Obscurity of Love

Chapter Three

Deep scars

Two days later, deep in the confine of the Gryffindor common room, Harry tapped an impatient foot against his armchair and took what had to be his hundredth look at his watch.

Twenty minutes to go.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Only five minutes since he'd looked at it the last time.

He frowned; the quill he held in his hand now joining in on the impatient rhythm. The afternoon was going by so slow, and the homework Hermione had insisted he and Ron finish went by unnoticed in his lap.

He shifted his eyes downwards to look down at his Charms textbook, but the words refused to focus in Harry's mind. Never mind that it was his own handwriting he was currently staring at; he could have been looking at the most impeccable and neatest writing at Hogwarts (ie: Hermione's writing) and nothing would have penetrated through to Harry's currently unavailable brain.

At that, his frown turned into a small sigh.

Unlike that afternoon, the rest of the day had passed by as something like a blur to Harry. Classes, mealtimes, everything he did he had done mechanically, as though he had been in a dream. His friends had obviously noticed his odd behaviour, though after a bit of prodding, they'd chalked it up to his excitement for the upcoming Quidditch practice.

Even Malfoy had noticed during their Potions lesson. They'd managed to maintain their somewhat civil behaviour since their superfluous partnership, Malfoy having asked that morning what had had his scarred face looking so unnaturally melancholy and thoughtful.

Harry didn't tell him, or anyone else for that matter, but earlier that morning, his Head of House had approached him about scheduling a meeting with her. At first, Harry had been unsure just what this meeting was supposed to be about, and he had asked quickly if something had happened, fearing the worst.

McGonagall had been quick to assure Harry that there was nothing wrong, but what she had to say after that had made Harry think otherwise.

The meeting, she had replied, was for Harry's future; what exactly he wanted to do after graduating from Hogwarts in the upcoming months. What he wanted to apply for before he had to take his NEWT's, which were swiftly approaching as she reminded him.

But as Harry had continuously thought since the war had finally been won, working out just that was a sore point for him. Even just the idea of surviving the war was something Harry hadn't considered since the end of his fifth year.

For a while, he had even thought to kill Voldemort, he would have to die too ... and he'd accepted it. For as Dumbledore had said to him in his first year, death was but the next greatest adventure, and Harry knew that might mean reuniting with his true family - his parents, Sirius and Remus.

Sure, once upon a time, where he had been a fair amount more careless and unsuspecting than he was now, he had wanted to be an auror. He had thought to be out in the world chasing after dark wizards and animals would be exciting and always an adventure; the things he'd always loved, being the typical Gryffindor he was.

But now, after killing Voldemort, and knowing exactly what being an auror would entail, Harry didn't want to continue on with that life. He didn't want to spend it chasing after and apprehending any of rogue Death Eaters or dark wizards. He knew it wouldn't just be an adventure. Lives would be endangered, including that of his and of the things he was chasing. This was not one of Dudley's Playstation games, where he could just zap them dead then move on to the next level. If he killed someone, he wouldn't be able to move on and remain unaffected. That sort of thing remained with a person for the rest of their life.

Harry knew that because he had killed people - many people - during the war. Death eaters and Voldemort of course, but people nonetheless. He didn't even want to think on what he had done to some of those people when dwelling in the worst pits of fury. Though Voldemort had been a bloodthirsty, and inherently dark wizard, Harry had not been pleased for finally seeking his revenge. It had been a hollow victory; too much had been taken from his life for him to be content. He just wanted it all over so he could return back to whatever normality his life consisted of ... which didn't include killing more dark wizards. Harry's job was done.

And as something he'd pondered that very night his mysterious disillusioned figure turned up, he wasn't sure there was a life to continue on now that was all finished.

Everywhere he would go, it would be his name that determined their opinions, their judgements. He was no longer a person; it was all about his title, his stupid unwanted fame. Actually, at the back of his mind, Harry realised it had always been that way.

Harry hadn't wanted to tell any of this to McGonagall of course - tell her that he had no interest in continuing on with his fifth year pipe dream - so he had merely nodded and agreed to a meeting in one week's time to sort out everything.

Leading him to his very subdued state during the day, too apprehensive to say anything to anyone, and keeping it bottled up like everything else in his life.

Hermione and Ron had both previously asked him what he was planning to do, of course. As soon as anything about his future came up, Hermione was practically doing everything - bar shoving pamphlets down his throat - to help him decide.

At one point, just a few days earlier, Ron had even suggested he just go and start a Quidditch career as a Seeker, until Hermione had soundly whacked him on the head. Nevertheless, as Harry remembered back to that moment, it was something he had considered for the rest of the day, seeing how much he was clearly anticipating the Quidditch practice to come later that very afternoon. He'd rather think about Quidditch than the alternative at least.

Besides, it was true; flying was and always had been the only release Harry had in his life. For some reason, as soon as his feet left the ground, all the worries and little niggling feelings he had were left behind and he felt free. He might have inherited those flying genes from his father, but for once, Harry knew it was something that belonged to him, as Harry Potter, and it was one of the few things he didn't mind the attention for. His name never mattered when he and another Seeker went head to head for the snitch. The snitch wouldn't fly into his hands just because he was the damn Boy-who-lived-to-be-the-world's-saviour. This was something that depended on him and his talent only.

Consequently, that was the very reason his subduedness had been almost completely shoved to the back-burner, and he was so jittery at that very moment, counting down the minutes ..., as the mention of flying was prone to do to Harry.

In twenty minutes, he would he having his last Gryffindor Quidditch practice as Captain and as a student of Hogwarts - and he wanted to enjoy every last possible minute of it.

Harry shook himself out of his musings, hearing Ron whistling a familiar "Weasley is our King" tune under his breath, and grinning slightly, Harry adjusted his tapping to mesh with the tune. Ron shot him a lopsided grin, which was quickly wiped away when Hermione snapped her head up from her work to look up at them.

At the apparent gleam in her eye, Harry too ceased his noise, and hastily forced his eyes back onto the half-blank parchment that was meant to be his assignment. He didn't want to be the one to push his already high strung best friend off the proverbial cliff. He was well aware of how much Hermione was restraining herself from clocking them both over the head with her precious books. The day before the encounter with McGonagall, they'd been bugging her with their constant bouncing about and talk about Quidditch.

Note that being Captain of the team with Ron as his strategy conspirator, their idea of talking about Quidditch had meant non-stop until either somebody yelled at them, or they ran out of breath. The latter hadn't yet occurred, though the two boys had been screamed at by no less than three different teachers and six students throughout the course of the previous day.

Through his eyelashes, he saw Hermione tut silently, before returning back to her own furious scribbling on her already three-quarter filled parchment.

Harry barely concealed his relief at that, but as he looked back down, he felt his concentration wane once more. He couldn't even remember what work he was meant to be writing about; his mind had already joined his twenty - no, Harry took another look at his watch - make that fifteen minute future self, where he would be high into the air, flying freely around the Quidditch stands, through the goal-rings, down into a dive, his team-mates urging him on ...

His quill, unknowingly resumed its tapping against his knee.

"Oh - for heavens sake." Hermione burst out, yanking both of the two startled boy's work out of their hands. She slammed them onto the table. "Just go then. You aren't getting any work done as it is. Ron's book has been upside down for the past half hour."

Ron looked mildly contrite as he sent a sheepish grin in his girlfriend's direction. He offered a quick, "Sorry," which of course would have been much more effective had his hand not already been straying over to the broomstick that lay by his feet.

Harry snickered, but he wasn't one to talk; not only did he already have his broomstick in his grasp, but also all of his Quidditch gear and the Gryffindor uniform hidden in his bag. (He'd thrown out all his other books and school things before meeting up with Hermione to study.)

Hermione waved an exasperated arm in the air. "Go before I change what's left of my mind." she muttered.

Harry looked at Ron at the same time Ron's head turned to his. "Well come on then." he said. "What are we waiting for?"

The two stood up in unison, and after Ron gave his girlfriend a peck on the cheek, and Harry waved her off, the Quidditch crazy boys took off through the portrait, and raced out onto the Quidditch field for their Gryffindor practice.

It didn't matter that there was still another fifteen minutes to go until their practice. Harry and Ron spent that time changing into their gear, and going over the plans for the upcoming game, which would inevitably determine the winner of the Quidditch Cup. Harry was really hoping it would be them that held the cup for the fourth year in a row (excluding Harry's fourth year). Besides the obvious of winning the Cup, it would also at least temporarily shift the attention towards his part in winning that game rather than his part in the war ... which he really would prefer.

As Ron was halfway through his Chaser-duck formation idea, the rest of the team burst through the change-room doors, looking at least, if not more excited than Harry and Ron still were.

"Here on time, Captain." Ginny stated, giving a rather foolish salute, and not for the first time did Harry thank fate for pairing her up with Neville. The war had been hard on her too, what with her past with Tom Riddle, and Neville had been the perfect person to have brought her out of her depression and nurse her back to her previous carefree, mischievous self. Indeed, just the other day she'd played a prank on her prefect brother, casting a spell on him that had almost exceeded the twin's ingenious pranks.

Harry grinned back at the red-headed girl, then as everybody else came to a halt beside her, and gave their own greetings to the Captain and his red-headed best friend, he turned his grin onto the rest. Soon an excited chatter filled the room as the other players changed, and it wasn't long before they were all standing in the middle of the main change-room all ready to go.

"All right, team!" Harry shouted, clapping his hands to gain the attention of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He had to swallow his own excitement at the prospect he was about to go out and finally fly again. It had been such a long time since it was safe for him to do things like flying and going out on the Hogsmeade weekends.

At the sound of his voice, everybody obediently shifted their attention to him. "As you all know," he began, "this practice will be for our last game, which is only three weeks away."

He received an emphatic nod from everyone as well as a whoop from Ron. "One more game then that Cup's back where it belongs!" Ron cried out.

There was a chorus of "Yeah!" 's from the rest of the Quidditch team, and the two beaters Colin Creevey and Andrew Kirke banged their bats together enthusiastically. Harry remembered with a pang that Colin and Dennis used to do the same thing up until their last game before the final battle, where Dennis had been killed.

He shook his head, trying to purge all unpleasant thoughts out of his mind for the time being.

"Now," he said, then moved on to talk about the last game of the season and consequently his Hogwarts career. After finishing his uplifting speech, Harry stopped to look at Ron, and allowed him to take over as he talked about some upcoming plays they wanted to practice on that afternoon.

Eventually, Harry and Ron finished their little strategising meeting, and they took it out onto the field - something Harry had been itching to do ever since McGonagall had given them the go ahead to practice.

As they came out of the change-rooms and onto the Quidditch pitch, Hermione was surprisingly waiting out in the stands with a few other students. The fifteen minutes with them not in her presence seemed to do the world of good for the bushy-haired girl, and though she still had a book in her hand, her attention was clearly on her boyfriend.

Ron caught sight of her after a quick nudge from Harry, and grinning stupidly, he handed Harry his Cleansweep Seven and rushed over to give her another quick kiss.

"Smooch later, Ronnikins!" Ginny called out, causing Ron's ears to turn red. He withdrew from his girlfriend with an equally red face, but Hermione gave him another supporting peck.

Harry couldn't hold back the brief pang of envy in the pit of his stomach, but quickly swallowing it, he looked away and motioned for the team to come together and to mount their brooms.

Whilst the rest of the team went through drills with the Quaffle and Bludgers, Harry flew above them, occasionally barking out commands as he did a twirl or a roll. It wasn't his usual flying exploits, but being Captain meant he couldn't just think of himself, so he remained content to watching the rest of the team have their fun, joining in on a drill or two.

A few times whilst he sat there, barely moving on his broomstick, he felt that same odd sensation indicating that he was being watched. That in itself wasn't unusual; being rather a pop icon in the wizarding world, he was constantly watched by younger students infatuated with him and his scar.

What was unusual about this time was that it didn't feel the same. This look sent a lingering shiver down his spine, lasting much longer and affecting him much deeper than any of his mindless fans' adoring glances had ever been able to achieve.

But every time his keen eyes searched the stands, he couldn't see anyone or anything unusual or out of place. Other than Hermione and the other odd Gryffindor fan, nobody else sat in those stands, watching him with what Harry imagined to be one very intense looking expression on their face ... or at least that's what it felt like to Harry.

Doing a thoughtful 360 degree roll, Harry wondered briefly if it was his mysterious obscured figure waiting in the Quidditch stands, watching him under that familiar disillusionment charm, but he discarded it before his imagination flew away from him.

In the few days that had passed, this boy had not yet made a third appearance, and Harry feared that this time it would really be permanent, that he had scared the other boy off for good. It wasn't as though the other boy was getting anything from it - both times Harry had clearly refused him before anything went further than a simple kiss.

The only thing stopping him from suspecting the whole debacle had been some sort of a practical joke or bet, was the lack of publicity. Not one person had uttered a solitary word about the two encounters, which meant no teasing, no taunting and no newspaper articles. Surely that had to mean something, he kept telling himself

But it was to no avail. There was just no sign of that disillusioned boy and Harry doubted he ever would get that chance again.

"Hey Harry - catch!" Shivering a bit, he turned back to his team, catching the Quaffle from Ron and swiftly passing it off to Colin.

~*~

Long after everyone else from the Gryffindor Quidditch team had left for dinner, Harry was still found zipping through the air on his faithful Firebolt. No snitch was being chased after, nor were there any fans urging him on to perform the death-defying moves he was doing at that very moment. It was just the pure exhilaration at being in the air and being able to move freely without worries that spurred Harry on. He twisted and turned, rolled and dipped; all done with an unrestrained passion that Harry had not been able to release for such a long time.

Feeling better and more confident than ever, Harry ended in a sharp nose-dive, only pulling up from the ground when it almost seemed to swallow him whole. He laughed with delight as his knees skimmed the grass, and his heart pounded with the adrenaline rush as his feet finally settled back onto firm ground.

Cheeks flushed and hair blown out in every direction, Harry raised his gaze up from the grass, and noticed with a start that night had almost fallen. He only shrugged complacently though as he headed off towards the change-rooms, the building's outline visible in the growing darkness of the night. Having spent so many late nights outdoors at the Dursley's, and the threat of Voldemort no longer around the corner, being out in the dark just didn't daunt him too much anymore.

Patting down his hair slightly, Harry entered the deserted change-rooms with his firebolt in one hand, and walked into the boy's section. Placing it down carefully by his gear, he quickly stripped out of his uniform, and grabbing a towel from his bag, he walked towards the showers, for once not bypassing the communal showers most of the boys - except Harry - favoured.

It was due to the war that this was so. After the war had finally been won, Harry had become uncomfortable being in close proximity to anyone; especially when it came to Quidditch or showering with others. Even in his dorm amongst mates, it was hard for Harry to relax or to allow his friends to see all that the war had made him.

This insecurity had partly to do with the remembrance of what had been done to everyone during the final battle, but mainly to do with the results that battle had had on him.

He looked down, a grimace already present on his lips. Added to his childhood scars, he now had an array of faint scars running from his torso up to his neck, as well as on his arms and legs. Though they weren't particularly discernible due to his tanned skin, he felt a self-awareness of each and every one; knowing where each had come from and what had been sacrificed to get them.

He turned the taps on full blast and as he waited for the water to adjust to the right temperature, he lightly trailed a finger just above his navel, where the most noticeable scar on his body (bar the one on his head) lay. It was a long, jagged scar that made him quiver in disgusted remembrance every time without fail ... reminding him of his almost failures, his disappointments.

Shaking his head firmly, he wrenched his now trembling fingers away and forced them under the spray of rapidly heating water. He couldn't think about it again. The war was over, Voldemort's ashes spread across the continent; never again to be reunited to form the monster he had once been.

Grimly pressing both lips together, Harry turned his mind towards the present, watching the water thread through his spread fingers sprayed out under the water. The water had, by then, reached the right temperature and Harry pulled his hand out from underneath the shower and stepped in, allowing the stream of gloriously hot water to play over his tense and aching muscles.

He moaned softly, resting his forehead on the shower wall and closing his eyes as the water cascaded down his neck and then the length of his back. The harsh spray on his body was heaven after the long hours spend flying on his broom, and the tension and worries that had been building up for the past week. He could already feel his muscles loosening from the pounding force of the shower.

Slowly, and not wanting to get out of the shower anytime soon, Harry leisurely took his time out in the open shower, alternating between washing himself, and just relaxing underneath, basking in the comforting warmth.

It was sometime halfway through his shower when soundlessly and out of the blue there was another pressure on his shoulders, a different one than the shower. This one gently started to knead through the kinks in his muscles where the water had missed.

This had the characteristics of his invisible friend, and after a predictable jump at the unexpected touch, Harry lifted his head up from the wall to look - almost hopefully - over his shoulder.

As he had suspected - not to mention hoped - there was nothing but a faint outline, silhouetted by the silvery mist that swirled around them. Instantly, a rush of relief swept over Harry. After all his fears over the past week, the disillusioned figure hadn't grown tired of him after all, nor could it be any sort of a practical joke. He apparently still wanted Harry regardless of Harry's inhibitions.

Harry didn't know why - perhaps the unknown feeling of someone doing this decided it for him, or even the pang of loneliness he had felt earlier as he watched Ron and Hermione together on the Quidditch pitch. Either way, he shifted his gaze back to the shower, and for the first time, he didn't resist the other boy's advances, choosing instead to willingly stay within reach.

He couldn't even bring himself to feel embarrassed at the realisation someone else was watching him in this naked and vulnerable state. Again, he just let himself enjoy the companionable warmth of another so intimate with him, allowing the hands to continue on with their ministrations; all whilst trying valiantly to ignore the increasing arousal those hands were creating.

It was hard not to react to such a new and pleasurable feeling, but just when Harry had almost convinced his body to do just that, the skilful fingers found a particularly sensitive place in-between his shoulder blades, and Harry couldn't help himself. He moaned appreciatively, throwing his head back in pleasure.

The hands seemed suitably convinced and more pressure was applied as they progressively moved down his back, skilfully weaving their magic into his rapidly melting muscles along the way.

With the combination of those invisible hands and the water streaming down on him, Harry was overcome with sensation and he could hardly hold himself up; his knees were trembling, almost threatening to buckle from beneath him.

The invisible figure seemed to realise this and arms were swiftly slipped around Harry's waist, the other figure drawing in closer until Harry's back rested against a fully clothed, and considerably wetter chest. The figure didn't seem to mind at all though. Now in place of the other boy's hands, soft kisses were being bestowed on Harry's shoulders and neck, sending continuous tremors down his spine.

Harry had never felt something so intoxicating in the way those invisible hands slid across his slick stomach, and the way in which those kisses were so reverently given. Even the mere presence of the other boy spread a searing warmth around his body, surrounding him utterly, and completely.

Then one hand began to make the same trail over the scar that his fingers had only just previously journeyed.

Nobody else had ever touched any of his scars before, especially that one, and the sheer realisation of it had Harry instinctively jerking away, the moment all but gone as he broke contact with the other body.

"S-stop." he forced out, but as he spoke, his breath caught in his throat and it could hardly be heard, or understood. Now was not the time to be having a panic attack, he warned himself slightly, taking a deep breath to calm himself. Still not facing the other boy, Harry expelled a shaky breath and bit the inside of his bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

Only when the footprints had receded and the door to the change-rooms closed shut did Harry's façade crumble and turning the tap off viciously, he grabbed at a towel, putting all of his anger and frustration into drying himself. He hardly noticed the imprints his rough handling had on his body; he was too busy berating himself at another spectacular disaster.

He was always letting the war get the better of his life, and this was no different. The whole week in which that other boy hadn't made his appearance, Harry had secretly longed for those invisible touches, remembered the feeling of those mind-numbing kisses. Now even when given that opportunity of - of whatever this was exactly ... Harry screwed it up.

Harry shoved his sweaty Quidditch uniform into his school bag, and swore silently to himself.

But there was one thing he did know for sure. He wouldn't let himself be caught off-guard like that ever again.

~*~

A week later, Harry walked dishearteningly through the hallways for his Potions lesson. He'd just come from the dreaded meeting with McGonagall, and as expected it was every bit as awkward and depressing as Harry had originally thought.

By the time the meeting had concluded, McGonagall had still been without an answer, Harry choosing to say he was currently undecided. McGonagall obviously hadn't been too pleased; she'd given him a lengthy lecture on wasting the future possibilities offered to him, but she had at least relented, scheduling another meeting with him one month away.

In Harry's opinion it was one month too soon, but he took what he could get gratefully, and had quickly left with the excuse he didn't want to be late for his Potions lesson.

And now there he was, on his way to the dreary dungeons, even though the class wouldn't really start for another twenty minutes.

Turning a corner rather absent-mindedly, he suddenly stumbled upon the last thing he'd expected or wanted to happen that day; a sparring match between Ron and Malfoy.

Unfortunately, the uneasy truce that had arisen between Harry and Malfoy for their partnered potion had remained exactly that; between Harry and Malfoy. That meant that Ron had certainly not been included in that truce, and his animosity for Malfoy had definitely not been lessened in the slightest.

And even though Harry didn't approve of the truth of the situation, he would have thought the world had come to an end if Malfoy and Ron ever managed to make some sort of peace. He knew that the two would never be anything less than enemies to each other. Not after the decades old feud the two wizarding families had.

At the sight of his friend and previous enemy facing each other with no small amount of malice, Harry stopped abruptly in his tracks, frowning, and considered whether or not to interrupt yet. They might not do anything other than the occasional sniping-

"-go back to the dungeons, Malfoy." he heard Ron say harshly, looking as though he was fingering his wand in his robe pocket. "It's the only place you and the rest of your cowardly snakes belong."

Then again, maybe not.

Harry took a cautious step forward, but the two other boys' attention was on each other.

"Cowardly?" Malfoy laughed right in Ron's face, though his grey eyes remained cold and hard. "It wasn't cowardly. Us snakes were able to sit back and relax while you did all the dirty work. I'd call it cunning and being the wizards purebloods are meant to be. But then again, I expect you wouldn't understand. Your family's been doing the dirty work for centuries. They wouldn't know much else."

Harry expected Ron to lunge at that comment and started to take another step forward, but Ron only stood there, glaring back at Malfoy. "My family's dirty? What about yours? One five foot under and the other sure to follow soon. That's really something to be proud of, eh Malfoy?"

The smirk was wiped straight off Malfoy's face and even Harry stifled a shocked gasp. Nobody had dared utter a word about Malfoy's parents; at least not after the last person had been hospitalised for a week.

Of course what Ron had said came as no surprise to Harry. It was common knowledge what had happened to Malfoy's parents. During the final battle, Lucius Malfoy had fallen; shot down by the Killing Curse. Harry had actually witnessed the death just feet away from where he had been fighting, and had also heard afterwards as another disgraceful Death Eater, Narcissa Malfoy - his wife and Draco's mother - had been captured in the aftermath and immediately given a life sentence at a newly rebuilt Azkaban prison.

Harry had never seen Malfoy grieve at the loss of his two parents, but then again, not grieving didn't mean he hadn't cared for them. And it was obvious that he did, by the current look on his face and the silence Ron's comment had struck.

Harry decided that it was now time to make his own move. "Right." he said, approaching the two boys. They didn't move, so he grabbed Ron's arm, and tugged at it roughly. "I think you've both said enough."

But Ron stubbornly pushed Harry away. "No." he spat, not taking his eyes off Malfoy. "I want to give Malfoy a piece of my mind. He's been asking for it since the day he was born."

As Ron took another step towards Malfoy, Harry pushed his way in front of him. He was dwarfed considerably by both, but many had made the mistake of underestimating him before.

"Let's go, Ron.," he said evenly. "This isn't worth fighting over."

"Stuff it, Potter."

At the sound of Malfoy's voice, Harry spun around to face the other boy. He had never seen him so angry. That expression of loneliness and helplessness Harry had briefly seen had been wiped clean from his face. Now he was wearing an expression dripping with utter loathing and the words that followed had never been more scathing. "Even with your little saviour complex, you can't save everyone." Malfoy tipped his head slightly, before, "But I think you already know that, don't you?"

Other than his mouth dropping, Harry was too stricken to react - where had their truce gone? - and Ron was given the opportunity to continue on with their argument, resuming his movements towards the Slytherin.

"Shut up, Malfoy. You wouldn't know anything, you disgusting ferret."

"Better than being that beaver you call your girlfriend." retorted Malfoy, just as viciously.

Still shocked from what Malfoy had said, Harry only shook his head in disbelief. Ron however immediately made a leap for the Slytherin.

"No. Ron!" But Harry shouted it all too late. Ron had already drawn back a fist and punched the Slytherin full in the face.

Malfoy staggered back, looking murderous and about ready to strike back. Raising one hand to touch at the cut lip, the other swiftly pulled out his wand. "Always resorting to muggle methods, Weasel," he snarled. "How about I show you how a real wizard fights?"

"NO!" Harry stepped in between the two again as Ron pulled out his own wand. He decided to take drastic measures. "Expelliarmus!" Immediately, both boys' wands flew out of their hands, and Harry summoned them to him. "Twenty points from Slytherin and Gryffindor for fighting, and if you don't stop now, I'll up it to fifty and a detention each." he said, looking every inch the Head Boy of Hogwarts.

Ron looked aghast. "Harry, how can you-"

"Take control of yourselves." Harry snapped back, eyes flashing angrily. "You could have involved any innocent bystander in this stupid duel of yours, and-" Here Harry faced Malfoy fiercely, "if I have to act like the saviour to stop it, then I damn well will."

Malfoy stared evenly back, but he backed down, moving to look down at the two wands Harry held tightly in his grip.

Ron was less easy to convince. "How can you stop me?" he exclaimed. "I'm sick of him insulting my family." He waved his hand brusquely in Malfoy's direction. "Take a look at his. Where'd his so called purity of blood get him now?"

Harry's voice was low, refusing to shift his gaze from Ron's face. "Ron, what you are doing is low," he said firmly. "You have no right to say those things about his family, just as Malfoy has no right to say those things about yours."

"Well you wouldn't know what it's like." Ron spat, trying to shove past Harry again. "You don't have any family."

Harry jerked back, stunned. He felt as if a bludger had appeared from nowhere and had suddenly careened into his stomach, leaving him utterly breathless.

"I might not have any blood relatives to call family," he eventually managed, certain that his voice was wavering considerably, but also at the same time more concerned in trying to reign in the pain that comment had brought up. "but I've always thought of you as mine."

His eyes blinked rapidly as he stared at a space over his best friend's left shoulder. What Ron had said, just solidified every doubt he'd been having over the past few months, because no matter how much Ron, Hermione and his family meant to Harry, they would be moving on with their lives ...

And Harry would be left behind.

Ron turned to him, eyes gleaming apologetically as the impact of what he had said seemed to sink in. "I - I didn't mean it like that." he stuttered. "It was just in the heat of the moment-"

"Yes," Harry returned squarely, still not looking directly at Ron. "See what happens when you let your anger get away from you. Even your best mate isn't safe from it."

His limbs not wanting to work properly, Harry continued to stand there feeling like a complete fool as he stared at nothing in particular, but when a slight noise behind him sounded, he suddenly remembered with another pang that Malfoy was there. Squaring his shoulders, he wrenched his gaze over to Malfoy, giving him and Ron one parting glance before spinning on his heel.

"Go ahead and kill yourselves if you bloody want to. I - I just don't care anymore." he threw the last words over his shoulder as he began to walk away.

The two wands dropped by his departing feet.

As he dashed through the hallways, he all but forgot about the Potions Class he was originally heading for; the fury and anguish palpable in his aura as it led him blindly to the Gryffindor Tower.

A couple of times, Ron's voice was heard following after him, calling him to wait, but Harry only increased his hurried strides. It had already been said, practically been thrown out into the open in fact, and the feelings that were running through him at that very moment were of the same, agonizing sort of those that he experienced in his fourth year, when Ron had been jealous of him. But he knew that this time jealousy wasn't the case. At least not on Ron's part anyway.

Gritting his teeth, Harry lowered his head, not faltering in his stride as he desperately tried to reach his dorm.

However, with Ron being the lanky teenager he was, Ron managed to catch up to him just as he had climbed through the portrait.

"Harry," said Ron, panting. He grabbed onto Harry's arm, only for it to be shaken off angrily as Harry continued to head for the stairs, refusing to look back. He couldn't bear to.

Ron didn't seem to understand or wasn't satisfied by Harry's actions, because he grabbed his arm again, more forcefully this time, enough to spin Harry around.

"What?" Harry shouted right in Ron's face. He didn't care that he was making a scene in the common room, such a scene in fact, that effectively stopped all the Gryffindors present from moving off to their next classes. His attention was now purely focused on the boy who so foolishly held a firm grip of his arm. "What the hell do you want now?"

"Harry - I'm sorry," If possible, Ron tightened his grip as he looked pleadingly at Harry. "W-what I said wasn't true. I - I didn't mean it."

"Just leave me alone, Ron." Harry snapped irritably, not wanting to deal with Ron at that moment. He went to yank his arm away one last time, feeling that familiar white hot anger licking at his throat, threatening to escape, threatening to find something to vent upon.

"But Harry-" Ron tried to protest, unrelenting.

"No!"

"You've got Potions-"

Harry exploded, shouting as loud as his lungs could possibly take, as much as his throat could possibly give. "I DON'T CARE! I JUST WANT TO BE LEFT ALONE!"

The common room was struck silent as Harry stood there, chest heaving angrily and throat raw. He was shaking from head to foot, fists clenched by his side as he looked directly at Ron, who looked considerably shocked at Harry's outburst. In the aftermath, he absently noticed that Ron had finally released his grip on Harry's arm.

To be honest, he was shocked by his outburst too. It was the first time he'd shouted like that since Sirius's death in Dumbledore's office. First time he'd ever shown so much emotion in front of anyone else as a matter of fact. He'd kept everything bottled up for so long. Before the war, through the war, and up until now, after the war as well.

When Ron took a small step backwards, Harry was brought back to the present, and his anger instantly deteriorated at the look of fear that crossed his red headed friend's face.

"Just - please." Harry drew a shaky, still clenched hand across his face. His posture slumped tiredly, dejectedly. He couldn't face Potions in this condition, and certainly not Malfoy. Saviour my ass. "Go to your next class. I'm fine."

Ron gave him another look, this time of worry, but then nodded and backed away. "I - I'll tell Hermione you're not feeling - well." he said, stumbling slightly over the words.

"Yeah - thanks." Harry replied softly. He didn't wait for Ron to say anything else, tiredly turning one last time to the stairs and ascending each step with a heavy feeling in his heart.

As soon as he reached the safety of his dorm room, which was thankfully empty, he flung the door shut behind him, and hinges still rattling from the sheer force, he locked it with such a powerful locking spell that only he or the Headmaster would ever be able to unlock.

He stood by that locked door for a painstaking moment, closing his eyes against the rush of pain and humiliation that flooded him. Then in one fluid movement, Harry turned and punched his fist into the nearest wall.

There was an audible crunch as knuckles meant unrelenting stone, and a momentary blessed numbness overcame Harry, before a shooting pain replaced it, lancing its way through his fingertips and up to his lower arm.

Along with the pain now residing in his heart, he clutched at his injured arm instinctively, cradling it in against his chest as he slowly sank to the floor and lowered his head to his trembling knees.

His eyes remained dry even as the torment engulfed him, but he couldn't help wishing with every being in his body - like so many moments before - that he could have just had a normal life, instead of the completely messed up one he was barely living now.