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Chapter Text

So, for once in my life, let me get what I want. Lord knows it would be the first time 

Harry knows it's not real. 

He repeats it over and over. 

Not real. Not real. Not real.

But the cupboard smells the very same as he remembered. Mold and dirt wafting into his nose. He'd know it blind.

The house sounds the same, footsteps and conversations. One stair slightly creaking towards the bottom of the steps. 

Harry had warned the twins about it, when they'd come to rescue him and bring him to Hogwarts. They had thanked him after, they all would've surely gotten caught a lot sooner if Harry hadn't.

It feels the same here too. 

Just as joyless and lifeless. 

A personal hell. 

"Just for you."

A voice whispers, sounding both far and like it's caressing Harry's ear. He can't escape the voice. It's a presence in his mind. 

Who did it belong to again? 

He feels like he's forgotten something terribly important. But anytime he goes searching, sharp claws seem to dig impossibly deep into his brain and tear him back down into a void. 

All there is, is Harry, the cupboard, the voice. 

He's begun counting his heart beat. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

His fingers bouncing with the pulse on his wrist. 

He realized when he reached exactly 87 beats after he started, someone came down the stairs. 

It's his Aunt. He knows her feet, her steps. How much weight she puts down, a significant amount less then her son or husband. When she reaches to that creaking bottom step, Harry can hear it. And he knows she's close. 

Everytime, his palms begin to sweat. His spine curves inwards so that he is nearly a ball.

'Don't see me.' He thinks everytime. 'Don't notice me. Don't open the door. Leave me be.' 

It's a plea, a little boy begging. 

Everytime his ears track her steps as she walks through few feet to his cupboard. Then they stop. 

And then it would begin on a loop. 

No matter how many times it happened, he's always sure this time, Aunt Petunia will unlock the door. He wants the light he knows is on the other side. 

He fears the pain and ridicule that accompanies it.

He will never have one without the other. 

Before- was there a before? Was there anything outside of this constant state of darkness and terror? 

Not real.

But how does he know? It feels rather real. 

What else could it be, if it wasn't real? 

He counts the beats again. 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

87. Steps at the top of the stairs.

His throat tightens and he squeezes his eyes shut. 

It won't save him. Even if he makes himself as unthreatening as possible, he will only be seen as a monster. 

A beast in his cage. 

He is nothing but a burden, a sick and pitiful animal taken in. 

Down the steps, one, two, three....

The creak. 

Again and again. 

Until it changes. 

Sirius is falling through the Veil. 

Over and over. 

Everytime, Harry thinks, 'I can save him. I just have to be faster.' 

His feet move, they're like lead in his shoes, weighing him down. 

His fingers are straining, reaching, so close.

He gets so close. 

But Sirius is always just out of reach. 

Arms grab him, 'Remus Lupin' Harry is sure, that's how this memory goes. Remus grabs him. 

But when Harry turns, icy blue eyes meet his. 

And over again it goes. 

Useless. Weak. Unworthy. 

Harry doesn't want to lose Sirius. He loves him like he'd never loved anyone before. This was a future, a home. A promise. But it slips away.

He'll never save Sirius. No matter what he does. 

It's a terrible truth, one he was sure he'd accepted.

At least, he thought he did?  

But he doesn't accept it here. Like he can't. Like every insecurity and fear and loss was filling up his heart and mind, he couldn't escape it. 

Over and over. 

He runs and reaches and is grabbed and twists around. 

Everytime he sees that it is not Remus holding him, the arms are too bruising. The eyes different. This person smiles. Remus didn't smile. How could he have, when he'd just witnessed Sirius die? 

Eventually, his brain tells him something strange is going on.  It latches onto inconsistencies.

That Sirius died, and Harry ran after Bellatrix Lestrange. 

But then the thought floats away a feather on the breeze. 

Everything changes again.

"I just thought you would've told me" 

Ron is exactly as he remembers, though he's not sure why he would've forgotten. He's tall, but still fourteen years old. Freckles and slightly crooked teeth. Harry's best friend. 

But his blue eyes are filled with contempt. 

"Told you what?" Harry asks. He feels like he'd asked it a million times before, like it was an echo. 

He's making his bed down for sleep. The motions are easy, repetitive. Fluff the pillow, pull the blanket down. Smooth out the sheet. 

He never sits down though, doesn't crawl beneath the blankets. It's a comfort he's not allowed. 

Not allowed? He's not sure what he means, he only knows it's the truth. 

Harry only stares across at the other bed in which Ron Weasley is under his covers, arms crossed. 

He's never looked at Harry like that. Like he's an enemy. 

It reminds him of a different time, a different place. Another school in which he was shunned. His cousin steering anyone and everyone away from him. 

"The Freak."  The voice laughs, the presence twisting like a coiled snake around him. 

If he focuses, he can feel another presence, one that feels much less sadistic and cruel in comparison to its counterpart. A presence that seems to merely observe. But when the snake whispers that name, and Harry's heart sinks, the second presence, the Watcher, shifts minutely. 

Harry doesn't know what it means. What they are. Or how he even knows they're there. But he does. 

It's like hearing his own voice in his head, feeling his own presence in his body. He has to feel them because there is nothing else to feel. They are as much a part of him as his bones. 

But Harry focuses on Ron instead. Ron who he wants to reach out and hold. He feels like he hasn't seen him in so very long, but he's been in this place so many times before. 

It's all contradictory. It makes no sense. 

"That you were going to put your name in. How'd you do it anyway? Did you ask another student?" His words slice Harry open. 

He doesn't believe me that I didn't put my name in the Goblet of Fire. His best friend didn't believe him. 

"I didn't put my name in. I don't know how it happened." His voice is practically begging. 

But Ron only narrows his eyes further, a level of rage and hate that Harry never thought he'd seen directed at him by the boy. 

He wants to explain. His words are clawing at his throat. 

But he never gets the chance. It starts again. 

He's being pulled deep beneath the water. Grindylows digging sharp claws into everywhere they can reach, tentacles wrapping around his throat and legs and he can't get free.

He tries to take solace in the fact the Ron and Gabrielle are safe and up at the surface, but when water is filling his lungs, it's hard to feel much of anything but paralyzing fear. 

Harry is going to die beneath these waves. 

Deeper and deeper he sinks. 

A voice reminds him that he survived this. But that voice is hushed quickly by the snake. 

The Watcher does as he always has, and watches. 

They are the water around him, the seaweed, the rocks. They're nothing more then beings that are so completely other from Harry. 

Deeper and deeper. His head feels about to burst, he can't help but suck in more water, desperate for air. 

But there is nothing but the darkness.

The slap is painful. Sharp. It lingers on his cheek. 

He feels a drop of blood, pulls his hand away, and watches the red come away with it. 

Aunt Petunia doesn't not look at her own hand it horror the way Harry is looking at his. It doesn't matter that she has caused this pain and blood. 

There is no apology in her eyes. Even when Harry's well up with tears. Ones he cannot help.

He's so very small. 

He can't even reach the counter tops yet. 

But he knows what his blood looks like when his cheek is sliced open by his Aunt ring when she slaps him. 

The Watcher looks on, there's something new there though. Something shocked. 

The Snake only smiles in a way that true snakes cannot. 

Harry knows them as nothing else but what they are though. 

At least, he doesn't think he does. 

He's far too focused on his blood, the pain, and trying not to cry too hard unless he wishes to go to the cupboard without food. 

He's very hungry. It gnaws away within him, twists around to tell him he hasn't eaten in two days. 

Harry berates himself. He shouldn't of asked the question. He knows his Aunt and Uncle hate when he asks questions. This is his fault.

He mutters a quick apology, and scurries off out into the garden. 

The flowers here do not mean to cut into his hands, they do not intend to cause him the pain they do, not like his Aunt did. 

There is small comfort in them today though.

They look duller than they should. Like they haven't been watered. Or like color was just not as bright as it used to be. 

Used to be? 

His mother is screaming.

It's echoing in his head, bouncing around and settling within him until he feels as if it's bleeding from his ears. 

"She's dead because of you, you know....tragic. A beauty, lost to the world because she went and gave life to a creature such as you."

He wants to scream at the voice, the Snake. To tell it that his mother loved him. That he was sorry. That he mourned her. Missed her. That not a day went by that he didn't wish she was alive. That he'd trade himself for her in a heartbeat. 

But his mouth won't open. The screams get louder.

Harry feels like the torture curse is being used on him. His blood boiling within his body. 

The only real stable thing is the solid stone beneath him. He doesnt know where he is. Only that his fingers touch the stone ground, and its cold.

The pain amplifies, Harrys back arches in agony.

The Watcher looks away. 

Draco Malfoy is bleeding out on the floor. 

He didn't know. He didn't know what the spell would do. He didn't think. 

He'd only followed Draco into this bathroom to confront him, to prove that he wasn't crazy, that the young Malfoy was a Death Eater, only in Hogwarts to do the bidding of the Dark Lord. 

These last months, Hermione and Ron had called him crazy often. They said it a bit softer, trying to prevent any serious hurt. But they didn't believe him. They didn't trust him. After everything he'd done and been through with and for them. 

And still, they didn't believe him. 

Was he always doomed to repeat these moments? His worst hurts or mistakes. Over and over. 

But this was all he knew. Had ever known. There was nothing else. 

Even if something wriggled in disagreement within him. 

All he could see was red. Blood spilling out among water and stone. 

They'd nearly destroyed the bathroom in their fight. 

Toilet stalls were blown apart, porcelain shattered across the floor. 

His heart had been pumping in his chest, adrenaline and fear, the desire to protect the school all rushing through him.

Draco had raised his wand, the words forming, "Cruc-"

But Harry didn't let him finish. The spell was out before Harry's brain could catch up. 

Then Dracos white shirt had sliced open, his chest with it. Deep cuts forming all along his body. 

In horror, Harry dropped his wand and fell to his knees, desperately trying to stop the bleeding, to hold the boy together. 

Because that's what he was. A boy. Just like Harry. Though Harry had never felt much like a child, always forced to grow up.

It had never occurred to him until that moment that perhaps Draco was being forced into this as well. 

"Pl-please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." 

"A monster. Your touch brings corruption and ruin. Look what you've done. Look at what you are." 

The Snake coils itself around Harry's throat and tightens. 

He doesn't even try to pull it off.

This is what he deserves. 

His Father drops down dead at the base of the stairs. 

Over and over and over. 

The words. A flash of green. A body hitting the ground. 

Harry can't change it. He can't save him. It's his fault. He knows it as absolute truth. 

He's brought Death to the doorstep of every person he loves. 

Over and over and over. 

Peter Pettigrews voice is like sandpaper to his ears. 

But its his words that cause Harry the most grief.

"Avada Kedavra"

The life leaves Cedric Diggorys eyes, and Harry feels suddenly untethered. Lost in his grief, nothing left to tie him to existence. 

It feels so different from losing a friend, but he refuses to name it. 

He's all of fourteen, but all at once he feels much younger and so very old. 

He does not fight when he is dragged to a tall grave statue. Does not kick when he's tied to it. He does fight a bit when some piece of fabric is shoved in his mouth. 

The rat deserves to hear his pain, his screams. He doesn't get to escape what he's done. The lives he's stolen from Harry. So many lives. 

The ropes around him reveal themselves to be the Snake. He simply tightens around Harry, and watches the scene unfold. 

This is not the first time. It won't be the last. 

Like grief, the wound reopens. Over and over.

No escape.

There is nothing but this. 

He's never been as afraid as he is now, seeing the body of Cedric on the ground as Pettigrew completes a ritual to bring his master back to life. The man who slaughtered his parents, who stole away the childhood Harry was meant to have. 

When the rat approaches him, a knife held in his hand, glittering in the light of the fire and moon, and when he slices it into Harry's forearm, the pain plays on repeat. 

Over and over the knife is dug into his arm.

Over and over he feels his skin split open, the blood welling up and dripping down to the graveyard dirt floor beneath him. 

Perhaps if he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself somewhere else. 

But while he was always good at imagining himself somewhere better while he was locked away in the cupboard, here he doesn't have the safety of familiarity. 

The Devil you know and all that...

The Snake turns its head to him, as if he can hear Harry's thoughts and he's intrigued. Strange reaction from a snake that is not a snake. 

Harry knows the Watcher is around here, usually he stands still and witnesses, but in this downward spiral of lives and memories, he's begun to wander. To walk around and get every angle. 

It's a bit offputting. 

But he's long forgotten why the Watcher and Snake are here. What they mean, who they are. 

Now they simply exist as Harry does. 

Voldemort emerges from the cauldron.

Less than human. Monstrous. Wrong.

He is skin and bones, pale to the point of reflecting moonlight. His fingers are skeletal, long with sharp pointed nails. He has no hair and his nose is two slits on his face. 

Snake-like. 

The Snake around him, is fascinated. This isn't the first time they've been here, they've seen this. Over and over. And everytime the Snake seems focused on the Dark Lord. 

It revels in the dark magic the man displays, the way he speaks to his Death Eaters, the way he looks at Harry. 

It hisses out laughter when Harry's body bends and tries to fight against the pain. 

Over and over. 

He never gets to stand up and fight. Hes only brought back to where he and Cedric are dropped in the graveyard. 

He watches Cedric die. He's tied up. He's tortured. There is nothing more.

2 months 13 days 

That's how long Harry's been in his coma. How long Sam has waited, hoping for his friend to wake up. 

But nothing changes. 

Harry breathes and his heart beats, but he's still on the cot downstairs in the panic room. They keep him there in case something happens, it's the safest place. 

Bobby had suggested a hospital, but Dean had only snapped out a "No." And carried Harry downstairs. 

A little after Harry had first....fell asleep, Castiel had suddenly disappeared, he showed up an hour later, back to being an angel with no knowledge of how or why. 

Dean had practically dragged the angel by his coat to Harry. 

"Heal him."

"Dean- I can't. This isn't something to heal."

"I don't fucking care. Figure it out."

Castiels blue eyes had been sad, Sam knew he wanted to heal Harry, that if he could, he would've in a heartbeat. He tried not to feel his own disappointment that the angel couldn't help Harry. Understanding it wasn't Castiels fault.

His brother, who looked disheveled and far more distressed than Sam had seen him since their father died, did not understand however. 

Or maybe he was too far gone in his grief to even try. 

Dean stalked forward, and threw a hard punch at Castiels jaw. 

To the angels credit, he didn't flinch or even raise his hands. He only took the blow. 

"Fuck you, Castiel."

Sam had grabbed Dean, making sure he didn't go for another hit, and he tried to soothe his brothers anger. 

"Its not his fault, Dean and you know it. You're upset okay, we all are but we need to get Harry somewhere safe."

Harry's safety clearly took priority to his brother because he immediately was lifting him into his arms, Sam's heart dropping at how suddenly small and dead the wizard looked laying limp in Deans arms. 

God, why did he do this?

Sam could've gone in. He could've dragged Lucifer and Michael down into the pit. Why did Harry sacrifice himself? 

But he knew why, because Harry cared about him. And Dean. And Bobby and Cas.

He wanted all of them to be safe, it didn't matter if that safety included him or not. 

The first few days after it all happened had felt like they'd all been suspended in air, waiting for a drop. 

Castiel told them there was now a power vacuum in heaven and he needed to fight, to remake Heaven as its meant to be. 

Especially since the opposing force was the Archangel Raphael who wished to restart the apocalypse which means that the angel wanted Harry. 

Somehow, word got back to Heaven that Harry had taken down the Devil and Archangel Michael. Though no one knew how.

Except them, of course. 

For a week after, they all thought Harry would wake up any day, he had to. 

Dean spent those days drinking a bit more and spending as much time as possible by Harry's bedside. 

It was week two where things started going downhill. 

Dean wanted to go back to hunting, trying to ignore what he was feeling, Sam knew the trick well. 

"Dean, You're not ready to be hunting again, we need to rest. We deserve it, don't you think Harry would-"

He never got to finish, because his brother had whipped around and had him pinned up to the hallway wall in the next second, his arm pressed against Sam's neck. Not enough to hurt, but a warning. Sam went completely still, staring at his brother who's face was set in a steel rage. 

"Don't talk about him. I'm going hunting, I need to kill something. I'm fine. Now, are you coming or not?"

Sam was going of course. His brothers stupidity while emotional was going to get him killed. 

Harry would be pissed if he woke up and Dean was dead . 

They started back on hunting.

Sam never mentioned how Dean couldn't sleep without at least a few glasses of whiskey. Or how he would wake up from his nightmares, Harry's name on his lips. 

Or how he still turned lamps on. 

How he still refused to sleep in a bed, always taking the couch. 

Dean continued to run himself into the ground. As more weeks passed by, he kept making stupid mistakes and getting injured. 

Any time Sam tried to get him to talk, to admit that Harry's condition was affecting him being he was fucking in love with the wizard and wouldn't acknowledge it, Dean would storm out before he even got the first few words out. 

He felt entirely useless. 

He hated seeing his brother like this. He hated that his friend was in a coma, trapped in his own head with the devil, probably suffering in ways Sam couldn't imagine. 

He hated that the more time passed, the more Sam kept thinking it was his fault. 

Harry did this so Sam wouldn't risk himself. 

He doesn't know whether that makes him angry at Harry or not. 

He's grateful, and guilty. But in a small way, he thinks it upsets him that Harry took his place in this way. 

But maybe that wasn't fair to Harry. 

He gave up peace to help them, he promised them he'd save them, and he did. 

Sam can't be angry at him for that. 

But anytime he thought of Harry going through some kind of hell in his head, never able to escape it, he felt sick to his stomach. 

He couldn't imagine what Dean felt. 

Dean who looked at Harry like he hung the moon and stars in the sky but was too stubborn and repressed to admit it to himself or anyone else. 

Dean who never let anyone but Sam and Bobby in, who had begun to let Harry in. 

Harry made Dean happier than Sam had seen him in years. 

And that happiness was gone. 

It made sense that it was eating Dean up.

What made it all worse was that Dean was probably still ignoring his own feelings. As usual. 

He'd at least softened a bit towards Cas instead of holding onto the stupid grudge because Castiel couldn't heal Harry. 

They all continued to research though. Constantly digging through books upon books. 

His brother spent hours at Bobby's just reading, more than be ever had before.

But this wasn't their usual case.

This was Harry. 

It had been over three months since they had found the ressurection stone. Three months of knowing they could talk to Harry again, but deciding to wait. To let him rest and let themselves heal. 

But Ron missed him. So bloody much. 

He couldn't sleep. 

Everytime he closed his eyes he saw Harry's face the last time they saw him alive. 

He saw Harry's face, cold and lifeless in Hagrids arms. 

His thoughts never strayed far from his best friend. 

Everything made him think of him. Everything was a reminder. 

How was he supposed to heal from this when everywhere he looked, he saw all the places that Harry wasn't.

So, maybe they would disagree, but Ron decided he couldn't wait any longer, he got Hermione, Luna, and Neville, and told them they were going back to the forest. 

They were going to use the stone. 

Chapter Text

You see him when you close your eyes

Maybe one day you'll understand why

Everything you touch surely dies

Dean is 8 years old and thinks that nothing in the world could hurt more than his Fathers indifference. 

The time John Winchester catches him kissing another boy, he learns he was very very wrong. 

It had been curiosity more than anything else. 

All the other kids had started kissing eachother. Small little cheek or lip pecks, just because they were kids and it was a part of growing up.

He'd already kissed a few girls, so when his classmate Jeremy offered a kiss, Dean didn't see the big deal. 

Maybe he shouldn't have done it outside the motel him, His dad, and Sammy were staying at. 

But Jeremy only lived a block away, and they'd walked together home a few times since Deans dad had dragged them here three weeks ago. 

Another hunt, another lead about Mom. 

Dean was just happy they were spending a little longer in this town, that way he could have a friend like Jeremy. 

Jeremy, who had leaned forward and kissed Dean quickly on the lips, they both pulled away after, giggling. 

Just two kids, stupid little kids. 

Then John appeared. 

His face was nearly purple with rage, he said nothing as he grabbed Dean by his arm, large hand wrapping entirely around Deans much smaller upper arm, and dragged him away to their motel room.

Jeremy was left the standing there staring after him. Dean wouldn't see him again. 

Sam, thankfully, was at a daycare of some kind, he hadn't started school yet and John couldn't watch him during the day so he'd reluctantly signed him up for the daycare. 

So his brother wasn't there to witness the way Dean was thrown into the room, landing painfully on his left wrist, turning his wide eyes to his Father. 

The slap to his face wasn't anything new, only he didn't understand what he did to deserve it this time. 

When John started spouting off about how his son wouldn't be some 'cocksucking fag', but Dean didnt know what it meant. 

Then his Father grabbed him by his hair, ignoring Deans cry of pain or how tears began to well up in his eyes, and pulled him up. 

"Wanna tell me why I caught you and that little bitch-boy kissing? Huh?" 

He tries to explain, but he chokes on the words.

His explanations won't matter anyway, they never do. 

Reasoning with John when he's like this is like reasoning with the bear that has its teeth in your leg. 

When Sam gets home an hour later, all four years old and concerned little brother asking Dean why he had a bruise on his cheek and why he wasn't using his left hand, Dean would only give him a smile and make him dinner. 

John wouldn't come back until late the next day. 

They left the town right after he did, scrambling to pack their things. 

If kissing a boy led his father to hurt him like that, Dean vows to never do it again. He'll be perfect. 

Anything less is unacceptable. 

John Winchester teaches Dean a lot more than just how wrong he is for wanting to kiss a boy. 

Dean learns how to properly hold a gun and shoot at age 5. The shotgun recoil hurts, he almost screams the first time. His father hits the back of his head and tells him to hold it tighter to himself, to lift it up more and stop crying. 

It doesnt matter that Dean is very small and the gun is heavy. 

In this moment, Dean begins to learn that crying will get him punished and pain is unimportant as long as you get the job done. 

He takes Dean on his first true hunt at 11. He hasn't yet hit puberty and he barely comes up to his father's chest. 

But he sees a dead body, he feels blood on his hands. 

He witnesses his father kill what looks like a person but he knows is a vampire. 

It still leaves him with nightmares, no matter if his father says it was a monster and needed to die. 

Dean can't get the womans screams out of his head more months. 

He learns to be quiet after waking up from the nightmares, if his father is in the room and awake, Dean will be yelled at. If hes asleep and Dean wakes him up, he'll wish hed only been yelled at.

His job is to watch Sammy, take care of him, always put him first. Its a job he sees as an honor and he never wavers from that position if protector. 

Not even when his Uncle Bobby tries to get him to let loose and be a kid the few times the brothers stay with him and John goes off. 

Sometimes Dean thinks of his father as the monster under the bed, or in the closet. Always watching him, never letting him feel safe. 

He doesnt say those thoughts out loud, and he berates himself whenever he thinks them. 

Deans attractions to other boys, men, leaves him constantly at war with himself. 

'It's only puberty' He reasons in his head. 'Nothing else.' 

But he always feels like a liar. 

He throws the thoughts away into a box, he channels every bit of repression and anger and self hate into hunting monsters and fucking women, as soon as he's old enough of course. 

Anytime he finds himself truly longing to touch hard chest instead of soft breast, he remembers his father's rage. 

It's not difficult to steer himself away. 

The thoughts make him feel unnatural or wrong. Like some part of him was made incorrectly. 

It had to be that, why would his father say the words so full of disgust if it wasn't wrong to be those things. 

He just has to stop thinking about it. He has to keep them in that little box. 

Love is a concept that Dean never put any true weight behind. 

Love was Sammy, his dimpled cheeks and brown eyes and joyful laugh. His little brother. The person he has to protect. That's the only person Dean is completely utterly sure he loves. 

He respects his father. He wants to love him too.

He hates himself for everytime he thinks he falls too short of the actual loving part.

His Uncle Bobby is caring and warm, he tells Dean he's proud of him and he doesn't even say it sarcastically. So Deans pretty sure he loves him. Very sure. 

But that was family love. 

Romantic? 

He's unsure if he's capable of it. He thinks that anytime he tries, he can't quite get it right. 

After a string of one night stands and failed attempts, Dean comes to the conclusion that maybe he can love, but he's incapable of being loved back. 

It's the only explanation. 

He is all jagged edges and his father's anger, it's been passed down to him and though it's ill-fitting like the older man's leather jacket, he wears it anyway. 

Dean is a mess of bad decisions and insecurities and wounds he can never seem to heal, if he even acknowledges they exist in the first place. 

So it makes sense, that he's unlovable. 

A law of the universe. Indisputable.

It hurts just a bit though.

When Sam leaves for college and his father disappears soon after, leaving Dean to hunt alone, he finds it hurts a lot more because there's a silence left behind in which he can hear himself screaming. 

But it's fine. He's a grown man. It's fine. 

The first person he thinks he falls in love with is a woman named Cassie. 

She's a spitfire and she sets Dean ablaze everytime she glances his way. 

They're love is entirely made of flames, and it burns up as quick as it was lit. 

But she's the first person who tells him she loves him besides his family members, and a desperate part of him locked those words up and hoards them like a dragon. 

When his Dad gets hurt and needs him, he decides to tell Cassie who he really is. 

It doesn't go well. 

So every wall he'd started bringing down brick by brick rebuilds itself. He doesn't put up a fight.

Then there's Lisa. 

Lisa was funny and kind. She lit up the room when she walked in and soothed a few of his broken parts like warm water in a bath, letting Dean sink down into it.

But when she touches him, it's too gentle. He doesn't feel worthy of it, of the normality she offers. 

And he's not sure he wants it anyway. 

Dean wasn't made for oceans pulling him out to sea, and Lisa's blue eyes drown him. 

His life was a litany of dirt roads and bloody wounds, and at the time, 22 years old and more scar tissue than man, Dean isn't ready for something so soft.

He doesn't let himself open the box again until he knows he's gonna die and his father is long gone. 

It's cowardly, he knows, but it doesn't matter when he's only got a year left to live. 

In between throwing himself into danger, fighting his brother about the demon deal, and trying not to think of the inevitability of hell, Dean goes to a gay bar.

It's small, a hole in a wall really, and there are very few people there, but it works. It doesn't overwhelm him. 

He'd been fighting with himself to go to one for weeks. Back and forth. 

Finally, he'd just blurted out to Sam one night while they were readying for bed, "What if I fucked a guy?"

Crude. And not really what he'd meant to ask, but the point was clear, the effort was there. He deserves some credit. 

Sam had blinked owlishly at him for a moment, shirt half way unbuttoned. 

"Uh...what?"

But Dean wasn't repeating it. His back was tense and he refuses to meet his brothers eyes. 

He was too afraid that he'd look and see the same disgust and hate that he'd seen at 8 years old in his fathers eyes. 

But Sam was always so much better than John. Than Dean. 

"I don't care, just don't bring him back here, I'm tired as hell and I don't want to have to go on a drive or something while you get some." 

And that was that. 

So, feeling a bit braver and lighter with his brothers support, Dean went to the bar. 

The first time, he was hit on and flirted a bit, but didn't do much more than that, self hate still roiling around in his gut. 

He found other bars in other towns and kept going. 

Around the fifth time, Dean kissed another man. 

It was much different then the chaste childlike kiss with Jeremy. 

This was full of heat and desire, it was another man Deans lips were pressed against. 

The guy was the same height as Dean, and just as muscled, it was strange at first to feel the hard lines instead of supple curves. 

They didn't have sex, but Dean felt a bit more accepting of himself after. 

Eventually, when Sam mentioned it again, Dean was able to get the words out completely.

"I like guys, too. Both."

His brother had tried to get sappy, wanting to hug him, but Dean had shoved him and told him no Chick flick moments. 

Dean finally had sex with another man 5 months before going to hell. And three more times after that. 

Sometimes he still thought that it was wrong what he was doing, that his father would hate him, but when he saw same sex couples on the street, happy and in love, he never looked at them as wrong. 

So he let go of it, the grip his father's reaction had on his very being. He had to. 

Going to hell would be punishment enough for whatever sins God and his father had decided he was committing.

After hell, he feels like an open wound. Every touch of fresh air stinging across him. 

He's used to hurt and pain, it's the only thing that has felt consistent his entire life. 

He's used to just going through the motions, getting through the day. 

But he starts to want more. 

He has a second chance at life, and even if he wasn't one to be hopeful and sunshine rainbow unicorn shit, a part of him didn't want to squander it all. 

Of course, that's when he learns why he was brought out of Hell. What he's expected to do. What his little brother is expected to do. 

The days felt longer, he felt so much older and so tired of it all. 

Then after a trip to the past where he once again learned that he couldn't stop destiny or change fate, a man covered in dirt and blood dropped down from the sky in his motel room.

Harry Potter. 

Harry looked haunted. 

It was the only word Dean could use to describe him.

He looked tired and sad and plagued with his own demons. 

But he still sat and told them everything about himself and his life, opening up to virtual strangers only because he wanted to help. 

Because he was good.

Harry had given up his happiness, the thing he's apparently spent his short life clawing and fighting for, just to give them a chance at theirs.

It was fucking stupid if you asked Dean. 

Stupid and heroic and Dean can't help but be drawn in.

Harry reminds Dean of lightning striking.

He's bright and brilliant and while he can be threatening, he also lights up the darkness. 

He reminds Dean of pure sunlight as well, especially when he smiles. 

Harry is incredibly understanding and comforting to be around. He's magic, in the idiotic disgustingly romantic sense of the word. Dean hates him for how easy it is to talk to him, to be beside him. 

Deans never felt so equal with someone. So understood as well, even if Dean doesn't give Harry his entire life story, he feels as if it's not necessary. 

The wizard is funny, and he's gentle despite his life filled with war and blood. It hasn't ruined him. 

Dean wonders if it'll be him that ruins Harry, the way he ruins everything else. 

When he sees Harry lying still on the cot, he thinks he already has. 

Harry's hands are burning Professor Quirells face. Anywhere his skin touches the man. 

He's a murderer at 11 years old. 

The burnt skin from the man seems to choke him, it covers him like a layer of blood. 

It doesn't matter that this man was going to kill him, it doesn't matter that he didn't mean to burn the man alive with his touch alone. 

It doesn't matter, he's a murderer all the same. 

That night replays. 

Over and over. 

Only this time, it's just when he's alone. 

He doesn't enter the trapdoor with Ron and Hermione, or fly after the keys, or play chess. 

It begins the moment he passes through the fire, he can't even turn back to get another look at Hermione for strength.

Utterly alone. 

Though, maybe not. 

The Watcher walks beside him, the Snake is twisting himself on top of the mirror of erised.

But they're always there, the same way his internal thoughts are. 

He feels all the pain from this night over and over again.

When Quirell grabs him and his little body is thrown harshly on to the stone stairs. 

When he tries to choke him before Harry's hands can push him away.

The heat of the fires surrounding them.

After so many times, Harry considers not fighting. 

Then he wonders why he'd think that? 

He's fought before and survived. After this he'd wake up on the hospital wing...

His head feels foggy, the Snake is suddenly slithering across the floor to him.

The Watcher kneels down beside where he is held against the stairs. 

This is the first time Harry notices that the Watcher takes a human form, not just a heavy presence. 

Only, Harry can't get a look at him. 

But he does see when the Snake gets to Harry's other side and rears its head back, ready to strike. 

It does. 

And Harry's lost.

"Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Harry, Happy birthday to you." 

He whispers the song under his breath as the summer heat bares down on his neck and back from where he's bent over, weeding his Aunts garden. 

Tears push at his eyes, but he can't let them fall. If his Aunt sees him crying, she'll probably put the pan to his head again. 

It had left him dizzy for a few days after. 

He's turning nine today. He knows from his school teacher who had read off all the birthdays from the summer that they wouldn't be able to celebrate. 

Harry's was July 31st. 

Today. 

It's not a new thing to not be celebrated on his birthday the way his cousin is celebrated on his. 

Or any other child is for that matter. 

But even if he's done this song and dance before, it still hurts. 

And that's the pain he relives. 

Over and over. 

The dirt covering him, the lack of water, the blazing heat, the constricting pain in his chest. 

Over and over. 

Unwanted. 

"Who could ever want you?" The Snake laughs. 

Harry doesn't have a response for that. 

Chapter Text

No one will ever fully be able to understand the internal battles you had to endure just to heal, just to grow, just to be here. Be proud of the way you fought to save yourself. Be proud of the way you survived.

- Bianca Sparacino 

In the low light of a kitchen lamp in the dead of night, Harry can pretend that Sirius is his dad. 

Sitting across the table from him, cups of tea and a plate of biscuits between them, he can lie to himself and say he lives here in Grimmauld place and he'll never be hungry or scared or alone. 

His bones feel heavy, he is weighed down to this seat with nightmares of skeletal hands and crimson eyes chasing after him. 

But Sirius is here with him. He's safe. 

If he were as clever as Hermione, he'd wonder about the calm of it. Before the storm, as she'd say. 

If he were in the right mind, his instincts would tell him to have caution. 

But Harry's Godfather sits there with his lopsided smile and comforting grey eyes, and Harry doesn't want to acknowledge anything else but that. 

Everyone else went to bed hours ago and have not stirred.

Sirius and Harry are haunted people. They see ghosts in their rooms and hear voices of people who aren't there. They'll wake in the middle of the night with fear and loss sitting on their chests and nothing can dislodge it.

Though, perhaps even Harry is a ghost to his Godfather, a terrible likeness to people Sirius had loved and lost and now sees a half painted portrait across from him, sipping tea. 

Harry seeks comfort from his nightmares in this kitchen, in the man who is trapped in this home. But sometimes he thinks that he only brings pain to Sirius and he doesn't know how to apologize for it. 

Besides the heavy weight of nightmares, he can feel his two regular companions meander around the kitchen. The Snake finds himself fascinated with the dark decor and the paintings which hold half alive souls of previous owners. 

The Watcher tends to watch Harry. 

Of course, as a Watcher does. 

But there's more intent behind his gaze, Harry feels an urge to shift beneath it which is strange because he feels constantly bared before the two presences anyways. 

Instead of giving them his attention, he settles into his chair. 

He hasn't worn these pajamas in years. They got a little too high up his calf and too tight on his thighs.

In made sense, he had them since he was 12. He hadn't grown alot but he had grown. 

The feel of the pajamas remind him that he used to have them, but that implies he was older than his fifteen year old self currently wearing them. 

He feels older, this feels like deja vu in a more vivid sense. Like he's lived this before. 

"Are you okay, Harry?" 

Sirius sounds as Harry remembers him, all care and fondness. He's a man made of laughter and torment. A contradiction, but accurate all the same. 

He had been staring off and hadn't realized, he drags his eyes to Sirius, green meeting grey. 

His Godfather shimmers for a moment, blurs around the edges and noticing it hurts Harry's head. 

The Snake begins to make its way back to him from down the hall. 

Sirius solidifies. 

His brows pinch together, the picture of concern.

Oh, Harry still hadn't answered. 

What was he meant to say here again? 

What did he say before? 

Before what? 

The Snake slithers up Harry's leg, the Watcher seems to shake his head. 

His? 

The Snake tightens around him, the warm light and softness of the moment is lost. 

Harry can't ever get it back.

Ginny kisses like fire. 

She is burning against his lips and he feels like ash enters his lungs. 

But she's beautiful, with hair like sunlit copper and eyes blue as a clear sky, even in the dimness of the Room of Requirement, she glows. 

When she pulls away from him, their lips parting with a small gasp from both their mouths, and for a single moment, Harry sees jade and a different constellation of freckles, a slightly slanted nose, a strong jaw. 

He blinks, the image is gone. 

Harry feels a distinct longing that pulls like a string in his chest. He wants to grab a hold of that string and follow it, but the string becomes the Snake, it hisses and curls around Harry's arm. 

It bites deep into the upper area of his bicep, then grows and grows and grows until the Snake is the looming basilisk and Harry is much shorter. 

Ginny is cold and still on the floor. 

Harry can't save her. 

He was stupid to think he could save anyone when he couldn't even save himself. 

He burns the sausages in the pan.

Tears well in his eyes, his head pounds while apologies sit on his tongue. 

He won't find forgiveness for such a small offense. 

Instead, his Uncle Vernon will hold the palm of his small hand on to the hot stove until Harry can smell his own flesh instead of burnt sausage. 

Of course, Vernon is smart enough to cover his mouth. The Snake helps, wrapping itself around his throat and jaw.

When the burns are healed by the next day, his Aunt Petunia will lock him in the cupboard without supper. 

Harry doesn't know how to do anything but make mistakes, even if he doesn't know what the mistake is. 

The blood quill is feels like it etched words down into his bones, not just his skin. 

Over and over he writes the line. 

"I must not tell lies."

Over and over, his blood spills and becomes ink on a page. Blood stark against the white of the parchment. 

"A lesson." Umbridge calls it. 

"A reminder."  The Snake hisses. 

The Watcher finally speaks up from the corner he had been standing in, his voice startles Harry for he's never spoken before. 

"A reminder of what?"

His voice is like honey, smooth. Harry wonders if his words stick to the roof of his mouth and if the question mattered enough for the Watcher to ask, maybe the words are meant to stick. They are meant to stay.

The Snake is just as shocked as Harry, it was resting on Umbridges desk watching him with the same bloodthirsty eyes as the Professor. 

They are different in their appearance, but a sadistic soul lies within them both. 

"A reminder that this is a punishment. This is what happens when children try to stand against God." 

"You are not God."

"No," The Snake let's out a laugh, one that feels familiar, an echo of another time, another Harry, "I am so much better."

There's a tugging on his chest. 

Neither the Snake nor the Watcher seem to notice. 

Harry can hear voices. 

Familiar, warm. 

The tugging gets stronger, it reminds him of homesickness. The longing to be somewhere safe and known. 

He doesn't fight it.

The Forest is how he remembers it, the day that he died. 

Only, he was alone then. This isn't how it had gone.

Hermione, Ron, Luna, and Neville all stand in a semi-circle in front of him, reminiscent of the four people who had stood there when Harry was going to die. 

He had died. 

He remembers it. The spell, the darkness. The train station. Dumbledore speaking to him. Explaining to him something that he can't remember now.

And then- 

And then what? Something else happened, he's sure of it. But it's like he's being blocked.

There's a wall around him, or his head, either way something is banging on the walls. 

Two somethings. 

Neither the Snake or Watcher are here with him, they feel far away.

Harry feels half dead here. It's too far from where he's meant to be. Like he's at the bottom of a very tall mountain, the top of which is where he is supposed to be and he's afraid he'll never be back there.

But why is he here?

Nothing feels solid here except for the ground beneath him, and Harry feels like even that can be stripped out like a rug and he'll be falling down. 

The banging continues, more frantic, angry. 

Well, one of them is angry, the other seems... worried. 

But he shakes his head as if trying to physically rid himself of the feeling, and tries to focus on his friends. 

Alive. 

They're alive and here, millions of shattered images, memories swim around his head. 

He died, but he didn't stay that way but he can't seem to recall why or how. 

He just remembers this forest and his death. 

Harry remembers dropping the ressurection stone here. 

The stone that now sits in Ron's palm. 

Ron looks tired, and much skinnier than Harry feels he was before he died. His red hair looks dull and his eyes move frantically around, as if searching for something. Harry's never seen him look quite so desperate.

Hermiones hair doesn't look like it's been brushed in weeks, its kept in a messy bun and Harry can't help but want to brush it for her, the way she'd done to him a few times. His hands practically ache to soothe the furrows in her brow.

Luna and Neville clutch eachothers hands, they look older, weary, much more than he last saw them, but they still have more life to them then his best friends seem to.

Pain and love make a strange concoction inside him, he wants to reach out and grab a hold of them. 

They'll be real. They'll be solid. They won't hurt him. 

He's been hurt so much recently. 

"Harry? A-are you there, mate?" 

Ron's voice shakes and cracks, he sounds like he's pleading for Harry. Like he can't see him the way Harry can see them, even though he stands only a few feet away. 

Harry opens his mouth to speak, to respond, to assure his best friend he's there, but the walls crack and crumble before any sound leaves him.

The Snake has broken through, it bites down harshly on Harry's ankle, pulling him to the forest floor, Harry claws at the sticks and leaves and dirt but he can't get a hold on anything. 

He wants to stay. He needs to. 

But his body isn't his own anymore, even if he doesn't quite know why yet. 

But Ron is still there, he looks devastated. Harry watches in horror as the man falls to his knees and sobs, Hermione, Luna and Neville trying to comfort him. 

"I don't know why it didn't work bu- but we can try again, Ron." Hermiones voice is comforting and soft, it's a direct contrast to the sharp pain of the teeth in his ankle or the ripping of his nails and hands as he looks for a grip. 

He's getting farther and farther from them. The more distance between them the more Harry feels like he's being pulled into a darkened abyss that he won't climb out of. 

It's ugly and a last ditch effort to be noticed, heard, but Harry releases a scream. The kind of scream that tears at his vocal chords.

"HELP!"

The Snake let's go of his ankle and Harry can't physically move his arms to prevent the sudden bite to his jugular.

Before the darkness swallows him, he's almost sure that his eyes meet Ron's. 

That last lingering moment gives Harry a burst of strength, and he begins to fight back. 

This isn't familiar. 

Nothing about this place itches at him, or tells him he's been here before. 

It's a cage. A genuine cage.

Rusted bars surround him and everytime he shifts his weight, the cage moves with him, bounces a bit as if it is suspended in air and one wrong move will have him trapped and falling. 

It's like the cupboard, hes isolated and trapped, but there's light here at least.

Except, the light looks like hellfire. 

It licks at the bars and seems to have a mind of its own as it dances around Harry, taunting him with the idea of melting his skin and bones. 

He smells burning flesh. When he searches his body, frantically checking for any marks, he finds nothing. 

Maybe wherever he is just constantly smells like that. 

But as he feels his body, he realizes it's different then his own. Taller, slightly thicker fingers, they look older than his as well. 

The hair the falls slightly in his eyes is blonde, confirming his suspicions.

This isn't his body. 

This isn't his memories. 

There's nothing going on, nothing noticeable besides the cage and the new body, but when he starts to really search, he can feel a detached sort of presence in his head. 

The feel of it reminds him of the Snake. The same sort of creeping darkness that creature carries that lingers within his mind. 

When he looks for his other companion, the Watcher feels like it's coming from above him, his eyes search the top of the cage, but he sees nothing. 

There is no laughter, joy, or hope here.

The blue of Ron's eyes fade from Harry's mind.

There is no sky here. 

Harry has always felt inherently wrong. 

When he's placed beside Cedric Diggory, it becomes so very clear why. 

Harry is not the perfect handsome golden boy that Cedric is. He is small and sarcastic and he can't help but make mistakes constantly. 

Cedric Diggory doesn't look like he's ever made a mistake in his entire life. 

It's obvious why everyone is rooting for him, why Hogwarts wants to disregard and throw Harry to the side as their Champion. 

It's not like he wanted to be champion anyway. 

Still, the whispers cut through him. The looks burn. He dread walking to class because that's when all the people gather in their groups and stare and talk and Harry feels like a pinned bug under a microscope. 

But Cedric is kind, if not a little condescending in his advice, and slowly but surely he and Harry create a tentative friendship. 

It's a small bright spot among all the darkness that his fourth year has become. 

He feels as if he's missing a limb without Ron around, and not even a new budding friendship can distract him from the loss. 

Maybe Ron had finally realized how wrong Harry truly was. How ruined. Maybe he was tired of holding all of Harry's broken pieces together. 

But Harry was a lot more tired of being broken in the first place. 

At least, as he sits beside Cedric in the champions tent, the Snake isn't here either. The presence seemed to weaken a bit, fade to the background slightly. Harry doesn't know why. 

But the Watcher remains. 

He, and Harry is sure it's a he, has begun to even speak to Harry directly. 

"Why do you watch him so closely?" The voice is ancient and young at the same time. Harry can't make sense of it, but there's genuine curiosity in his tone. 

Harry feels rather embarassed that his staring has been noticed, and disgusted with himself at the fluttering the site of the hufflepuff champion brings to his stomach. 

Wrong. It's wrong, Harry is wrong for this. 

But the Watcher still waits for an answer, and Harry prefers him to his counterpart.

"I don't know." 

The lie is bitter on his tongue. He knows. 

He knows because Hermione explained it to him in the tent while they were on the run. 

A sharp pain in his skull. 

That seems to happen whenever his mind wanders away from him. Like teeth piercing his brain. 

The Watcher smirks, it's just a feeling Harry gets since the man is barely a shadow out of the corner of his eyes. He hasn't manifested himself into any true form the way the Snake has made himself, well, a snake. 

Cedric gives Harry a small little smile, friendly. Always so friendly. 

For a second, Harry sees a different teasing smile on a different handsome face. The thought comes unbidden and send a litany of feelings he can't disipher within him. 

He smiles back at the older boy, but he finds it hurts his jaw and feels strained. 

"You're lying." The Watcher accuses. 

"Yes. I am." 

But he finds no guilt within him for the lie, after all, this is his memory, his head. 

The Watcher is merely temporarily occupying it. 

Harry blinks. 

The Snake comes back.

Harry feels terribly small sitting on the pews of the church. He feels watched and judged by the many biblical depictions that covers the windows and walls. 

This is a place for those pious and good. 

Harry is a freak. A monster. His presence stains this holy ground. 

The Snake whispers confirmation to his thoughts as it lays itself in front of what Harry believes is the fallen angel Lucifer pictured on a stain glass window. 

Something in Harry takes notice at that. 

The Watcher sits beside him, enamored with the words of the preacher. 

At one point, Harry thinks the Watcher even corrects the man on a verse in the Bible. He does it under his breath so Harry isn't sure. 

Besides those two moments, they seem content to simply stay quiet. At least until Harry goes back to the house with the Dursleys. 

The Snake agrees with his Aunt Petunia when she tells him that God doesn't listen to freaks like him when they ask for forgiveness and pray for help. 

He let's out his hissing laugh when Harry is locked in his cupboard, in the dark. But Harry feels an inkling of his own knowledge wiggling in the back of his head, that the Snake knows what it is to be trapped. Caged. The thought slips away faster than it comes.

But the Watcher disagrees with his Aunt Petunia. Something about him seems otherworldly when he speaks, like a glimpse of life between stars.

"God listens to everyone, his love heals all. Saves all."

It's meant to be comforting, meant to soothe the hurt that has started to grow in Harry from such a young age. 

But Harry has lived and died, even if it's all blurry, it's still clear enough to see through the Watchers false assurances. Nothing can rid him of the emptiness and pain. The cruelty of his childhood. 

"Then why hasn't he saved me?" 

The Watcher has no response for that. 

There's a nasty taste to blood. No one ever seems to talk about it. 

Coppery, sharp. 

It's all Harry can seem to focus on after Dudley punches him so hard in the face that Harry's lip splits and he bites down on his tongue. 

His cousin and his little gaggle of friends laugh at Harry's misfortune at where he stumbled back onto the ground, the Snake on Dudleys shoulders. 

Harry doesn't find it all very funny. But it doesn't matter what he thinks or feels or wants. 

He can't tell anyone because his Aunt and Uncle won't care and the teacher will only punish Dudley and he'll run home and tell his parents and Harry will get much worse than a split lip and bitten tongue. 

So, he swallows the blood and focuses on a far off tree to wait out the sudden dizziness. 

Dudley and his posse run off, they've had their fun and if Harry doesn't cry or try to fight back, they lose interest quickly. He'd learned that a long time ago. 

The Watcher kneels down beside Harry, for once his form takes a bit more shape, enough to know that Harry's 8 year old body is extremely short in comparison to the man's. 

Harry can make out fingers coming towards his face, the Snake who'd slithered to the ground from his cousins shoulders when he left, makes a sound of warning, but his companion ignores him and finally brushes light fingers over Harry's lip. 

"They hurt you. But you've done nothing to them."

He can hear the confusion, but the Watcher has seen much worse than this, so what has changed? 

Before he can respond, the Snake seems to roll its eyes. Harry didn't know they could do that. 

"They are humans." He spits the word 'human' out like what he means to say is something like 'dirty'. "Lowely, disgusting abominations. They only prove their flaws."

He seems like he's going to say more, but as a human, Harry feels a bit defensive. 

"Humans make mistakes, that's just a part of the deal." 

The Watcher tilts his head. 

"You defend them? When they've hurt you?" He says it like it's the most mind boggling thing he's ever heard.  

Harry's grown quite a bit past this time, past the years of beatings and dark cupboards. A flash of a far off memory comes to him. Watching the Dursleys leave on Harry's 17th birthday. They had to, so they'd be safe.

But Dudley, he had worried for Harry. Had been so very different then the terror of a little boy he had been a moment before when he'd hurt Harry for no reason. 

He had wanted Harry to come with, so he'd be safe. Then told Harry he didn't think he was a waste of space. 

Not an apology, or anything along those lines even. But it was monumental to the little boy Harry still felt he was inside who had just wanted his family to love him the way he was sure families were supposed to love eachother. 

He clings to that memory and let's it guide his response.

"People make mistakes." He repeats. "But it doesn't make them anything less. It doesn't make them unworthy." 

How many times had he wanted someone to tell him that? How many years did he spend practically screaming on the inside for someone to just care about him the way he cared about everyone else? 

Too many. 

His answer seems to stump both the beings, though the Snake recovers quick and gives another eye roll, eternally bored with Harry. 

But the Watcher seems almost moved by his words, a distinct shift in him that Harry can feel the way one feels someone tensing beside them. 

Harry doesn't know what it means. 

Every day that Harry remains unchanged, hope that he'll wake up slowly drains out of Dean. 

Being under the same roof as the younger man, but not seeing his smile or hearing him tease and laugh at Dean is like a knife being twisted around in his chest, so he spends as much time as he can hunting. He needs it. He needs the fights and the killing. He needs to feel useful. 

If he doesn't, he'll wither away at Harry's side, a poor excuse for a hunter, a hero. 

He couldn't save Harry. He'll probably never find anything that can. 

Castiel can't. Even with his angel mojo back. 

There's more than a bit of misplaced resentment in Dean towards the angel at that, but no one has ever called him emotionally mature. 

Especially not when it came to people that Dean lo-

Cared about. 

People he cared about. 

At least he had some space from the angel, what with his Civil War in heaven. Apparently Raphael was making waves trying to gain control and get the apocalypse back on.

That was a big fat 'fuck no not happening' in Deans book. 

Especially since Harry still might die in the fight to stop said apocalypse. 

Though, in his darkest thoughts of what the wizard could be suffering in his own head trapped with the devil, Dean isn't sure dying is the worst option.

For Harry. 

Not for Dean. 

If it was Deans choice, the wizard would be awake and back to saying weird British slang that Dean didn't understand, making sarcastic comments and just being alive.

Well, he was technically alive. But being in some magical Devils tango coma didn't count. At least, not to him. Not when he was getting grey hairs over the stress of this whole thing.

Every moment Dean wasn't sleeping, hunting, or drinking himself into oblivion, he was researching ways to help Harry. Books and the internet could only get a guy so far in the search of 'My universe jumping wizard...friend trapped the devil and Archangel Michael in his head and now he's in a magical coma and he's not waking up, what do I do?'. 

Wikipedia, shockingly, had nothing on the subject.

Nearly three months since it all happened. 

Harry was starting to thin even more, Bobby made sure to turn him and stretch him and set up a make shift feed tube and IV, but Harry's magic seemed to be keeping him alive as well. It pulsated around the wizards body like a shielded heartbeat. Whenever Dean got close, it was like he could feel the energy.

It was a bit unnerving, but Dean would happily deal with any strangeness as long as he knew Harry's heart was still pumping.

The hunts have been relatively simple at least, even though he was admittedly putting himself in more danger and getting hurt far more than usual. 

Up until two weeks ago, it had all been fine. Then they'd found a baby. 

A baby which turned out to be a shape-shifter. 

A shape-shifting baby that was the baby of apparently the Alpha Shape-shifter.

Discovering that there was an Alpha of every monster species was a shock. 

But what was an even bigger kick in the ass was learning his fucking grandfather was brought back from the dead and was hunting said Alphas and didn't even know why or who brought him back. 

Dean didn't like it. It felt too out of the blue. Too suspicious. 

But Sam told him he was on edge from everything that had happened, from Harry's condition. 

His brother had swiftly changed the topic of Harry when Dean had pinned him with a harsh glare. 

Sam said they could be cautious, keep an eye out, but that maybe having their grandfather, who was a long time hunter himself, around could be a help. They didn't have to be together constantly, just help eachother out with the Alpha situation. That seemed like an all hands on deck kinda thing. 

Despite his current distance from Castiel, he still called the angel down to ask if he knew anything about Samuel's miraculous return. 

"Cas. Get your feathery ass down here a moment." 

Sam gave him a sharp look, upset that Dean was still holding a grudge against their angelic companion. 

Dean could only roll his eyes. Was it possibly unfair to Castiel? Yeah, maybe. But if he gave up the small bit of spite, he'd drown in his own guilt. 

He missed Harry. 

After a moment, he heard the fluttering of wings behind him, and turned to find Castiel looking tense. 

"Hello, Dean. Sam. What do you need?" 

"Our grandfather, our mom's dad, he's alive. We were wondering if you knew anything about it?" Sam asked, butting in before Dean could say anything rude or whatever his brother thought he'd do. 

Castiel didn't tilt his head the way he usually did when he got interesting new information, he only gave a swift 'No.' 

That gave Dean an uneasy feeling, but even if he wasn't a fan of Cas at the moment, he was still his friend and he trusted him. 

"Have you heard anything?" That earned Dean a quick 'Are you serious?' Eyebrow raise from the celestial being and he raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Jeez, sorry just asking." 

"I'm very busy, Dean. I have a war in heaven and I'm still looking into ways to help H-" Sam made a cutting motion to the angel to get him to stop. 

But Deans mood had already plummeted drastically at further confirmation that nothing had been found to help their wizard. 

"Yeah. Alright. Thanks. Good luck with the whole Civil War thing, Cas." And Dean swiftly turned on his heel and left the motel room, slamming the door shut behind him.

He needed a beer. Or ten.

Sam kept trying to slowly poke around at Deans feelings and it was getting on his last nerve. 

His brother meant well, and he cared about Harry too, but he still didn't understand.

Dean had known that Harry probably wouldn't make it out of the apocalypse ending encounter, and he had still let the wizard go through with it because he was a selfish son of a bitch who couldn't live without his brother. 

And because of that, Harry didn't get to live the way he deserved to. 

Everytime they went back to Bobby's, Dean couldn't fight the pull that drew him down to the panic room, just to see Harry. But seeing him like that, pale and with his green eyes shut, it made him sick to his stomach. 

Harry was a good person, much better than Dean ever could be, and he had willingly sacrificed himself for them. 

Dean might hate him for it a little. 

He hates him for the goodbye that wasn't a goodbye. 

He hates him for the uncertainty, for the distance between them that last day, though he knows he's at fault for it as well.

Most of all, he hates him for kissing Dean the way he did, for touching him so fucking gently, like Dean was the best thing he's ever touched. 

For making Dean crave it again, crave him.

More than his own wants and needs, Dean just thinks it's stupidly unfair the way it went down. 

It wasn't even Harry's fight but still, the wizard had given his all for them near instantly. 

It was strange to see that kind of bravery and heart in someone, a rare thing. 

And Dean was constantly weighed down with the thought that at any moment, that heart could stop beating. 

So, he tried to drown those thoughts out. Fighting, killing, drinking. It was easy and familiar. 

So what if he glanced at the backseat constantly. Or could only sleep on the motel couches. 

It was fine. 

Hunting kept him occupied. 

Especially when Sam and him encounter a case of cops that were killed by apparently Egyptian curses. 

Yeah. That'll keep him busy. He'll be fine. Everything is fine. 

A stupidly gorgeous accented voice in the back of Dean's head, one he knows isn't real but he wishes it was, let's out a huff, and says that Dean is full of shite. 

He can't help but agree.

Chapter Text

How do we forgive ourselves for all the things we did not become?

- Doc Luben

Or 

I want to be myself again. I want to be six. I want to stop knowing everything I know.

- Catheryinne  M. Valente

"When I first saw you, I recognized who you were immediately. Not by your scar, but by your eyes. They're your mother lily's." 

His Professor, Remus J. Lupin, means this information as a kindness. A connection to a mother Harry never knew. 

And in most ways, it is kind. It is warming to know he has something of his mothers beyond the screaming in his head that the dementors bring, or the knowledge she died for him. 

But at the same time, it feels just as bad as being known by the scar on his head. 

Another marking that brings expectation. Comparisons that are built around who Harry is and who he should be. 

Harry finds himself always falling short. 

But he can't explain it all to his Professor, one who seems to keep him at arms length though he tries to help as much as he can, and he can't explain it to anyone else because he's Harry Potter. 

He can't ever be weak, and admitting that he's never going to be everything everyone else wants is admitting he can't be. But everyone wants him to. 

When Professor Lupin walks away, strolling down the length of the bridge to leave Harry to his thoughts, Harry scrubs at his face, willing away frustrated tears. 

The Watcher takes the empty spot beside him, he's stiff as he tries to mimic Harry's posture, leaning over the rail of the bridge, forearms braced.

It's like he's never leaned comfortably anywhere in his however long life. 

It's sort of funny. 

"You look up to him." 

Its not a question, but an observation, so Harry only nods. The Watcher has slowly speaking more and more to him, and shutting the Snake down in certain scenarios. Harry's slowly learned that he's reliving memories, memories of times where he suffered in one way or another, and the Snake is mainly to blame for it. 

But the Watcher has been influencing these memories as well, trying to pull them away from the worst of Harry's life as much as he can.

Sometimes he fails. Sometimes, like now, he succeeds. Usually, Harry can fight back a bit himself. After the strange encounter with what he doesn't think is a memory in the forest with his friends, and the cage that he knows he's never been in, it's easier to gain a foothold against the Snake. 

But it can be tiring. He can only fight back so much before he feels unable to fight anymore. The Watcher either drains rather quickly himself or he sometimes allows the Snake to drag them into another terrible experience of Harry's, he isn't sure. 

He doesn't really care either. The Watcher doesn't feel like an enemy, and he's slowly moved his way to tentative ally in this existence they share. Whatever his reasons or motivations, Harry's grateful. 

"Why did his words cause you upset?" 

It has to be a rhetorical question because Harry's pretty bloody sure that his thoughts are on constant display for the two presences. 

Still, the Snake isn't here, courtesy of the Watcher himself, so Harry feels a bit safer allowing himself to bare his neck, so to speak. 

"I think they hurt more when I first heard them, when I was actually thirteen. Now I guess they're mostly comforting to know I look a bit like my Mom. But back then, it was just another reminder that when people look at me, they only ever saw the 'Boy who lived' or my parents. Nobody saw me. Just Harry. And because of that, they always expected so much of me. And when I wasnt what they wanted..."

It's more honesty then he usually allows with himself or other people, but the Watcher has seen so much already it feels pointless to try and hide. Thought it feels violating all the same. 

The man beside him nods, and stares off into the distance, watching the sunlight on the lake and castle. 

The more time they spend speaking, the more Harry sees an actual person. He has blue eyes, light almost a stormy grey, and blonde hair that slightly curls towards the end. The rest of his features seem almost blurred around the edges, like they aren't formed yet. 

He's handsome, that much Harry knows. But beyond acknowledging that fact, Harry knows very little about the Watcher. 

"You would disappoint them."

Harry startles away from his, admittedly slightly creeping, staring. He'd almost forgot what they were talking about. But when he catches up, he let's out a sigh that seems a bit too big for his thirteen year old body. 

The sigh is tired and old, its built out of years of disappointing so many people. Even himself. 

"Yeah. I would disappoint them. I tried to be a hero, but sometimes I wonder if it was me being heroic all those times or just being too cowardly to say no." 

Its a big mess in his head, years of insecurities that have made their way into his bones to the point that Harry doesn't think he'll ever get them out.

Again, his companion nods, this time out of understanding and not just pure acknowledgement.

"It is....difficult. Always being seen only as the perfect soldier. Why did you never leave?"

Harry releases a bitter laugh. He pushes his glasses up on his nose and the Watcher follows the movement. 

"And go where? At the end of the day this-" He makes a wild gesture around at the Visage of Hogwarts, crafted in his minds eye and whole and untouched from the horrors that would come to it in the following years. "-was all I had. You saw for yourself what I had outside of Hogwarts. At least here, I had friends. Family. People that cared. And besides, I loved them all more than I hated always having to be a soldier. I guess it was worth it." 

It felt worth it, at the time. The reward outweighed the cost. People cared about him, and he kept them safe even at the cost to himself.

But the question that was asked makes Harry curious himself. He's never asked the Watcher a genuine question before. 

"I mean- don't you have people you love, who made any suffering for it worth it? People who expected a lot from you, but you genuinely wanted to live up to those expectations." 

The Watcher tenses, and Harry's pretty sure he crossed some invisible line with the question. But again, this is his head and his entire life, the very worst of it, is placed on the table for all to see. One question won't hurt the Watcher. 

Harry can feel then both wearing thin the longer they wait in this silence, the Snake will not be held back much longer, but Harry holds out. 

Finally, after a good ten minutes of silence, the Watcher responds. His voice is sad, reminiscent. 

"I did. I do. Only...I've struggled recently with following through on those expectations. They've gotten heavy."

Harry understood that well. 

Tentatively, he bridges the gap between them with his hand, and places it on the man's arm. He's rewarded with an almost slack-jawed expression. 

Harry feels tired, his head feels ready to split open, there's a pounding that echoes like drums around him. But the Watcher has helped him, in a way, he's on the path of possibly friendship.

"Maybe I'm a hypocrite, but sometimes when things get heavy, you're supposed to put them down." 

The Snake doesn't take kindly to Harry and the Watchers attempts to keep it at bay. 

Harry can only stare in horror as Severus Snape raises his wand to Albus Dumbledore, the spell falling from his lips and then the Headmaster falls off the Astronomy tower, dead before he hits the ground. 

A small mercy maybe, for him. 

For Harry, it's another helping of guilt, another life he didn't save. 

Theres always been such a complex mess of feelings when Harry thought of his Headmaster.

When he was young he would follow the man around like a lost duckling, worshipful almost. 

But things took a drastic turn during Harry's fifth year. A big part of that being Voldemorts emotions in his head, but it was mainly the betrayal.

He had practically begged the man to help him, to save him, to give him any information that could explain the horrors in Harry's head. 

But....nothing. 

Dumbledore ignored him, looked over him like he was not worth the effort of being seen.

Maybe he had his reasons, but they weren't enough. Not to Harry who had spent the year isolated and scared. Feeling like he was going insane and no one was listening to him. 

Dumbledore had only thrown him to Snape, a man who was notorious for his hatred of Harry. How Dumbledore thought that Snape would actually try and truly help Harry, and not just use it as another form of torture, he'd never know.

And because of the distance, the lack of help, it all came to a terrible end for Sirius. 

But despite it all, Harry still cared deeply for the man. Held him in high respect and regard. 

Sometimes he hated it. He wanted to be rageful that way he had the day in the Headmasters office, he wanted to unleash his hurt on the people who contributed to it. 

Watching Dumbledores death however, made all of it seem far less important. 

The Snake had coiled itself around Harry's neck and shoulders, an uncomfortable weight. It whispered of Harry's failures to be the hero he was supposed to be. 

"What kind of hero just watches someone die? Stands by and allows it to happen. A coward is what you are, Harry Potter." 

"FIGHT BACK, COWARD!" Harry screams at Severus Snape as the world changes and suddenly he's racing down the hill near Hagrids hut, wanting to face Dumbledors murderer. But Snape seems unmoved. Unchanged from his act of cold-blooded murder. He looks at Harry like he is a mildly annoying bug.

When he's flung back, hitting the cold ground hard, the Snake wraps around his chest and arms. 

The sky is dark overhead, Harry's eyes instinctually find the Dog star. But it blurs with the hurt in Harry's head. No light here. 

Well, except for the fire Bellatrix Lestrange has lit on Hagrids hut. 

Harry mourns for his half-giant friend, to lose his home and a man he held in such high regard in one night. 

But Snape is speaking, telling Harry that he is the half-blood prince. The revelation is like freezing water to his veins. 

He's left there on the ground. It's a long time before he can move. 

The Snake is not as constricting as the realization that the last line of defense against Voldemort has just been killed, that war was upon them. 

Not even the Snake constricting Harry's chest, beginning to cut of his airflow, terrifies Harry more than this war.

He knows what comes next. 

He expects the forest, or Malfoy manor, not this. 

Across the Great Hall stands Hermione and Ron, his best friend crying over the body of his elder brother. 

Harry wants to scream. 

He's underneath his cloak, going unnoticed by everyone as he steps through the injured and dead. 

The Forest would've been easier. But this? Staring across at his two best friends, the last time he ever saw them. When he didn't say goodbye. 

There's no changing this. No going over to them, telling them he loves them and that he's sorry. 

Its taunting. A mockery of his pain. The Snake is cruel for this. More than his childhood suffering, or the loss of Dumbledore. 

To stand here, and see the two people who had loved him in his entirety. Who'd seen him. Past the scar and the name. They loved Harry, more than Harry ever thought he'd be loved. 

And he could only walk past them. 

He remembers what he'd been thinking. Practically begging internally for someone to notice the shifting air or footsteps. To notice him. 

To beg him not to go. 

But no one did. 

It's a relief as well as torture. 

The Watcher is nowhere to be found. Only the Snake, who is not taking his form currently, only an overarching presence that fills up the night sky. 

The second his feet stand outside the Great hall, turning around in the courtyard to get one last look, he's suddenly brought right back where he started. 

Again. 

And again.

Over and over he has to move past friends, teachers, dead, injured and dying. He has to pass by Hermione and Ron and everytime he has to stop himself from reaching out. 

Always wanting them, never having them.

This grief isn't new. It's not surprising. And it's not the crushing of his very soul that it was once.

But it hurts.

His eyes sting with tears, blurring their faces but he keeps looking. He can't look away.

This is the last time he saw them. The last time he was close enough to touch them, to hold them, to be held. 

He wants to fall apart, break in front of them because they're the only ones who've ever been able to put him back together again. 

At this point, it must be the Snakes power that propels him forward and outside again, because Harrys chest hurts so much he cant breathe. Can't think, let alone get his legs to work. 

He wants to go home. 

But the thought splits him in two, like being sliced right down the middle.

Home used to be Ron and Hermione. Hogwarts. The wizarding world. 

But theres flashes of somewhere else. Somebody else. 

He sees jade eyes and freckles on a smiling face. The image tugs at Harry's gut.

There's flashes of brown hair and baseball caps, a sleek black car and leather seats. 

As soon as they come, Harry is brought right back into the Great Hall. 

Again.

And Again.

Eventually, the Watcher gains strength, and Harry grows tired of the pain of that memory. They fight back. 

It's like being filled with light, whenever the Watcher intervenes. 

Divine intervention. 

It hurts though. To fight against what is practically his own mind. 

They barely manage to pull out of the memory of that moment, and drag themselves right into the middle of the forest. 

His brain feels ready to turn to mush. 

Everything hurts, he swears his very soul and magic are aching. It's all screaming at him as he stands in the Forbidden Forest. 

It's the same as when he'd seen his friend standing here, except he is mostly alone if not for his two constants. 

Slowly, Harry has begun untying them from himself. The more they solidified as creature and man, the more Harry could acknowledge them as separate. 

It helps, when he fights back, to know that they've only taken place inside him, though the reason still evades him, but it makes it much easier to get a foothold. 

The Golden snitch is heavy in his hand. 

In it, he knows he'll find the stone. He'll see his family again. 

But somethings changed.

The Watcher appears beside him, tall, taller than Harry at least. Harry can now make out a strong, slightly pointed jaw. He looks a bit familiar. Like he hold resemblance to someone important to Harry and not familiar in the way that he's seen this exact face before. 

Stormy eyes focus on him, staring down into Harry's emerald. Full lips quirk into an intrigued smile. 

"Hello."

"Hello. You have a face."

The Watcher laughs, something surprised. It leaves Harry feeling slightly off-kilter to see this presence that had seemed so stoic and primarily unmoved by everything to come off so...Human.

"Yes. I do. Apologies for the delay in my return, I was busy with it."

Harry quirks a dark eyebrow at the man.

"You were busy...making a face?"

"Well, it takes time." The Watcher seemed almost embarrassed by the admission. As if he was wanting Harry's approval. 

Not wanting to hurt the feelings of his sort of ally, Harry gives a friendly pat to the man's arm. 

"Uh, it's great. A good face." 

The Watcher practically puffed up his chest in pride, like a bloody peacock. 

Then, he looked down at the snitch in Harry's hand, looking curious. 

"What is it?"

Harry moves the golden orb in his hand, silent for a moment as he thinks of how to explain. 

"An apology, I suppose." 

The Watchers brow furrows, it makes Harry want to laugh. His confusion reminds Harry of someone, a friend. One that Harry wants to remember but can't. The only image he can conjure is blue eyes and a flash of tan. 

"An apology? For what?" 

Harry can hear the rest of the question. For what and how was a little golden orb an apology.

"Inside the orb is a stone. There's a long history behind the stone but to keep it simple, whoever holds it can see and speak to shades of their lost loved ones. My mentor left it for me in his will. An apology for what he knew I would have to do." Harry waves his hand in front of him at the dark forest. "An apology for leading me to my death." 

Though, as far as apologies go, it was rather shite. 

He was grateful to have his parents along with Sirius and Remus there with him when he died, but it still felt unfair. 

Though now, he feels like he's just walking an inevitable path, this was always meant to happen. And before, freshly 18 and scared of dying, Harry had needed that comfort. But his mind supplied him with something else. 

The memories of after death 

There's more than this. He knows it, even if it's only a bone marrow deep recognition then actually knowledge. 

And there's more than these memories. 

Before he can bite it back, rethink or stop himself, the question comes out. 

"Is there a way out of here?" He turns to the Watcher, desperation in his eyes and words. 

The Watcher looks as if Harry asked him to swim naked in the bloody sky. Grey-blue eyes are wide as they watch Harry, still processing his question. 

"Yes."

How the Watcher knows, Harry isn't sure. But he doesn't care. He'll beg on hands and knees for a way out, to escape this nightmare and the Snake who is thankfully occupied, likely from the Watchers power. 

"Please tell me how." 

Harry steps into the man's space, desperate to grab him and get an answer. 

"It is not easy. It will not be pleasant for you. Lucifer is powerful, you managed to surprise him, both of us, but you've weakened yourself by letting him in."

Questions bubble up inside him. So much to ask, so much Harry doesn't understand. But the Watcher and him both know their time is limited. 

Harry will figure out the 'Lucifer' and letting him in thing later.

"How?" 

"Forward. Stop fighting, it will only weaken you. And as I wish to leave as well, I can't fight either. I will only allow this last bit of fight, a push. It will assure that Lucifer only moves forward in your memories and nightmares, never back. You need to let them play out. You can't change them. Learn from them."

It doesn't feel like nearly enough of an explanation, but their time is up. The Watcher fades from Harrys side. The presence of the Snake, or well, Lucifer, settles into the shadows and mist between the trees. 

He can't linger here. He can't think too much on what the Watcher meant either, Lucifer is just as ingrained into his brain as Harry himself is. 

He has to go forward. 

Harry lifts the Golden snitch to his lips, and moves. 

When Harry goes to take his first step, knowing when he opens his eyes his family will be there, the Watchers voice echoes within him. 

He recognizes what he says, the words Harry's own. 

"Sometimes, when things get heavy, we have to put them down."

Chapter Text

What is grief, but my selfish instinct to hold on tight when I should let go?

"Sometimes, when things get heavy, we have to put them down."

Harry's never been good at putting the heavy things down. He carries them around constantly. It doesn't matter that they hurt his back or arms, he finds it's a lot harder to let go of the things that hurt than he thought. 

Was it healthy? Absolutely not. 

Had anyone shown him a better way? Same answer.

So, really, it wasn't his fault he was completely incapable of just...letting things go. 

He physically can't. 

It's obvious when he opens his eyes, and the same awe and longing fill him at the site of his parents. Sirius. Remus. 

Though, this time, he turns a bit to glance behind him at the distant lights flickering in Hogwarts where his two best friends, his family linger. 

The Watcher told him he can't change anything, but he can do this. 

Harry can stare off to the castle for just one more moment and imagine going back. Saying goodbye. 

He'd tell Hermione that he never would've survived without her, that she was wonderful, kind, beautiful and brilliant. That Harry had never felt so accepted by anyone. 

He'd tell Ron that he never would've been able to even live without him. That he brightened every aspect of Harry's life, even during the times he thought he'd only be stuck in darkness. That he'd never felt so known by anyone. 

Harry would thank you. Over and over. For every moment, every joke and fight. 

He was so grateful for them, and all he wanted, more than anything, was for them to know that. To feel it the way he still felt the echos of their love for him now. 

How was he supposed to let them go? How was he supposed to put his love and grief for them down? 

They were in his bloodstream, they were the very best of him. His heart and soul. 

This time, he didn't stop the tears. He let them come and burn hot trails on his cheeks. 

He stayed silent, only let those tears express everything he'd never ever be able to say to the people who deserved his words most.

Squeezing his eyes tight for a moment, he dragged in a trembling breath, before he faced forward. 

And opened them to see even more of the things he couldn't put down. 

Even after an entire lifetime of not having his parents, he still bloody missed them. Wanted them. 

They were so young. 

Barely 21 when they were murdered. An entire life of love and family and joy stolen from them in a single night. 

His mother was as lovely as he remembered, her smile warm in a way that offered safety and comfort. His Father stood tall and handsome in jovial youth, his eyes shone with pride for his only child. 

Despite knowing he'd pass right through them, Harry still reached a hand for his Mother's. 

His hand passed through hers. Even knowing it would, Harry felt a sharp bit of heartache that he still would have to wait before ever knowing what being held by his Mom felt like. 

Remus looked younger, not by much, but there was no grief weighing him down, no pain causing his body to deteriorate faster. 

Looking at him, Harry could truly see the similarities in the picture he remembers of Teddy. The same eyes and nose. 

And Sirius....

A sob broke out of him. The tears continuing in earnest.

He'd been so numb before, but here and now, it was like a dam had broken within him and he couldn't stop. 

Sirius looked just as Harry remembered him, less wrinkles and far less weary, but the same. 

He can remember the way it felt to be held by Sirius. To be safe. One of the man's hands holding the back of his head so that Harry would be as close as possible. 

It was love. 

Family and home. 

The very closest Harry had ever gotten to a Dad. 

He would feel guilt for that, with James Potter standing there, but he when he looked back at his Father, there was nothing but love and understanding in his gaze. 

Maybe the first thing Harry had to put down, was his guilt over things that weren't wrong, or weren't his fault. 

But that was easier said then done. 

He stuck to the original script. Said the things he had before to them, asked the same questions.

And when they stepped beside him, and he let the stone fall from his fingertips, he imagined it was much more than the stone he was leaving behind on the forest floor.

He didn't allow himself to take one last look behind again. 

Forward was the only way. 

Even if it meant he had to tear parts of himself and leave them beside the stone to keep walking. 

Even if he knew the horror that laid ahead. 

Even if he'd give anything not to see those burning red eyes. Eyes that haunted him. The skeletal fingers that left fingerprints on his brain. His soul. 

No matter if he lived a hundred lives, Tom Riddle and the monster he'd made himself would always have a terrible grip on Harry. 

You don't carry around a person's dark and twisted soul for 17 years and walk away from that unscathed. 

But he wanted out of these memories, nightmares. 

He'd spent his entire life trapped in his own head, in the horrors of his life, he didn't want to spend another moment longer than necessary. 

The path was simple, Voldemort and his army lay only a mile or two from where Harry dropped the stone. 

The path marker was the same, two Death Eaters speaking to eachother of how they saw no sign of Harry, that his time was up. 

Harry, cloaked in invisibility by the same cloak his Father and his friends had used to run around Hogwarts having fun and pranking people. 

Harry had never gotten to be that carefree. That joyous. 

He'd never known that kind of happiness. 

The familiar weight of longing entered him at the thought. His heart feeling heavy as a stone. 

But this is exactly what The Wa- 

"Michael."

The voice echoes in his head and all around him. Soft. The same voice the Watcher had.

But no- not the Watcher. 

Michael. 

The name was familiar, wiggling in his head to the point it almost hurt. 

But now he knew who it was who'd made themselves as home within Harry. Michael and Lucifer. 

Though it was impossible it was the real Michael and Lucifer. Perhaps only creations of his mind that held some kind of religious influence. 

It wasn't important right now. 

Not when Harry could hear and was beginning to see the Death Eaters gathered in their semi circle around...

Voldemort. 

His billowing black robes moved with him as he slowly paced the forest floor. His red eyes searched the treeline, completely passing over where Harry stood. 

He wished he could see Sirius. He wants to be able to look over and see him smile, see him so unburdened in death. It'll make this easier. 

Doing it once was hard enough. Doing it again, knowing what he was leaving behind, what he'd never have or hold again was like torture. 

But despite the fact that he knows the souls of the people who loved him linger with him now, he feels alone. He feels cold. 

There is no life here, no light either. 

Only death and the icy grip its had on Harry his entire life. 

He goes to take another step forward, but a shooting pain fills his head. It's like razor blades digging inside his skull and he wants to crack his head open to find some relief. 

But, after a minute, he no longer feels the familiar two presences that have followed him, become him over this journey. 

There is only one. 

Voldemort stands tall, taller than any human man should. But he is not at the focus of Harry's emerald gaze anymore. 

It's the pale dark haired man behind him. 

He moves like a shadow, echoing the steps of the Dark Lord, staring at him like he is less than dirt beneath his shiny black shoes. 

Cold, lifeless eyes drag over to Harry. 

He knows him. He's met this man, this creature. This being who walks like the darkness between stars, who whispers on the wind around him. 

Death. 

Harry knows it's him. He knows it as surely as he'd know his own reflection. 

Something in Harry settles. An acknowledgment, an assurance. Of what, Harry isn't sure. But the fear trinkling down his spine is nonexistent now. Death is not here to hurt him, he's not even here to take him. 

A much more human than Voldemorts, but still skeletal, hand reaches to Harry. 

An offering. 

He can't hesitate. He can't stay here. And he doesn't want to die by Voldemorts hand again. 

If anyone should take him, it will be Death itself. 

And he will go willingly. 

The voices in his head are silenced. He feels not even the slightest hint of their existence at all. 

He hopes Lucifer is gone. 

He mourns Michael's loss slightly. 

But he knows there is something better, something purely good waiting for him where Death will lead. 

There's a strange warmth to Deaths hand. And Harry almost wonders if they'd all had it wrong. Death is not cold. It is not terrifying. 

It just is. 

The beginning and the end. 

The stars falling.

Deaths lips pull into what could be a smile. 

"Hello, Harry." 

Chapter Text

PLEASE FORGIVE ME FOR THIS 

THIS IS NOT AN UPDATE CHAPTER

Hi everyone! I have covid!!! Yayyyyy

It sucks actually. But it's alright. I am posting this mainly to let yall know I have a discord server now for my fics including this one!! It's a place for discussion, criticism (please be nice tho), if you spot typos or inconsistencies so I can go back and edit, and so I can keep yall up to date!

Please go join if you'd like!!! 

I will be updating this as soon as I can I just feel like crap currently!!! 

https://discord.gg/p4BTpDnuhU

Chapter Text

I want to go home. But what I mean, what I'm grasping for, is not a place, it's a feeling. I want to go back, but back where?

"Hello, Harry." 

The voice was like icy wind, and in it, Harry's brain felt suddenly calmer. Less chaotic. 

Along with a sudden clearness of his mind, the forest empties as well. Voldemort and his Death Eaters disappear which Harry has no issue with. 

When Hagrid goes though, its twists something in Harry's chest. 

Hagrid was the first true carer Harry had ever known. The one who'd brought him into the wizarding world. 

It was fitting he was also the last person in this world that Harry saw before he died. 

No time for mourning the moments with Hagrid, Harry focuses on Death. 

Swallowing his fears and confusion, Harry's speaks past the heaviness of his tongue.

"Hello." 

"Your mind is rather....complex place to wonder through, Mr.Potter. Fascinating as well, though I'm sure you would not find it as such seeing as you've been trapped in here with two sniveling children throwing their tantrums." His voice is both amused and neutral which seems rather contradicting to Harry, but for a being as old as time itself, it's surely not difficult to pull off. 

He's aware already, that this is his mind. Perhaps it took him longer than he would've like to figure it out, but he got there. 

The sniveling children comment gives him pause.

"Do you mean Michael and Lucifer?" 

He'd gotten rather used to them really, especially Michael, and despite Lucifers directed cruelty towards him, Harry wasn't quite sure how they could be compared to sniveling children. 

Death begins circling Harry, a long cane appearing and clacking against the ground with every step. 

Again, how it's making that sound on dirt ground, Harry doesn't know. And if Death is doing the sound for dramatic affect, it was sort of funny. 

"Of course I mean them. But at the moment, they are not either of our concerns." Death stops a little to Harry's right. Only a few feet away. "You, are my concern, Harry." 

The way he says it is similiar to the way an owner speaks of their beloved pet. Ownership. 

If Harry wasn't currently internally struggling with his own mind and every problem that came with it, he might have found a little indignation at the tone. 

Instead, he's only weary and curious. 

"And why is that?" 

"He has done quite a number on you, Hasn't he? No matter. You've proven yourself far more powerful and despite the lack of memories of it, you'll get there. Michael has already given you a push in the right direction. And I have no desire to see him continue these antics much longer. He should find it hard to bother you for a while. I am only here to remind you of something, Harry Potter." 

He's entirely sure that whatever it is he needs to be reminded of, is important, but there's a howling around them, like a strong wind has begun blowing. Harrys dark curls brush across his face and hes impressed at the way the wind does very little to rumple Death.

The being takes a few steps closer until they are in eachother space. Until Harry feels mildly uncomfortable staring up in the man's gaunt face. 

"Vivit post funera virtus." 

And then- he's gone. 

The words shake something in him. They resonate within his bones. 

Virture survives the grave.

He's heard the words before. From Deaths voice. 

Before Harry gets a chance to rack his brain, the world around him twists violently with the wind and everything goes black. 

There is no bright white and blue limbo as he expects. 

In fact, Harry has absolutely no idea where he is. It's familiar, but foreign to him. 

At least the two presences the seep back in, one angry and one curious, are familiar. 

What's also new, is he's not in a body. He is, but not his own. 

Not when he can very clearly see himself sleeping on some hotel room bed. 

What in the bloody hell was going on now? 

Michael said Forward, but all Harry could remember after dying, was limbo. Everything after that became fuzzy and disjointed. 

There are two other men in the room, one on the other bed with messy brown hair and one on the couch who's sleeping in everyday clothes and under no blanket. 

The man on the couch lights a fire in Harry's stomach that he finds both invigorating and far too knee-weakening for his taste. Especially since he can't even figure out the man's name. 

But a name seems unimportant, not when Harry, the one on the bed, wakes abruptly from a nightmare and the man immediately is awake and watching him with concern barely concealed in his eyes. 

Yes, a name is entirely unimportant when Harry watches himself stand and exit the hotel room to get air after his nightmare, and the mystery man doesn't go back to sleep. He only keeps an eye on Harry while waiting. 

As if he cares about Harry. 

He's handsome. 

That's undeniable. 

Harry's sure he's seen him before, or perhaps has gotten flashes of the man's face before. 

He's got sparkling jade green eyes and a strong jaw covered in stubble that Harry's fingers twitch with the desire to feel. 

"Dean?" 

He's jerked out of his staring by the other man, the one on the bed, speaking up. 

The man on the couch looks over and raises a brow. 

"Sammy?" 

Dean and Sam. 

Those names fit perfectly. There's a sudden and intense scratching in his brain, like something is clawing from within him, trapped and wanting out. 

It's painful, but the men aren't done talking and Harry is desperate for some kind of answers. Some idea of what he's seeing. Why he himself is with these men when he can't truly remember them. 

"Where'd Harry go?" Sam whispers after glancing over at the empty bed. Dean jerks a thumb towards to window looking outside where Harry can see himself staring up at the night sky. 

Sam gives an acknowledging hum before rolling over to return to sleep.

But Dean doesn't. 

In fact, he only closes his eyes when Harry comes back inside and lays back in bed. 

And Harry doesn't see his chest move evenly, the kind to indicate sleep, until his counterpart self actually falls asleep. 

Something on his chest tightens seeing this bit of care. 

Harry is in love with Dean Winchester. 

It's obvious. Even to someone known for their obliviousness.

It's in the way that he watches himself watch Dean whenever he enters a room. Emerald eyes constantly drawn to the strong form. 

It's obvious in the way Harry banters with hum, desperate to make him laugh and smile. 

And Harry stands and watches that love develop, and he feels it burn in his chest.

It warms him from deep within his soul, makes him feel less...dead. 

He's still unsure of how he even ended up with the Winchester Brothers, his brain saw fit to skip past that little part of the story, but it doesn't matter.

What matters is that Sam Winchester is a friend. A good one. 

The kind of friend that Harry is grateful he has after the loss of all his others.

And Dean...

Dean sets every nerve he has sparking in his blood. 

And Harry's found a place in this world. With people that seem to care about him. 

The Snake, Lucifer, hates watching all the happy moments.

His disgust makes bile rise in Harry's throat. It eats away inside of him and he feels the beings teeth puncture deep into his heart. 

Michael is far from much better. 

He seems curious mainly, but whenever there is a moment between Harry and Dean, whenever there is a lingering glance or touch, Harry can feel a hatred similiar to when he'd had Voldemorts soul inside of him. 

It feels like ownership in a way Harry isn't sure he likes, despite the friendship they'd built. 

Still, he finds the two companions the least of his interest as the scenes change in front of him. 

Harry watches himself change and grow, as he let's the two brothers, and eventually an angel of all beings, into his world. 

And somehow, Harry puts down his grief. 

It's gotten to heavy to hold, he sees himself wake from nightmares, cry into his sweater as he mourns what he had, he sees himself stare at stars looking for answers.

He sees himself in an alley with Dean, begging him to let Harry save him. Begging the man to not just give up and give in the way Harry had. 

There's a distinct shift between them after that.

He can't name it, if perhaps that was when that Harry or even Dean realized they were in love with eachother. 

But the shift is there. 

He sees himself pushed against a brick wall, a sort of tension sitting between the two that makes desire curl in Harry's gut. Maybe it wasn't clear to himself in the moment, but being an onlooker he can tell that it's jealousy that has Dean so riled up. 

More than anything Harry wishes he'd had the foresight then and there to just grab the man and kiss him. 

But he hadn't. And the moment passes by.

Watching his life like this is strange, which he should be used to by now. He's never known his life to be anything but  strange.

The more memories he passes through, the more they become his own. 

He remembers the feeling of being flung into a wall by a ghost. He remembers the way Dean's hands feel when they curl around his arm or brush against his back.

Trying not to remember that feeling, and the fire it had ignited on his stomach, becomes the hard part. 

And it's not something he wants to put down. 

In fact, this is the kind of feeling he wants to keep holding on to. 

He wants to keep holding on to Dean. 

But holding on kind of actually means getting back to. 

Harry needs to get back to Dean, which means moving forward. 

Moving forward starts becoming difficult, like there's lead in his legs holding him down. 

It takes him a while to realize its not his legs, but his head. More specifically, the two lingering beings that while weakened, still make their displeasure clear. Constantly.

Though, in a confusing sense. 

Lucifer seems angrier whenever Sam lingers in the memories. 

Michael seems rageful whenever Dean lingers around Harry. 

And Harry figures out the Lucifer thing rather quickly once he learned about the new world he ended up in the war he's helping to fight. 

Lucifer wants Sam as his vessel, and seeing Sam constantly fighting against what he views as 'destiny' sets him off. 

Michael's issues with Dean aren't as clear cut. 

The being seems fine with his vessel most of the time, but the times like when Dean had him up against a wall, they're the times Michael's anger seeps into Harry like poison in his bloodstream. 

But it's not important. 

Not when Harry's witnessing Gabriel's death. 

Not when the interactions with the archangel cause a confusing array of emotions in both beings and Harry himself, causing his head to pound. 

The one clear emotion is grief. And surprisingly, it comes from all three of them. 

Sometimes, having two ancient archangels dancing in his head is hard work. 

At least with Voldemort he'd been able to shove his presence to the back mostly. 

Next time he saw Death, he'd have to thank him. 

After he asked the arsehole why he couldn't just wake him the hell up. 

Truly, Harry was tired of fate, destiny, and overly powerful beings fucking with him and his life. 

According to Castiel, God was real even if he was missing, and Harry made an internal vow that if they ever met, he'd punch the prick. 

But Harry had always been a fucked up ball of religious trauma and every other kind of trauma too. 

Which is likely why it had been so easy fro Lucifer to mess with his head. 

There were a lot of skeletons in Harry's closet, and a lot of things he carried around. 

All of which, he could deal with later. 

He purposefully ignored the voice that belonged to Michael saying that 'that's what you always do, Harry.'

What did he know? 

It's not like he'd been living in Harry's head or anything. 

Bloody hell.

Things get both better and worse after Gabriel's death. 

He recognizes how close they're getting to when he ended up trapped in his own head. Harry's not sure how he knows, it's like a stone in his stomach has settled, telling him something is coming.

Michael and Lucifer recognize it too. 

It's like they're rattling on a metal cage, banging on the bars and screaming. 

If Harry wakes up, what happens to them? 

He can't let them out. But he can't stay trapped in here. Any longer and....and he doesn't think he'll be able to come out okay. 

Not that he's going to be okay anyway. He knows this whole thing is gonna leave some lasting scars. 

That's completely fine, Harry's survived worse. 

And waking up means seeing Sam and Dean again. 

It means Castiel and Bobby. 

It means- it means the family he's managed to find and build despite the fact he had thought he'd never have something even close to it ever again. 

Then again, he was sure he'd lost it along with Sirius years before. The idea of family had gone through the veil with his Godfather and Harry had done his best to pretend he was alright with that. That it didn't hurt. 

That he didn't spend nights staring at ceilings in the Weasley house, wondering what he'd done to to deserve the pain of getting a taste of family, yet having it ripped away everytime he went back to the Dursleys. 

Ron and Hermione had been his family. And he'd lost that too. 

He didn't want to lose this one. No matter how dysfunctional it was. 

No matter that Sam Winchester used healthy meals and running every morning to try and make himself feel more human, less tainted. 

No matter that Dean Winchester drowned himself in booze and sarcastic comments because he was too scared to let himself be vulnerable around anyone. 

No matter that Castiel wasn't even human, yet suffered for his heart and all the awful things being human came with. 

None of it mattered to Harry. Not when he was just as bad as all of them. 

The Harry then clearly felt the same as the Harry now, seeing as he watched himself say goodbye to Dean and realized why.

The talk with Death had only set in stone what they- he- had to do. 

In a way, it was just his luck that he'd finally been kissed by Dean, just to magically trap himself in his head not even a day later. 

Potter luck. Brilliant. 

But anticipation coils in his chest as he watches himself stand against Lucifer.

He's made it through. He kept going forward and he made it. 

Magic swirls in the air, suffocating him, but he doesn't tear his eyes away from the scene. 

"Please." 

He's not sure who he's talking to. 

God, Death, the archangels who've gone silent in his brain. 

It doesn't matter, he'll beg whoever he needs to. He wants out. 

"Please." 

His other self collapses on the ground. Nothing changes. 

The magic is still swirling. 

"Please!" 

He's not moving on the ground. He doesn't even seem to be breathing. 

He wants out. 

He wants to be awake. 

Its similiar to when Voldemort had possessed him, when Harry had twisted on cold ground, his blood boiling and his grief fresh like an open wound. 

The pain was blinding. 

It starts in the back of his skull until he can barely register his knees hitting the ground. 

Instead of the terrible malicious voice entering his mind and using his own mouth to speak, it's only silence. 

He's pretty sure he's bitten his tongue, if he was more aware he'd taste the copper filling his mouth. 

But the pain is nothing, it means nothing. It's in his head, the same way Voldemort had been. 

This wasnt Voldemort though, with Voldemort hed only had to think abo-

Sirius. 

He'd thought of Sirius. And Ron. Hermione. The Weasleys. Everyone he loved. Everyone he had to live for. Everyone he had to keep safe. 

Voldemort hadn't know what that was like. To care so much for anyone, it was a powerful thing. The kind of power he'd never taste or touch. 

Harry had wanted to die that day. He'd wanted to be with Sirius. 

He didn't want to die now. And he'd made sure he hadn't died then. 

He'd always been underestimated by Voldemort. Seen as weak and stupid.

But Harry had won against him then. Because he wanted to save the people he loved. Because he'd fought back. 

Harry would fight now.

He wanted to wake up. 

He wanted to see Sam and Cas and Bobby.

He wanted to kiss Dean Winchester again. 

He wanted to wake up. 

He w- 

There was no one within the panic room. 

No one to see when Harry Potter opened his eyes. 

Chapter Text

"How will you remember?" 

"That I love you?" 

"Yes."

"That's easy. I can't help it." 

Waking up after, well, Harry wasn't sure how long but based on the horrible weighted feeling of his limbs it was a long time, was harder than he thought it would be. 

There's a bright light above him that nearly burns his eyes when they open, so he's quick to shut them tight for a few for moments. 

His body feels separate and stiff. His bones ache. 

Truly, this is what his body should have felt like after he'd come back to life. This is what he'd associate with Death and rebirth. 

It was awful. 

Mostly, his head was pounding so hard it felt like someone had taken a hammer to the inside of his skull and were doing their best to break out. 

Which, might not be entirely inaccurate. But he couldn't exactly feel Michael or Lucifer currently. There was no presence or pain like he'd come to know. 

Didnt mean they were gone, though. 

Voldemort hadn't always been there, not truly. Or maybe Harry had just not wanted to acknowledge his presence. 

It was very likely they were not gone for good, hell, this might just be another trick even if his entire soul screams out that it's real real real-

Sitting up, Harry rubbed harshly at his eyes and tried to reorient himself with the world around him. 

Breathing deeply for a few moments, he was able to gather enough of himself to fully open his eyes and take in his surroundings. Enough to see he was in Bobby's panic room on the cot with a couple of blankets on top of him creased at his legs where someone had apparently tucked him in. 

For some reason, the sight of it makes his eyes burn for an entirely different reason then the bright lights. 

Then it's like being struck with lightning. 

Bobby's panic room meant he was at Bobby's house, it meant he was nearby the man, possibly with Sam, Dean, and Castiel. 

He had to find them. 

Shifting again in the bed, he winces at the feeling in his arm after he'd let it fall from his eyes. Theres a needle leading the a bag hanging above him, medicine most likely. 

Bloody hell, is this how Castiel had felt waking up alone in a hospital room? Needles in his weak body, aching and confused.

He'd felt awful for his angelic friend then, but even more so at this moment. 

Pulling the needle out of his arm makes him want him sick to stomach, and both severe hunger and nausea war around in his gut. 

Thirst is also incredibly prevalent at the moment. Harry's throat is so dry he's sure it'll be impossible for him to speak until he gets at least a few glasses of water. 

But, he'll have to get up to get food and water. So that's where he'll start.

His barefoot on the cold stone floor makes it more real, it's what makes him feel truly awake and that feeling is like lighting a fire inside of him. 

Trying to walk is a bit difficult and he needs to hold on to the wall and the bits of furniture to get to the steel door on the other side of the room, which he internally cheers to find out isn't latched shut. 

He wasn't sure what would greet him on the other side, but he was awake, he was free.

And so, chest tight, Harry opens the door.

Months earlier

He didn't turn to watch Harry walk away from him, he wasn't sure he'd be able to stand it if he did. 

After the shorter man had wiped away the one tear Dean had let escape him, he'd choked back all the rest, knowing no amount of tears would ever be enough to heal the awful agony in his heart. 

He wanted to hate him. Anger had always been easier to deal with for Dean. It had been so much simpler to be angry and hateful than it was to mourn. 

But he couldn't hate Harry. So all that was left for him was to mourn.

Harry hadn't said whether this plan would kill him or not, but it was pretty clear he had no expectations of making it back alive and whole after confronting the devil. 

And he was doing it for Dean, for his little brother. 

Hating Harry for that was out of the question, but it hurt like all hell. 

There was nothing Dean could do to fight this, the wizard had already made up his mind and he should've been feeling the weight of these months thinking he was going to lose his brother one way or another lift off his shoulders, but he felt cold.

The door closed and the sound of it shutting echoed in his head. 

Part of him wanted to run after Harry, to grab him and shake him and tell him not to do this. To stay with him. 

But his legs didn't move, and Dean knew he was the biggest coward alive. 

He couldn't save them both. 

So Harry, brilliant, kind, stupidly wonderful, Harry Fucking Potter had made the choice for him, so Dean wouldn't have to. 

And damn it all, Harry mattered to him.

He knew in every bit of himself, down to the marrow of his bones that Harry mattered to him. Even if he hadn't known before, for the simple fact that the man was prepared to do everything he could to save Sam, he mattered so damn much to Dean. 

And he was going to lose him the very next day. 

It should terrify the hell out of him, caring about someone this much after so short of time, but there was some invisible string tying him to Harry. A string that had been there since he'd appeared dirty and bloody in their motel room. 

Despite trying to be mistrustful of the wizard, doing his best to keep his distance, the emerald eyed man had torn down every damn wall he'd ever built and made himself comfortable deep in his soul. 

And it was likely that even if he was well and truly gone tomorrow, he'd stay locked in Deans soul until his last breath. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Dean ran a shaking hand through his hair. 

It wasn't fair.

It was bullshit really. Harry getting a second chance only to live a few more months and then die for Dean and Sam? How fucked was the universe? 

Now Dean deserved this kind of crap. He knew what he was, he knew how tainted and wrong he truly was inside. 

But Harry was so good. 

He hadn't owed a single thing to them, yet he'd risked his life again and again for them, and had only asked for a little bit of trust in return. 

"This ain't....this ain't right," the words came out as barely a whisper, his jade eyes directed up at the stars, locking without his permission on the brightest one in the sky. A star he was sure he'd seen Harry stare at nearly everytime he came out to look at the night sky. "Don't do this to him. Don't-"

Don't make me lose him, too. 

But there was no answer, no assurance. 

Dean knew that one would ever come. 

But he stood out there a long while, staring up at the stars, even if, while he would never admit it, his heart was in an upstairs bedroom, resting in the hands of a scarred young wizard.

Now

The hunt had been simple. 

Easy. 

Methodical, really. 

A ghost they needed to gank. They talked to family and friends, went to where they were buried, dug her up, added salt and then burned the bones. 

Done. 

Dean was itching for me. Teeth clenched and fingers twitching against the steering wheel as he drove back to motel, Sam sitting quietly in the passenger seat. 

His brother had been a lot quieter these last few months since- 

Well. 

Since everything. 

With the war in heaven, the alpha monster situation, and just life as a hunter, the brothers were strained and tired. 

And deeply sad. 

It was one thing to lose someone, to know they wouldn't come back and mourn and move on. 

It was another thing entirely to watch someone waste away, silent in a bed, knowing they were suffering and there was nothing anyone could do. 

His phone rang loudly, jarring him from his thoughts and he swerved a bit on the road. 

"Sh- Dean!" 

"Sorry, dammit- hello?" Dean answered the phone, not even glancing to see the caller ID. 

"Dean?" 

His heart stopped dead in his chest at the small, croaked voice on the other end of the phone. 

"....Harry?" 

The house was empty. 

Entirely empty. 

Harry wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh at his luck or simply collapse on the ground and cry. 

He was so thin. The kind of thin he'd been as a starved little boy, and for that, and the lack of movement for however long he was out, he was incredibly weak. Just walking up the basement stairs to get to the main floor of the house winded him. 

It would've been too good for his luck that someone would be home. That he could simply grab on to one of the people he cared about, have them be solid and real, and simply let go for a moment. 

Of course, that wasn't going to happen at the moment. So Harry took a moment to sit on the couch, sight a bit blurred for his lack of glasses, and just breathe. 

After a few minutes, he forces himself up again, spots appearing in his vision that he resolutely ignores as he enters the kitchen, relief flooding him at the sight of fresh groceries. 

That means someone must be around, or at least had been recently. 

And it also meant food. 

His stomach twists again and he's forced to bend over and clutch at his middle to try and ease the pain. 

When he feels he can move again without his stomach eating his spine out, Harry is quick to grab a few slices of bread and a glass of water, just so he can sit down and get something inside his stomach and soothing his throat. 

He wonders where everyone is, if they're safe. 

He hopes they're simply out together at a diner, drinking beer and laughing over burgers and ch-fries. 

Knowing them, that's unlikely. They're probably off in danger hunting something or another. 

But Harry hopes beyond reason that they're alive. 

Getting the food and water in him definitely helps with his strength, if only temporarily, and he can now focus on figuring out where everyone is. 

Bobby, no longer in a wheelchair, is probably out in town, or on a small hunt himself. He'd probably be the closest one to Harry, so he should try and call him first on one of the many phones in the man's house. 

But it's not his voice that Harry wants to hear right now, not first. 

Fear and anticipation twist knots inside him and his weak hands shake as they dial the last number he remembers on one of the phones. 

It rings once. Twice. Three times. 

On the fourth ring, the phone is picked up. 

"Hello?" 

Harry almost weeps, stupidly and openly. It takes everything in him to choke them back and speak past the tightness in his chest and the rawness of his throat. 

"Dean?" 

It is him, Harry would know his voice anywhere. He'd spent months hearing that voice, had just watched those months play out before him in his own head. 

It feels like his heart is cracking open and he wants nothing more than just to have Dean here. 

There's a long pause on the other side, as if the hunter is processing and Harry can hear the familiar sound of the Impalas engine in the background. 

"Harry?"

Merlin, he can't hold back the tears now. They flow freely down his face and he's suddenly turned into a human hosepipe.

"Hi...I just-" He swallows a bit, throat feeling torn open and filled with cotton, "I'm awake and no one's here so I-"

"We're two hours away, we'll be there soon, just- I'll ca-" Deans breathe shutters on the other end and the sound echos in Harry's bones, "I'll call Bobby, he's still in town, he'll be there probably in ten minutes, alright? Don't go anywhere." 

There's really nowhere Harry would go, but he doesn't say that, he simply basks in the feeling of relief that comes with hearing Dean Winchesters voice. 

"Is Sam?" 

"He's here, he's with me, I can- hey! Dude-" There a scuffle on the other end and Harry almost laughs at the curses Dean let's out.

"Harry?" 

Warmth floods into his veins.

"Hey, Sam." 

"I'm gonna kick your ass." There's definitely tears and joy in Sam's voice and Harry slides down onto the floor. They're alive. They're okay. 

"Yeah- yeah, sure you will." 

"We're on the way, Harry, you're okay?" The worry in his tone is palpable and then he hears as Sam berates his brother for running a red light. "Like, really?" 

Harry looks down at himself, the clothes that are baggy on him, the shaking hands and weak legs. 

"Mostly...I'm alive. A little weak and kind of aching, but alive." 

Alive. Awake. 

The words beat in time with Deans heart and his foot is heavy on the gas pedal. 

Alive. Awake. 

"Thats- that's really good." Sam chokes out next to him. His brown eyes were lined with silver and he clenched the phone tight in his hand. "Just, sit on the couch until Bobby gets there, alright?" 

He can't hear what Harry says, but his little brother is smiling wider than he's seen in months and Deans heart feels like it's kick started in his chest. 

Alive. Awake. 

"We're gonna call Bobby, Harry. He'll be there soon." 

More words from the wizard, then Sam is saying a reluctant goodbye and hanging up. He's quick to dial Bobby's number and explain, rushed and excited, that Harry is awake and needs someone at the house. 

Alive. Awake. 

His hands are tight on the steering wheel for a much different reason then before. He's not itching for a fight, there's no anger coursing through him and burning his blood. 

Harry is awake, and Dean needed to see him, to be next to him. He needed to be sure. 

Harry was alive and awake, and when Dean finally saw him again, he was gonna make damn sure nothing ever happened to the wizard again.