Indifference Towards Difference || Harry Potter

26 | Rage, Rage Against The Dying Of The Light

"Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
Dylan Thomas

~~~

⚠️STRONG MENTIONS OF SUICIDE + SELF-HARM⚠️

~~~

His mind was blank. Or perhaps too full of things— terrible things and beautiful things, memories like stained church glass and shards of beer bottles cutting away from within. Either way, they all found their way back into his cupboard, desperately stuffed away after being slowly, slowly eased out. Harry's head was emptier than it had been for a long time.

In the end, it had taken him half an hour to summon up the will to move. He'd buried himself in the darkness that had raised him, and let that heavy emptiness back into his heart. He'd learnt his lesson with hope again.

It had taken a Herculean effort to get himself to stand and move, blindly stumbling to his room, deaf to the murmurings of Snape's ancestors, before collapsing against the door. And by then, Harry had just wanted to curl up and not exist.

But life didn't work that way because life wasn't fair, especially to people with prophecies about living and dying and dooming the rest of the Wizarding World to the reign of a mad tyrant.

It was wonderfully cruel how bright the sun was shining through his window, radiating all that was good and golden in the world when it was a complete juxtaposition to how Harry felt inside: numb, dreary and cold. Not cold like ice, not that lethal sort of cold. Cold in the way absence felt, or like something had died. A part of him, perhaps.

Harry drew his knees up to his chest, rested his forehead against them and closed his eyes. If he counted enough sheep, perhaps he'd fall asleep.

One sheep...

Two sheep...

Three sheep...

Twenty-five sheep...

Twenty-six sheep...

Twenty-seven sheep...

A sudden pop sounded in his rooms, and Harry backed so far against the door he hit the back of his head. But it was only Minky, looking at him with big, bulbous eyes.

"Mister Master Harry Potter?" she said in a small voice.

He rubbed his head absently. "Minky?" The word came out flat and dead, with only a trace of question.

Minky nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes. Mister Master Potions Master be calling Mister Master Harry Potter to be eating his late lunch."

Oh hell.

He let his head fall back to thud against the door. "I'm not hungry."

Minky shuffled her feet nervously. "Mister Master Potions Master—"

"Just tell him I'm not hungry."

Feeling the house-elf's gaze still on him, Harry moved his head to meet her stare. "Please."

Minky stuttered for some time, clearly torn between saying something or leaving. But finally she looked up, and in an impossibly smaller voice said, "Minky will tell Mister Master Potions Master."

And then she disappeared, with a pop that sounded like a pin drop.

Giving into exhaustion, Harry let himself tip sideways. He curled up and lay his head on the floor.