Anniversarius

"It's just another day." But Harry knows it's not, knows it from the top of his head to the quiver in the pit of his stomach. Day three-hundred-sixty-four and day three-hundred-sixty-six will be normal, or as normal as anything ever is in his life, anyway, but today -

It does him no good to think on it, he tells himself as he sits through another class and finds the tedium too much to bear. All Harry wants to do is go back to bed, curl up in the dark and clench his eyes shut against the truth. But he can't. So he waits not-so-patiently for class to end and goes to lunch with Ron and Hermione as he always does, though they don't seem to know or care why his words have caught in his throat, queuing up behind a sob he refuses to let out.

The Great Hall is so noisy. He wishes everyone would just shut up, so that he could think and not have to try and ignore them and their vapid, meaningless squabbles and trifles of everyday life. How could they possibly think that any of that matters at all? So the mashed potato is lumpy. So what? He goes to classes with the taste of ashes in his mouth instead of sausage.

"Harry, can I borrow a quill? Mine's broken." Normally, even knowing that the way Ron uses them so would his be soon, Harry handed over one of his quills with a smile, not minding in the least. Today he passes it to Ron and quietly seethes, wishing the redhead would buy his own spares for once.

"It's just a day."

"What, Harry?"

He hadn't meant to say it out loud. "Nothing." Hermione gives him a long, searching look but lets it drop, a minor blessing in a blessingless day, or so it feels.

If Harry really thinks about it, he can remember every detail as though it were carved into his brain and left as a permanent scar; the billowing black cloth and the not-scent of that strange breeze, the flashes of spell-light across the empty hall, screams, his face as he fell through and left Harry bereft - why can Harry remember that so clearly when his parents' faces fade into obscurity whenever he is away from their photographs? When he always forgets his homework 'til the last minute, week after week after week?

Fifty-two weeks. To the day.

Stop thinking about it!

Oh, God, I can't stop thinking about it.

It's hard to remember his Latin tenses, to get his spells right, when thinking about how pointless everything is. Harry smiles weakly back at Professor Flitwick when the diminutive teacher praises his wandwork, trying to look his normal self and knowing he is failing. He wonders for a moment if Hermione's Depressing Charm has failed - surely not - before he remembers that it has no effect on somebody who is already feeling sad. That makes it worse, somehow, to have his state of mind confirmed by the dry and lifeless pages of his textbook, written by some crusty old shell in a tiny, grubby apartment in the backwaters of God-knows-where. He makes an effort to look sad so that Hermione doesn't cotton on, but he's not sure it works - she knows him too well, and she's whispering to Ron as they leave the classroom, watching Harry with brown eyes that are sharper than he wants them to be today.

Harry ditches his last class, happier when sitting by himself in his father's cloak at the top of the astronomy tower where there are no classes until nightfall. Except he's not happier, really. Just finally away from the noise and the interruptions and the people who all demand his attention when Sirius -

Yes, today at least Sirius should get what he deserves, as he never did in life. Because Harry wasn't fast enough to catch Wormtail when he had the chance, wasn't clever enough to avoid needing to catch Sirius. Which he didn't. And one year on he's no better, really, than he ever has been this past year. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours. Five hundred and twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes, give or take. Clouds rush by in the sky above him like racing cars, then slow to a crawl, time speeding and slowing as though he were on drugs instead of just messed up and messed about and wanting to be allowed to mess up, wanting absolution for messing up.

I miss him.

You missed him.

I'm sorry.

Not good enough.

It hurts.

When Harry realises he is crying, the wetness seeping down his face in tight rivulets, it feels like the end of the world, and with a flick of his wrist - nice wandwork, Mr. Potter! - he casts a quick silencing ward so that nobody can hear the sky caving in, because the Boy Who Lived has to be stronger than this, surely.

Surely.