Feathers. Feathers were pouring everywhere. They caressed Harry's face as they floated by, and he could feel that several were perched in his hair. The sharp end of one scratched his arm, and he looked closer to see that they were actually quills. Thick black ink was dripping out of them, and he felt some trickle down his forehead out of his hair.

He looked down at where the quill had scratched his arm, and saw a thin line of blood there. Some of the ink began to drip into his eyes, and he wiped it away in annoyance, but when he pulled his hand away it was covered in red. More blood dripped from his hand onto the small cut on his arm, and Harry watched as the blood in his hand thickened and congealed into red wax, which continued to drip onto his arm. More wax began to pour from the laceration, burning as it came out of his skin. The wax splashed onto the floor, and began to flood the floor with scarlet, which began to cling to the skin of his bare feet and climb up his legs.

Everywhere the wax made contact his skin burned and blistered painfully, but Harry stood still and took it. In a way, it was good to have this reprieve occasionally ⁠— to be reminded that he was human and elementally ordinary. The wax didn't give him exception because he was 'chosen', or because he'd happened to be the one who was given the information that made it possible to kill Voldemort.

Most importantly, it made him remember how monumental everything he'd done was, and how much pain and destruction he had actually caused. Nobody else ever focused on that part ⁠— they just bypassed it as necessary for him to be the great one that 'saved the wizarding world'.

It wasn't, though. There must have been a way to bypass all of that. But Harry had never really looked for another way, had he?

He rolled over, and opened his eyes.

Apparently Harry's mind had decided that he'd given enough payment for the moment, and he sighed in exhaustion. He was surprised that he'd actually fallen asleep and dreamt, although he supposed it had to happen every so often. He reached a hand around the bed curtains to grab his wand and lazily ended the silencing spell.

Flopping back down, Harry listened to see if any of the other boys was awake yet. Only hearing even breathing and snores, he resigned himself to staring at the curtains as always. Strangely though, Harry felt antsy and unable to just lie and stare as he had gotten so used to doing.

Deciding it couldn't hurt, he swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood. Checking the time, he discovered that it was just past five in the morning; wandering around the castle should be alright then. Quietly, he got dressed and left the dormitory, deciding he might as well go ahead and bring his bag with him so he could avoid further human interaction later going to get it.

He wasn't sure quite where he was going, but he figured it didn't really matter ⁠— he just wanted to walk. Avoiding the upper floors, which had not been fixed so splendidly after the battle as the Great Hall and lower floors had been, Harry decided that wandering the dungeons might be a safe bet. They were creepy and drafty, but they were unlikely to remind him of much besides Snape.

As he walked along the dark corridors, he began to trail his hand along the wall. It was comforting and grounding to feel the cool, rough stone keeping pace with him as he made his way farther and farther into the dungeons. The slaps of his footsteps echoing in the face of the complete silence that covered everything else was nice as well. He felt so alone, but in a peaceful way, which was completely foreign to him. He pondered this new feeling of calm aloneness and then let it go. His mind was staying surprisingly quiet, and behaving for once. Whilst he felt he deserved — and even to a degree wanted ⁠— the constant reminders of the gravity of his past actions, the respite was also a relief.

The sounds of several pairs of feet echoed through the dungeon corridors and Harry realised both that it must somehow already be time for breakfast and that he must have circled back close to the Slytherin common rooms without noticing. At least he would be able to get back out easily.

Harry wasn't particularly hungry, but he was still sorely tempted to go straight to the Great Hall rather than back to the Gryffindor common room to wait for Ron and Hermione. All the same, he didn't think he should try to blow off Hermione two days in a row. He wearily made his way back up the several long flights of stairs to the portrait of the Fat Lady, and gave her the password to be allowed entrance. The common room was empty, so he sat himself directly in front of the fireplace to wait for his friends.

"There you are mate! We were wondering why you weren't in the room," Ron exclaimed, shattering Harry's intense concentration on the flames. He nodded vaguely in acknowledgement of Ron's words and continued to sit in wait for Hermione. Ron seemed to be trying to begin a conversation for a few moments before he gave up and plopped himself down on the sofa to wait in silence.

The two were not waiting long before Hermione emerged from the girls' dormitories.

"Good, you two are already ready. Shall we go?"

Harry once again nodded, and Ron responded enthusiastically, bounding over to hug his girlfriend. They weren't particularly bad about public displays of affection, and Harry was happy for them, but it was still a bit odd sometimes when they did something overtly coupley. Hermione wrinkled her brow in concern as she shot Harry a questioning look over Ron's shoulder. Of course she had noticed that Harry was off this morning ⁠— then again, wasn't he always off nowadays? He looked away, pretending not to have seen her.

The three of them made their way down to the Great Hall, and Harry found himself beginning to notice that although he was clearly walking with them, he didn't actually feel as if he was in his body. He could sort of feel his limbs moving, but it felt fuzzy, and he felt like he was floating out of his own skin. It was an altogether odd sensation, and he may have ordinarily said something about it, but he found that his mouth was not working correctly.

He was sat at the Gryffindor table in the Great hall now, but was entirely unsure he remembered getting there. Instead of reaching for his usual slice of toast, he found he was much more comfortable just sitting and allowing the weight of his body to drag him down and keep him in stillness.

"Gbrsm?" a garbled noise reached his ears and Harry turned his head slowly, with effort to see Hermione's questioning face.

"What?" He finally forced out.

"Are you okay? You should really eat something, Harry."

Harry managed to reach out for toast, and got it onto his plate. He didn't think he had given his hand permission to let go, but the food had made it to his plate, so he figured it was alright.

"Harry? Are you feeling okay?" Hermione's face was creased with concern and Harry found that forcing out more words was too difficult. He mustered a shrug.

"What's wrong?" Ron asked.

"I can't feel my body," Harry whispered.

"Sorry? What was that?"

"He said...he can't feel his body?" Hermione told Ron confusedly. "What do you mean Harry? Do you think someone cast some sort of hex on you?"

Harry shook his head slightly. His arm was abruptly soaked in a puddle of cold pumpkin juice.

"Oh shite! Sorry!" Seamus apologised and sheepishly righted the pitcher he had knocked over.

Instead of moving his hand, however, Harry just let it sit, unable to find the will to move it. He could feel the cold piercingly, which was interesting. The cold enveloped his hand and he focused on the sensation, and felt himself slowly returning to his body. His head still felt quite fuzzy, but he felt present and grounded again.

"Harry?" Ron was looking at him with a panicky sort of worry that he was clearly trying to conceal from his friend.

Harry just got up and left the Great Hall. He thought he may have heard Ron's voice calling after him, but he headed to the nearest bathroom anyway. He needed to get himself together before classes, and Ron would be okay. There was nothing to really worry about ⁠— nothing that Ron could help with anyway. The wet sleeve of his cloak slapped against his arm, and he impatiently cast a scourgify at the offending sleeve.

When Harry got to the bathroom, he sat on the floor and put his head down on his knees and concentrated on his breathing. He hadn't experienced something like this yet. Over the summer there had definitely been several panic attacks, and they had been similar to this in some ways, but he couldn't tell if he was panicking now. He didn't think so, but it was difficult to tell. His breathing seemed regular. Maybe he was fine. Maybe he was just losing it and making all of this up. Who knew if he'd ever really been stable.

One of the stall doors opened and there was the sound of someone washing their hands. Harry waited a few moments, but there were no footsteps leaving the room.

"Potter? Are you okay?" asked a hesitant voice. Harry had a sinking feeling he knew who that voice belonged to.

He raised his head and saw Malfoy looking at him with sympathy.

"Yeah, er, I'm fine," Harry spit out quickly, hoping Malfoy would just go away. Dealing with people right now was not what Harry wanted at all.

"Really?" Malfoy asked archly. "Wandering about the corridors at the crack of dawn and sitting alone on the bathroom floor during breakfast is 'fine' now, is it?"

"It doesn't really concern you, Malfoy."

Malfoy sighed deeply.

"I was only trying to help. But no, I suppose it doesn't concern me," and with that he simply left, which left Harry feeling oddly dissatisfied. He didn't know what he had been expecting at any point during that short interaction, but that had certainly not been it.

He stood up and cast another cleaning spell over his robes, briefly entertaining the idea of skiving off his first class. Unfortunately, it was only the second day of the school year and he found it hard to believe that he wouldn't be missing many classes over the course of the term, so it was probably not the best idea to begin so early.

As he walked back to the Great Hall, he remembered that he had no idea what classes he had today. Students leaving for their first classes began to pass him and he quickened his pace.

"Harry!" Hermione called. She was holding his bag out for him.

He jogged over to her and took it, thanking her.

"What happened in the Great Hall?"

"I dunno 'Mione. I'm fine now. Come on we'll be late for class. Do you know what I have?"

Hermione gave him a slightly disappointed look.

"Double Potions. Ron and I too. Ron went ahead."

⁠—

Class with Slughorn had not been particularly pleasant for Harry for a number of reasons. Firstly, Professor Slughorn was still under the impression that Harry was a potions genius because he had done exceptionally well in Sixth Year due to using the old textbook of an actual potions genius. He had kept trying to get Harry to participate and speak up, which was most definitely not what Harry wanted to do. And then Slughorn had shot Harry a simpering consolatory smile every time he didn't know the answer or got it wrong.

Besides Slughorn himself, Harry could have sworn that both Ron and Hermione had been sending him concerned glances nearly without stop throughout the entire lesson. He couldn't be certain, however, because he had refused to look at either of them, not wanting either of them to try and start up a discreet conversation.

Harry grabbed a sandwich with more force than strictly necessary, and began eating it quickly. Checking himself before he got sick, he made a conscious effort to slow down. He hated having to be so conscious with food. It was such a simple thing, and yet it wasn't anymore to his body. Months of irregular eating, and skipping meals without much sleep hadn't done great things to his system ⁠— which Harry had understood when he was still in the woods on the run, but now it had been quite a while since then and things were still not going back to normal.

He took another bite and tried to pay attention to the flavours and think about them to make sure he was chewing for a while, but there just wasn't much to think of in the way of sandwich flavours. Harry thought his body should really have been used to this, what with the way the Dursleys had kept him from meals and had subjected them to Dudley's diet and such. Although, he had been younger, and it had been for somewhat short periods after his first year at Hogwarts, plus he had often gotten sweets by owl after that as well.

Sighing, he wrapped another sandwich in a napkin and tucked it in his bag, then took a last bite of the one he'd been working on. He'd be up to it later, and he knew he would certainly want something later. Muttering a vague excuse to Ron and Hermione, he got up and left before they could respond. Quiet and solitude was all that he wanted, and he didn't really know where to go, but some sort of alcove or something would be nice.

After a bit of fruitless wandering, Harry found his feet leading him back to the dark maze of the dungeons. The monotony of the twisting stone corridors, lit so dimly compared to the rest of the castle, was soothing to Harry's chaotic brain. It quelled the constant overwhelmed feeling that wasn't really due to any one thing in particular. His thoughts had permission to be blank or to wander slowly and passively through inoffensive topics.

The crackling fire in the Gryffindor common room meandered through his brain, and he thought of the evening before. Hermione had succeeded in actually getting into the swing of another intervention talk in the common room after dinner. Not that she hadn't already tried multiple times that day during lunch and in their breaks.

She insisted that she cared about his opinions on what was helpful for him, but that she and Ron had already given him a chance over summer to do things his way. His way was clearly not working, as he seemed no better and quite possibly worse off. Her problem there was that she had used logic. Harry thought she should have known better.

He knew her arguments technically made sense, but he didn't like them, and didn't want to deviate (even more than he'd already had to for school) from his own schedule he'd made. Trying her techniques to help him sounded difficult and stressful and those were two things he did not want.

Hermione really did just want to help him, and so did Ron (regardless of whether he'd said he'd given up or not, clearly he was still trying). Harry could see that, and he felt it was reassuring that they cared, but at the same time he didn't really feel like they could help him. He didn't know if anything could help him. Harry had been very prone toward feeling lately that maybe he was just past help.

As much as Hermione insisted that the brain was flexible and resilient, and that healing was a process, it was hard for Harry to believe he could ever just be normal. Sure, healing might be a process, but really what was the point if he didn't know if any of Hermione's suggestions would work at all? He'd have to drag it out for a long time because she'd say it works slowly, and he'd have to be so uncomfortable throughout all of it because he couldn't just do what he wanted. Isolating himself was strictly off of her list of acceptable things, and really, he thought that was ridiculous. Everybody needs a bit of time to themselves, and Harry just happened to want a lot.

It wasn't that he didn't like them — he did very much, they were his best friends and they had been with him through everything ⁠— but they were still people, and people were hard for Harry to deal with. On top of that, Harry didn't want to disappoint them by pretending things were okay and then acting differently when he tried to spend time with them. Because as much as he could try, he knew there was no way he could truly act like he used to.

In a way, he missed it. He used to have such an easy and comfortable relationship with his best friends and he wanted to just be able to talk and laugh with them again. Another part of him despised the fact that he wanted things to be calm and relatively content again.

It seemed like he would only be intentionally blinding himself to the way the world really was and the fact that he would never be able to be left content. To that side of Harry, it seemed just silly of him to wish for that when he knew he could never have it. He'd just hate himself more because he'd be faking it the whole time. Or maybe he would eventually get close, but then something was bound to come along and send him spiraling right back down like it always did. There was no point in stringing his friends along only to disappoint them more later ⁠— this way they could just go ahead and get used to him this way and move on like that.

Harry stumbled slightly on an uneven stone in the floor, and caught himself in surprise. He had forgotten that he was, well, anywhere, he guessed. He'd been so deep in his thoughts he had just forgotten that there was an outside as well. Speaking of the outside, he realised that lunch may very well be over and he'd better see if he was late for class.

He fished out his schedule and found that his next class was Herbology (he also noted with excitement that he had an extra free period the next morning ⁠— more opportunity for hermiting himself away). Picking up his pace, he finally cleared the dungeons to see that there were still students leaving the Great Hall from lunch. Good, Harry had been lucky that he'd been wandering for a shorter time than he'd thought. He quickly headed to the greenhouses for class, deciding that he could probably get away with skulking around the library for a time after the lesson and again after dinner to avoid a repeat of the evening before.