My Soul, Your Heart

The last Marauder and the fear of the unknown

Harry hadn't decided how he felt about his conversation with death, so had decided not to think about it. In fact, he was refusing to think about so hard that he was flat out drunk.

He was laying on the fluffy rug in his living room, 3 and a half empty bottles of fire-whiskey arranged haphazardly around him. Buckbeak had somehow managed to squeeze himself onto the sofa and Fawkes was watching with disapproval from the sturdy light fitting above Harry's head.

Harry felt like a crumple-horned Snorkack had run horn first into him, he was having a rough weekend. Finding out you were fated to live an eternity with death as your closest friend was a little bit of a blow to be honest.

Harry, wordless and wandless, summoned his cigarettes. Lighting one with his bare hands and inhaling without tasting anything.

Fawkes shifted and flapped his wings anxiously above him, making the ceiling light swing slightly with his movement. Harry watched the new angels of shadow flutter around the room with a dazed, detached feeling.

How was he supposed to live like this? Was this even living? It didn't feel like he was living.

Tears welled in his eyes and he let them fall, not bothering to try and stop them.

This wasn't living.

Harry blindly reached for another cigarette and groaned aloud when he found none. With more effort than Harry would ever admit, He pulled himself to his feet. Swaying slightly but somehow not stumbling when he made a move for the stairs to search for his stash of smokes that he had hidden in his bedroom (on the off chance that Kreacher burst in uninvited and started trying to tidy up while giving lectures about 'Masters health').

Harry made a small plead to the universe that he still had nicotine in the house, sure enough he opened the draw of his bedside table to find a single pack left. Relief spread like a wild fire in his gut and he grabbed for them like his last life line.

Harry was about to leave the room when he made the mistake of meeting his own eyes in his bathroom mirror, that he had a clear view of through the open bathroom door.

If Harry thought he looked bad on Friday he didn't know what bad was.

His skin had turned a sickly level of pale, the bags under his eyes had turned a livid purple-green that stained the skin under his eyes. His hair hung limply over his shoulders, clearly neglected. His eyes looked nothing less than haunted, though Harry supposed he probably was haunted if he was meeting death in his dreams. Still wet tear tracks ran down passed his chin and soaking the collar of his jumper. He was wearing one of Ron's old knitted jumpers, a maroon one with a cream 'R'. It was stretched from over-love and hung loose on his frame.

Fresh tears were building as his thoughts were dragged to Ron. his best friend. His brother.

They had partnered during their Auror years, genius strategy mixed with reckless dumb luck is how Ron had described them. The same gleeful grin he'd worn since they met at age 11 still on his face at age 47.

47.

Fuck it stung. Ronald Billius Weasley: awarded first order of Merlin for his heroic and fearless acts during the battle of Hogwarts and the defeat of Voldemort, a battle that took four of his siblings from him and countless friends; continued to have an extremely successful career as a world renowned Auror, known for his brilliant planning and courage. Unbeaten at wizarding chess. Killed by a stray killing curse shot by some petty criminal out in the field at age forty-fucking-seven.

He hadn't even reached middle age by wizarding standards. The unfairness of it burned deep in Harry.

He knew he would still have watched his dear friend die before his eyes, but not like that. Not ripped from him after everything they had survived together.