the tools he would need to fight. Yet now, fully grown and with his battle won, Harry was at a loss for what to do. He didn’t think he had anything left to give.
He set his jaw, and resolutely took his gaze away from the castle. Instead he trained it in the direction of the White Tomb. With his throat tight and his head throbbing as though caught in a vice, he made his way toward it, up the soft slope of the hill.
For the first time since the funeral, a great stab of pain tore across his chest, and the blood drained from his face. It was as if that horrible night had just happened, all over again. He felt weak with grief. “I’m sorry, Dumbledore,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry.” His body released an immense sob, and he let his broomstick fall from his fingers. He then knelt in the grass and began to cry.
He wept for his parents, for Sirius, and for Dumbledore, and all they had sacrificed to keep him safe. He even wept for those who had caused him so much pain - Peter Pettigrew, the Malfoys, Snape. He wept because he felt unworthy of all that had been given to him, because he hated the path that he had been forced to take. He wept for his lost childhood. He wept because of the love he felt for his friends; and for the love and support they gave to him, unconditionally.
“We’re with you, whatever happens.”
“I never really gave up on you, not really.”
“I am not worried, Harry, I am with you.”
Their words were like a comforting embrace. Despite the chill in the air, Harry felt as though he was wrapped in warmth. He didn’t know how long he cried, but it felt like hours. His stomach muscles ached, and his eyes were so dry they hurt.
“Harry, you have nothing to be sorry for. Now go, and live. You have most certainly earned it.”
He heard the voice as clear as a bell; he would have known it anywhere, yet it couldn’t possibly be… Harry jerked his head up, but there wasn’t a soul to be seen. There was no sound, no movement, nothing at all to indicate the presence of another living thing.
“Dumbledore?”
Harry hadn’t expected a response, and none came. Yet still he waited, holding his breath, the blood pulsing in his ears. As he sat there he realized that for the first time in as long as he could remember, he had hope.
The sun began to rise, casting soft pink and orange shadows, and Harry watched it from where he sat on the grass. Then, once the sun was fully stationed in the sky he picked up his broom, kicked off, and headed home.