His feet crumpled the trash that littered the street, his worn trainers the only spot of color on the dark road.
Harry was illuminated for a moment as he passed under an iron streetlight. He slouched, his hands in his jean pockets, the black jacket pulled down in front. He stared at the ground, walking faster.
His feet took him along the same route he always walked. The last time he checked it was about three in the morning.
Living at Grimmauld Place with Ron and Hermione was more than he had ever dared to dream- no- dared to think of. Of course, there had been that time when they were looking for the Horcruxes, but that hadn’t been living so much as hiding.
He didn’t like the night. Night brought sleep and sleep brought the nightmares. Dreams of Fred’s blank stare, of Remus and Tonks lying silently side-by-side. Dreams of Dobby with a knife sticking out of his chest; of Oliver Wood carrying the dead body of Colin Creevy. The visions would flicker in front of his eyes, just out of reach, until they would break, and he would be standing alone, all alone in a sea of black.
“All my fault,” he muttered, turning a corner and passing the slumped drunk that inhabited it.
It was all his fault. All his fault that so many lives had been lost. His fault that George now sat day by day in his flat, staring at the wall, waiting for something that would never come. His fault. Always his fault.
The inexplicable loneliness was almost as bad as the guilt. True, he was living with his two best friends, but there was something about catching them gazing at each other with more love in their eyes than he could ever possess or the simple silences that turned so awkward that he would grunt and leave the room. It was lonely knowing that while Hermione had her own room, he wasn’t sure if she used it. It was worse realizing that neither of them truly knew their own actions.
He reached his destination, catching his foot on the edge of the lawn. He made his way through the grass, stopping to sit in usual spot on the bench. He stared across at the rust metal swing as it squeaked when the wind blew gently across it.
It caressed his face softly. Harry balanced his elbows on his knees, focusing on a spot on the ground; thinking of nothing else; clearing his mind. He lost himself in the tiny discolored spot of cement, barely aware of the figure sitting on the second bench next to him, the one that was there every night.
He had memorized the entire neighborhood eventually. His night wanderings had taken him everywhere. But the park was his favorite spot. There was something delicately childlike, purely innocent about it. It was something Voldemort had never touched; something no Death Eater (at least Harry was ninety nine percent sure) had ever step foot on.
He balled his hands into fists, squeezing his eyes shut and watched the sparks explode on the back of his eyelids. He dug his fingernails into his skin, relishing the sharp skin. Anything, anything to take his mind off the real pain. Anything to fill the great big gap he had inside.
At first, he had thought his heart was too big, thought it was too fill; and that’s why he had been had having that weird feeling in his chest; that weird cross between aching and stretching. He had tried to ignore it, tried to empty himself of it, but after days and days of the same bottomless pull, he had been forced to see the truth.
It wasn’t that his heart was too full; it was that there was nothing there at all. Just this big gaping hole of nothing. Of raw pain that tore at the edges of him and made him want to lie still for hours. Not sleep; no he never wanted to sleep; just lie there and let the pain wash over him in waves. Just lie there and scream soundlessly as he was eaten away.
He didn’t do anything. He knew he should be celebrating with the rest of the world, but he didn’t. He got up, he ate, and he walked into the living room and stared out the window. He ate, he walked outside; he came back in and counted the cracks in Sirius’ (now his) bedroom ceiling. He sat through another lonely supper with Ron and Hermione, then he would excuse himself, leaving them behind, ignoring the looks he felt stabbing into his back. He would wait in his room until he heard Ron and Hermione climb the stairs and then he would slip past Kreacher and outside, where he would wander aimlessly for hours on end. That was the entire sum of his existence.
Today was the worst. Today was his birthday; he was eighteen, officially legal in both worlds. Today he had to shrug off the reinvigorated attempts of Ron and Hermione to get him to do something. He had to ignore the letters from “sympathetic” witches and wizards around the world. But worst of all, he had to decline the invitations to the Burrow. Because- because they would be there.
He was afraid. Afraid of this gaping hole in him that was more like an infection. Afraid he would spread it to the rest of them. He was scared to see the looks on their faces, to know exactly the number that was missing from them. He was scared to see her.
He dug his nails in harder. He had promised, he had sworn not to think about her. It wasn’t fair to her. True, she probably hurt now, but in the end, it would all be for the better.
He had always planned on going back to her during the war. She had been his reason to keep fighting, his reason for everything. But now that there wasn’t a constant threat of death handing over his head and everyone he loved, he felt he could see clearer.
He didn’t need Ginny.
The nails began piercing his skin. His feelings for her during the war were merely a result of the desperation war creates. And now that the war was over, so were his feelings for her.
He wondered if the same would have held true for Remus and Tonks. They had eloped in a spur of the moment decision. Of course, with Teddy, they’d probably be closer than ever. Teddy would have brought them together. Teddy, his godson.
For the first time, the thought of their deaths didn’t bring around sharp pains of pangs and guilt. He’d been trying to avoid meeting him ever since Ron and Hermione suggested it weeks ago. At last he had been forced to concede and tomorrow, he was going to Andromeda’s home to see his godson.
The sun was reflecting off of the tops of the trees, turning their summer green a shining yellow. It was time to get back to Grimmauld place, before Hermione got up to sneak back to her room. Harry stood up and turned around resolutely to begin the trudge back to the house. He hesitated by the swings, examining his hands.
His hands bore the marks of small cuts in a semicircle. The nails had done their job. He would have to stop on the way back and buy Muggle Band-Aids from the twenty-four hour drug store. He lacked the necessary skills to make a somewhat competent healer, and he didn’t want to see Hermione’s crushing look of concern. He would have to make up an excuse tomorrow, or wear the robes that fell over his hands. He turned in the opposite direction now, to take the long way back that would take him past the drug store.
“See you tomorrow,” said the figure on the bench.
Harry stopped. “Yeah,” he said, starting forward again. “See you tomorrow.”
Teddy's Gift by SiriusRadcliffe
Chapter Notes: A/N: Welcome chapter one of Teddy's Gift. This story is written by the co-author team of SiriusBlack1113 and Miss Radcliffe A.K.A. SiriusRadcliffe. We hope you enjoy it! Please review and let us know what you think!
SiriusBlack1113 Miss Radcliffe