apples and scented candles • h.potter ✓

• thirty two •

Harry crashed into bed fully dressed.

He felt his stomach rumble, but he had no desire to drag himself into the kitchen and make something for himself. His eyes burned, his head seemed to split in half with pain and he wished he had not gone on a bloody date with Corben.

Though the logical part of him argued that it was all his own fault, he couldn't help but be angry. Why did Corben have to storm away like that? Why couldn't he just respect his choices and get on with it? It was just a sprained ankle ...

As soon as he thought that Harry was filled with hate toward himself. He had promised a great day for Corben and instead he had forced him to places he didn't want to go and twisted his foot. Corben must have been expecting them to watch horror movies together - Harry had planned to do that in the evening - and he had been left utterly disappointed. And with a twisted foot.

It was just like Harry - ruining things for everyone.

He didn't get up to eat and eventually fell asleep.

It was dark when he woke up, and his body ached due to the position he had fallen asleep in. Harry rose with some effort and the world swam around him, and he realised he had a splitting headache. His mouth tasted funny and his skin was covered in a layer of sweat.

Without getting off the bed he pulled off his clothes until he was only in his underwear. He found a t-shirt and put it on, before going to the bathroom and washing his face and neck.

He was awfully hungry but he still did not feel like cooking. He sat on his bed again and pulled the telephone from the bedside table and placed it on his lap. He stared at it. He should call Corben. Apologise to him. Tell him how stupid and how shitty a boyfriend he was. He should ask him on a date - no. He should ask him if he could come by and spend some time with him in his little flat. They could watch a movie together if Corben felt up to it.

In the end, he did none of that and ordered a pizza. His stomach growled painfully. He ignored it and lay down on the bed again.

Something strange was happening. It was cold and he was only in his t-shirt and underwear, but he continued to sweat like he was sitting near a fire. He felt like he had run a mile from the way he was panting. What was happening to him?

He wanted to call Ron. Or Hermione. He knew they would rush to his flat as soon as he told them he wasn't feeling good, but he had put the telephone back in its place and it seemed so far away and he didn't have the energy to stretch his arms and bring it back. He just wanted to lie there and let the bedsheets swallow him whole.

Harry curled himself up, covering his head with his arms. He could hear his heartbeat, so close to him that he felt it would break through his ribcage and burst out any time, and there would be nothing he could do, because really, what had he ever done right? Since his birth, he had been a pain to everyone around him. He had taken his parents into hiding, where they had both taken their last breaths and had none of their friends by their sides because Harry had made sure of that. Their parents had died for him, because of him. And so did everyone else who had given their lives in the war. He was the reason Sirius and Remus were dead, and so were Tonks and Moody and Dobby and Hedwig. He was the reason Hermione was tortured, the reason she and Ron faced nightmares and were unable to go out into the public without having a meltdown. It was his fault that Lavender was bitten by Fenrir Greyback. It was his fault that she sported hideous scars in her face and neck and no one wanted to give her a job because of that. It was his fault that Molly Weasley burst into tears every few minutes.

It was his fault it was his fault it was his fault ...

The bell rang. And it rang again.