Harry Potter and the Unexplained Phobia

Chapter nine: Stagnant water

Cover art by: Pixiv

The autopsy had returned and confirmed their worst suspicions. There had been no foul play, no marks on his body, the boy was not intoxicated, other than a small lingering amount of cannabis (which they would need to investigate). He had ended his life of his own volition. The details surrounding the case were only known to a few. The rest of the school had been informed that he had suffered a heart attack due to the residual effects of Voldemort's curse, which explained his isolation and diminishing health over the school year. A few select people knew the whole truth, but none would speak of it aloud.

Ron and Hermione had been summoned to McGonagall's office that morning and told the news. They didn't believe her at first- Harry... dead? He couldn't be dead, he was fine, he was recovering. As soon as it had sunk in, Ron had exploded, shouting and swearing, unable to sit still and pacing violently around the office. Hermione had begged him to stop- she was inconsolable herself, but kept herself tightly pinned together, her arms and legs folded and her jaw clamped shut, letting her hair swing forward and hide her face. McGonagall stood behind her desk, her cheeks flushed, but couldn't stop him.

Molly was inconsolable as well- but there were few people available to console her. Hermione and the rest of the Weasleys were wrapped up in their own worlds, trying to figure out what they could do, how it had happened and what they could have done to prevent the unpreventable. Each carried a pang of immense guilt. In the end, she found herself in the unlikely arms of Luna Lovegood, whose soothing words and unusually upbeat ideas about how Harry would likely be less upset about the afterlife than everyone else, did a bit to help soften the blow. At least it was some comfort that many of the people she knew he had grieved (his parents, Cedric and Sirius) would be with him now.

"B-but it's so unfair!" she wailed, clinging onto the sixteen-year-old, as Luna rubbed her back. "He's just a boy!"

"I know, Mrs Weasley," she replied patiently, "I know".

Hermione had dissolved into her books- she had always caught refuge in the library, but now she never seemed to leave, scouring books to find something, anything, that would explain what had happened. Because he had seemed fine, he was happier, healthier than he had been in months! It was infuriating that for once, her books could give her no answer. If only there she'd spent more time with him over the year, if only she'd not been drunk the last time she'd seen him! She looked around the library in disgust. They did little to soothe the overwhelming ache in her heart.

Ron had been absent too, though he knew he wouldn't find an answer in the library. Harry wasn't a scientific study, he was a normal teenager with too much in his head. He was a boy who could love, who loved him, whom he loved. His sadness morphed into rage, as it was easier to deal with and so was more often than not found in the Room of Requirement, staining the walls an ugly red from punching them too many times. His guttural roars could sometimes be heard if he forgot to put the charms up, but everyone walked past, pretending not to see the redness in his eyes when he finally emerged.

With Ron gone, it was up to Neville to prepare the bedroom. He knew at the end of the year, the fifth bed would simply be removed, but it remained for now. He had been the one to spot the wet sheets that morning and had removed them without a second thought, leaving the covers pristine and ready for him to sleep again. The curtains were always closed and all four of the boys knew better than to open them because the sight of his untouched bed was too much for them to bear. There was a small vigil placed in the middle of the sheet, a ring of carefully charmed white lilies, as well as a note tucked under the mattress, a scroll of parchment that they had all written something on. None of the boys could look at it at night, instead drawing their own curtains while they slept, their back resolutely turned away from the scene. Sometimes they dreamt they could smell the lilies, the sickly-sweet aroma twisting its way into their nightmares.