Young (Drarry Fanfic)

Wake Up Alone

You got real close,
said I'm not alone,
you understand me.
But late at night,
when I close my eyes,
the quiet scares me. 

Will you still care in the morning?
When the magic's gone?
And will you be there in the morning?
Do you stay when it all goes?
Or will I wake up alone?

— Wake Up Alone by The Chainsmokers

~oOo~

May 1999

Perched on a window seat, Harry curls in on himself, pulling his knees close to his chest. The castle has always been draughty, but tonight, for some reason, it's even more so.

Like the languid caress of a long dead lover, the unnerving chill in the dimly lit common room licks at Harry's skin. It seeps into his flesh, burrowing inside his soul, seeking out old, festering wounds and maliciously ripping their scabs anew. A dull throb echoes through him, squeezing his lungs until he's nearly out of breath and his vision starts to swim.

With an unsteady hand, Harry brings his cigarette to his lips, taking a long, stuttering drag. He struggles to breath it in, past the lump that's taken hold of his throat. He revels in the foul taste of the toxic fumes, letting the acrid smoke sit in his lungs far longer than necessary, and when he finally lets it all escape through his nostrils, they twist and dance in ephemeral wisps, somehow reminding him of the phantoms that constantly lurk at the fringes of his consciousness.

He knows he really shouldn't be smoking in the common room. McGonagall would probably Transfigure him into an ashtray — just for the irony of it — if she ever finds out. But at the moment, Harry just can't be arsed to care. The darkness within, as well as without, is eating him up, swallowing him whole, and he needs something, anything, to ground him in the present; something real that he could cling to and separate himself from the horrors that dwell in his dreams and lunge at him the moment he closes his eyes.

Most days, he gets by just fine. The omnipresent ache that constantly pulses through him is but a low hum he can ignore, pushed into the furthest recesses of his mind. Through sheer force of will, he manages to hold everything at bay. He keeps himself busy, occupied, because the moment he even stops to think, the shadows that nip at his heels eventually catch up with him.

Most days, he lives, he breathes, he laughs, he loves...

But not tonight.

Memories of the War bleed into him like the noxious tendrils of an insidious poison, saturating every nook, cranny, and hidden corner of his being, blurring the fragile line between what is real and what isn't, until he hears nothing, sees nothing; every sensation numbed to all but the gnawing ache that devours him from the inside out.

Demons born from his irrepressible guilt, wearing the faces of his dead loved ones, wail like banshees as they viciously torment him with one agonising image after another.

He stares out into the blackness beyond the mullioned glass, a haunted look in his blank gaze; the green in his eyes dull and lifeless. He waits — for Merlin knows what, he's not even sure anymore. All he knows is that he needs to be awake for this moment. He owes it to them; to let them know that he hasn't forgotten, that he remembers.