Chapter Text
It was cold at the top of the Astronomy tower, and Harry knew he shouldn’t be there. More importantly, he knew he was at risk of being caught by any number of professors, ghosts, portraits, or anyone who could report how misplaced he was at this very moment. The latter concern of being found seemed more pressing to him than merely breaking his own moral code about where he should or should not be within the castle. In fact, he wasn’t sure whether he cared to live by his own moral code anymore. It hadn’t done him much good so far.
A quiet creak snapped his head around, only for him to let out a breath of relief to see it was the heavy door moving ever so slightly in the strong winds. His eyes scanned the flagstones for a final time, making sure he was absolutely alone.
What would someone say if they caught him? he wondered. Likely that Harry Potter is ‘out of bed after hours’. Harry Potter is ‘breaking the rules’. Versions of the truth, he supposed.
Maybe they’d even shout at him, and likely he’d deserve it.
Because they could never know the totality of it. That Golden Boy Harry Potter is broken. Harry Potter had always been broken. And Harry Potter was now choosing to do something about it.
He took a cautious step forward, heaving himself up onto the ledge of the tower, the vast expanse of the forbidden forest sprawling out before him. He gave a small smile at memories as they flooded past. The forest was where he had tried to save a unicorn in his first year, where he and Ron had almost been killed by giant Arachnids in their second, where he and Hermione had lured Umbridge just before he alone had done the most inconceivably reckless thing a teenager could do just last year…
He had led another to the gallows in his aid. Just like his parents. Just like Cedric. Sirius had died because he had trusted Harry and desired to save him.
He let out a sharp sob, his fingers digging sharply into his forearms.
It wasn’t just the loss of Sirius that had driven him here, though that was the most recent. He had been kept up every night of the past two weeks thinking about what his life could have been if his letter had never arrived. He, in many ways, become obsessive about it. Sure, if he were back at Little Whinging, he’d be attending St. Brutus’s Boarding School for Troubled Boys. But how was that any different from being a troubled boy at a magical boarding school? At least at St. Brutus’s, he was expected to be damaged and difficult. It was much harder to be expected to be brilliant and good when he knew he was neither.
Yes, at St. Brutus’s, Harry wouldn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders and the anchor of deaths he had caused dragging him down simultaneously. He’d be a normal British schoolboy. With friends who liked him for him and classes that taught normal subjects like English and Maths instead of defending against dark arts and transfiguring goblets into mice. He’d muggle drinks like Cola, which the Dursleys never let him have, instead of pumpkin juice, which he’d never really liked. Maybe he would even have a girlfriend who he’d sneak out with to smoke cigarettes and snog behind the bike shed. God, he’d love to have kissed someone who truly cared for him before doing this. Instead of only Cho, who liked him because he was famous and they shared trauma. What would it be like to have someone know how wretched and real you were and still want to kiss you anyway?
Harry rubbed his hands to warm them as a single tear fell down his cheek, and his numb fingers lifted to wipe at it furiously.
Harry knew that for him to have any of that normal life, he would have to let down the entire wizarding world. The same wizarding world which was waiting not-so-graciously for him, a 15-year-old, to destroy Voldemort a second time. Which was an outrageous ask of him when he didn’t even consciously do it the first time.
He ran a hand through his unruly hair. As usual, he hadn’t thought to brush it, so his trembling fingers caught and snagged through the tresses. The Dursleys never taught him basic grooming, preferring to just buzz-cut his hair whenever it was unsightly. He never ingrained the habit of brushing it himself. Glancing down at the distant stones beneath the tower, he spared a thought for whoever would find him and felt a vague tug of guilt that he’d have messy hair when they did.
The wind whipped at his robes, so he pulled them tighter around himself, not wanting to be blown off unexpectedly before he was ready. He choked out a laugh at the thought that he was concerned about accidentally dying early. He thought briefly about taking off the school robes.
Is it rude to die in my school uniform? he wondered.
He’d probably prefer to die in the oversized Muggle clothing he had on underneath. That felt more true to whichever version of him had walked here tonight and was finally going through with all of this. In the end, he decided that the robes might cover some of the damage to his body after the fall, and that seemed like the kindest outcome of all.
He took in a deep breath and let himself run through the checklist in his head again.
Letter to Hermione and Ron- check
Letter to Dumbledore and McGonagall- check
Note regarding his last will and testament- check
Tidy his four-poster and trunk- check
There were other people he could have left notes for, of course. But it seemed an insult to write to Professor Lupin in the wake of the loss of his best friend. If Harry was honest with himself, he had come to suspect that the relationship between the two men had been more intimate than merely friendship. He wasn’t sure if they had shacked up before or after Sirius' Azkaban stint, but after Hermione mentioned their chemistry to Harry, it had become undeniable. Though the two men had indeed denied it, inasmuch as they’d never made a whisper of it publicly.
Harry assumed Professor Lupin must be devastated beyond belief, and he didn’t want to add to that by giving the man more tragic last words to echo in his head. Harry wondered what Sirius’ last words might have been to Lupin. Were they the words of two soldiers going into battle? Or two lovers wanting to see each other safely through another skirmish? Harry felt a bit stupid for not realising the connection between the two men sooner. He’d never seen a relationship between two men before, and the other relationships he’d seen were from a distance and hadn’t exactly been the most romantic. In retrospect, their stolen glances and constant proximity between them had been electric to anyone who noticed. And Hermione always noticed.
It had been particularly hard to avoid her figuring out his plan, especially over the last week. He had to make a conscious effort to attend meals in the Great Hall and to engage in conversations. His only reprieve from the performance was in the dormitory. Ron was a good friend but not a perceptive one. Even with Hermione undoubtedly whispering in his ear for things to look out for, Ron would simply take Harry’s hollow verbal reassurances at face value. This was to the great relief of both of them, though the guilt had started to gnaw at Harry’s stomach lining to the point that he found himself hunched over the toilet bowl, retching, after Ron had fallen asleep. Moments like that, he was grateful to be a wizard– when he could use his magic to silence the bathroom. Yes, magic was useful for concealment and distraction.
Harry rubbed at his eyes and looked out at the moon. It was a crescent. His mind drifted again to Professor Lupin and what he’d think of the scene Harry was about to cause. Another pang of guilt for not having written to the man who had already been through so much. Harry reasoned that though Professor Lupin had been a friend of his father’s, he, Harry, had only known him as a teacher. A good teacher, but not even a current one. It would be strange for him to write to the man about this. Even though he felt certain that the action he was about to complete would upset the man terribly, no matter what platitudes he tried to put down on parchment.
He felt much the same about all the rest of them. Even in the letters he did write, he hadn’t tried to include too many sentiments shaped like ‘sorry’, but rather explanations of his rationale. Which he hoped would be enough for them not to remember him in unlimited fury. Pity, he reasoned, might be okay. But for those he was leaving behind to hate him? That would be the truest torture. One he thought he likely deserved, given the trail of destruction his life had caused, but one he was too cowardly to face.
He pulled the shard of mirror Sirus had given him from deep in his robe pocket and held it out so he could see his face one last time. His father’s face and his mother’s eyes. He held his chin and tilted the face from side to side, inspecting his cheeks. His face had never been his own since he’d joined the wizarding world. Maybe if he’d been a normal muggle boy, he’d have been spared the constant comparisons and the accompanying reminders of how far short he fell of the heroic two people with whom he shared this face.
“Goodbye, Harry,” he whispered to the reflection, who replied with a sad smile. He returned the mirror to his pocket and took a deep breath, his arms out to his sides like he was about to take flight, his head tilted back so he could see only the stars glittering across the skies of the Scottish highlands.
“Mr Potter,” came a voice from the shadows behind him.
Harry’s head snapped forward. His heart leapt into his throat.
The voice was familiar in a way that made his blood run cold.
Snape.
For a moment, he stood stuck, mind whirling with uncertainty about what to do. He could pitch himself forward quickly, but Snape would surely cast a spell to prevent a fatality. And he could hardly deny his intent after that.
No. That wouldn’t do.
How long had Snape been there, though? Long enough for him to hear Harry say his farewell in the mirror? That would be hard to explain away. With a gulp, he decided that quick talking was the only way out. With a final yearning look at the ground below the Astronomy Tower, he smoothed the front of his robes and turned to face Snape.
“Evening, Professor,” he said, leaping lightly down from the ledge to stand in front of him.
Snape's eyes were sharp, but his face unreadable in the shadowy moonlight. Harry’s skin prickled nervously.
“Out after hours, Mr Potter.” His voice was low. Harry felt a large stone fall into the pit of his stomach.
“Yes, sir. Just clearing my head. I’ll be going back to my dorm-” He had started walking towards the stairs, but Snape’s hand flung out, catching him in the chest and stopping him in his tracks.
“What were you doing, Potter?” Snape asked.
“I’ve already told you, Professor,” he said through gritted teeth. “I was clearing–”
“I know what you said.” Snape took a step closer to him, his palm still flat against Harry’s chest. “But I wish to hear the truth.” His voice was even, but Harry could hear a rumble threatening to bubble out from beneath the words.
“That is the truth,” he insisted.
“Do not lie to me,” he seethed. Snape’s hand on Harry’s chest clenched, fisting Harry’s robes. Harry let out a little yelp, looking up at the dark eyes in confusion.
“What are you–”
Snape cut him off. “Come, Potter.”
And before he could protest, Harry was being dragged by the front of his robes down the stairs of the Astronomy Tower.
“Where are you taking me?” Harry cried, his feet stumbling as he tried to keep up with the gliding man's impossible speed.
“Quiet, Potter. You’ll wake the castle.” Snape stopped for a moment and pulled Harry towards him, black eyes boring into green. “Unless that’s what you were hoping to achieve?” It wasn’t sarcastic; his tone seemed to be genuinely enquiring. So much so that Harry almost forgot his plan to deny everything.
“No, sir,” he replied breathlessly.
“I thought not,” Snape said with a low groan before resuming his tugging of Harry, now down a long corridor at the entrance to the dungeons.
Harry’s eyes widened. He thought he was being taken to the headmaster, or at least McGonagall. He did not want to be alone in the dungeons with Snape. He grabbed the man’s hand and started to pull at it.
“Let me go. No! NO! I’m not going with you–”
Snape batted Harry’s hands away and pushed him back against the wall. His eyes were wild.
“Potter, will you pull yourself together?” His voice was a harsh whisper. “We can, of course, discuss your suicidality out here in the open, but I am making an educated guess that you would prefer not to confer about such matters in so public a place,” he spat. Harry could feel the warmth of the man’s breath on his cheek and the pressure of Snape’s hand pressing harder into him, his back now cold against the stone wall. “Could your enormous ego do us the courtesy of taking a backseat for but a moment? Perhaps then we could have a civilised discussion and decide on next steps.”
Harry looked down from his position pinned to a dungeon wall, stared pointedly at Snape’s hands still twisted painfully in his shirt, and raised a quizzical brow at the Potion’s Master.
Snape sighed and released the shirt, but did not release Harry. Instead, his hand moved to grasp Harry’s shoulder, where it took over directing Harry down the corridor to the door he recognised as Snape’s office. Harry groaned as he was shoved inside.