Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Sad, neh? This really
depressed me for a while. I think I should go get my head checked.
On October 27, one
week after the deaths of Ginevra Weasley, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger,
Lord Voldemort was killed.
The last thing he
saw was a pair of feverishly burning green eyes radiating hatred and pain. And
then he was no more.
The wizarding world
rejoiced, and did not stop rejoicing.
days later, Harry James Potter, savior of the wizarding world, was committed to
St. Mungo’s, completely insane.
Draco strode forward to
the figure on the bed, pinning the small visitor’s badge to his robe front. He
stood with his arms locked behind his back, unsure of what to say, or if he
should even say anything. What could he say? “Hello, Potter, thank you for
defeating the Dark Lord, I’m sorry you went bonkers in the process”?
Potter was sitting up
halfway, leaning against a worn pillow. His eyes were downcast, and he was
slowly, methodically picking at a stray thread on his blanket. He looked up at
Draco, and the blonde man took a hissed breath.
The once Golden Boy of
Hogwarts was wasting away. His cheekbones stuck out, and his face was pale and
gaunt. His hair was lank, and his eyes…his previously bright eyes were empty.
Draco swallowed and
took a seat.
Potter opened his
mouth. When he spoke, his voice was harsh and rough, as if he had been
screaming for long, too long.
“I killed him.
Voldemort,” he said. “When Dumbledore died, I felt as if my world was coming
undone. Everyone says that I’m a hero, but…what if there’s another boy like me
on the Dark side? One who looked up to Voldemort, and just lost someone he
cared about? That makes me a murderer, doesn’t it? That doesn’t make me any
different from the Death Eaters!” His voice had risen in intensity until it had
the force of a shriek, and he was clenching his fists.
Draco just frowned at
him, until his eyes fell on the multitude of potion bottles littering the
table. Of course. They were drugging him.
He laughed sardonically
in his head. He knew the world was screwed up when a drugged-up Potter made
more sense than before.
He’s saying things
he’d never have the courage to say before, his mind told him.
insane,” Potter said pleadingly, suddenly gripping Draco’s arm with one thin
hand, his fingers digging in hard. “I’m not insane. But if they think I am then
they leave me alone. I just want to be left alone.” He let go of Draco and
wrapped his arms around his knees.
Draco exhaled. He
didn’t know what to say. He had come because he had felt he owed something to
Potter. He hadn’t thought that maybe Potter wouldn’t want any thanks.
“I don’t want to
remember,” the dark haired boy was still muttering.
“Then forget,” he spoke
up, surprising even himself. “Forget.” Potter looked up at him slowly. Draco
walked across the room to where Potter’s wand was kept, and carefully wrapped a
gloved hand around it. He went back to the side of the bed, offering one end of
the wand to the boy. “Just forget,” he repeated, catching green eyes with his
own, an unmistakable message in those gray orbs, and walking away.
As he left, he heard
Potter say softly, “I’d like to forget. Forget, or…”
And then he shut his
ears and left, because what he didn’t hear, wizarding courts could never drag
out of him.
“How is he, dear?” a
plump nurse asked him, her forehead creased with worry.
“I think he’s doing
fine,” he answered. “Better than he’s been in a while.”
And he turned and
strode out the door.
At 2:00 P.M.,
on November 11th, in the psychiatric section of Saint Mungo’s, Harry
James Potter was found dead in his room, a happy smile across his world-weary