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So I will drink and I'll pretend
I'm strong enough to handle this
To save the grace of faces I
Hope to call my friends
Harry sat in the shadows, firewhisky in his hand and an ever-present furrow in his brow. He swirled the contents of his glass, not the first of the night but also not the last. The drink that once used to burn his throat and his memories, providing him with the sweet oblivion that he so much craved wasn’t cutting it anymore. Admittedly, nothing ever did these days.
His friends were laughing merrily, animatedly describing some tale he hadn’t been paying attention to. Although Harry wasn’t sure what they were talking about he was sure of one thing, they were making a ruckus and were nothing if not unapologetic about it. Their laughter ricocheted against the hollowness of his chest. He rubbed at it, willing for the dull pain to go away.
He downed his glass in one go with practised ease, the amber liquid trying yet failing to warm his frigid insides as it trickled down his throat.
He felt eyes on him and looked up seeing none other than Hermione watching him with concern. It was always her, the one to notice his ever-changing mood shifts and sombre expression. He gave her a small smile, trying to reassure her. I’m fine, his smile said, yet his eyes told a different story.
Harry desperately wished he could have fun, that he could be amongst his friends laughing without a care. He wished that he could actually be grateful for all that had come after such a horrific past, the years following the war nothing but peaceful in their events. He was alive, he was healthy, his friends had mostly moved on and dealt with the horrors of the war and the things and people they’d lost. So why couldn’t he do the same? His relationship with Ginny hadn’t lasted, it’d shattered under the pressure of unmet expectations. She’d wanted to be with a war hero, the boy who lived. But he wasn’t that, no. He was the boy who had lived after willingly walking to his death, the boy who had lost most of his family, who had seen his friends risk their lives for him over and over. He was the boy that would still wake up most nights drenched in sweat after nightmares he couldn’t rid himself of tortured him mercilessly. He was the boy who was no longer a boy, but a man who had carried the weight of the wizarding world on his shoulders for far too many years.
Harry had found people didn’t actually want to meet him when they’d walk up to him, they only wanted the version of him that wizarding Britain had built in its papers, gossip, and post-war propaganda. He felt not even his friends knew him anymore, having pushed himself away from them, not willing to let them see just how lost he was. He didn’t want them noticing how each day brought nothing but dread, decisions he didn’t feel equipped to make painful memories, and a dread for what would await him once night came and all control over his mind would be gone.
Asking for another whiskey at the bar he let his forehead drop on his arms, grabbing a handful of his unruly hair in his hands. Harry just wanted to leave, to stop with this overly tiring facade. He very much needed to be alone in his flat, with a bottle at the ready and no prying eyes. Just him and his ever-crumbling self-esteem. He wasn’t sure he could be an aruror as he had once wished, it weighed on him too much. The flashbacks, the memories, the losses… His future was a blank canvas where pain was blinding white.
He thanked Rosmerta for his drink and straightened so he could go back to his seat when he almost ran into the one person he could never escape from.
She didn’t say anything, she didn’t need to. She just hugged him in a way that was solely hers, a promise in her arms and the way she held him -fiercely and without a hint of a doubt. She wasn’t letting him go, she never had and she never would. Hermione would anchor him to this world, to light, and to her love as long as she shall live. Harry let himself be embraced, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat and awkwardly hugging her back, trying not to dump his drink over her burgundy sweater.
It was bittersweet really, this embrace. It spoke volumes of their relationship, of the many times she’d been there for him, comforting him, making sure he wouldn’t lose himself to the cards that had been handed to him or, lately, to himself. Harry wished he could do the same for her, that he could provide at least an ounce of the comfort and safety she had always given him. He wished that he could have been there for her when she went to Australia only to have her heart broken by her own brilliancy, that when things with Ron hadn't worked out he could have reassured her she hadn’t failed as a girlfriend. He thought of the many times he had been with her but not there for her and wished he could have been a better friend.
“I’m sorry.” He needn’t explain what for, there was just far too much he was sorry for and he hoped she understood.
“I know,” She said softly, not daring to shut him up, to refute his pain. Hermione knew he needed it, apologising. She just knew by the way he’d uttered the words, a statement coming from a man that was far more broken than he’d let on, and it was the effortless and inmate way in which she knew him that made him choke up further.
So when Hermione gently took the drink out of his hand, setting it on a nearby table, without even looking at it, but still looking at him, always looking at him and looking out for him, Harry knew she was more than aware. More than aware of his dishevelled appearance most mornings, of the way he’d carry a silver flask with him most places, of the way his hands would shake and his Adam apple would bobble, foot tapping and fingers drumming… She saw the silent desperation, the way that what once had been a crutch was no longer working. And there was no judgement, not an ounce of it in Hermione’s brown eyes. There was understanding and compassion, a level of care and utter devotion he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Harry wondered who else had noticed, when would articles on the Prophet grace him with the truth he had tried so hard to avoid, the truth that was now made apparent by such a small gesture. The way he’d had to close his hand in a fist so as not to reach for the discarded glass spoke volumes. He couldn’t help but close his eyes in shame as Hermione’s gaze didn’t waver from his, even when she’d noticed the way he’d had to stop himself. She silently grabbed his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She brought it up to her chest, where her heart beat fast and steady, willing him to be just as steady.
Harry squeezed back, and with a deep breath, he opened his eyes and walked them towards their friends, to the secluded table he’d been at, to the door, to the snow-covered streets, to life. A life he hoped he could see as a gift. And as he looked to his side, to the one person who had always been there, he thought maybe he could.