tw for very detailed self harm, eating disorder, and alcoholism, and fetishization of all three.

Harry Potter drinks.

It is an unspoken fact the wizarding world refuses to acknowledge. He is their hero, a savior, unstoppable. He survived even death and not only is that impressive, it's also a testimony to Harry Potter's strength. How, then, they are to accept that he is a little more than unstable is... difficult. Harry Potter has two modes: the daytime, where he works as an Auror with his best friend, Ron, and... the night, where Harry Potter, of course, drinks. The wizarding world sees only one of these modes.

Perception, however, is not actuality. Perception is not reality.

What they do not know is that Harry Potter does not work just to work -- he works to live. He's donated all of his valuables to St. Mungos, as an act of self awareness to keep him from completely spiraling. If he has to work, is forced to live paycheck to paycheck, then he cannot get bad enough to stop. Or so he tells himself.

Harry Potter does not stick to one bar often, and half the time frequents Muggle spots. The noise of fame, of being whispered about, of 'look at him, what he has become', hurts his head. There is peace in anonymity.

He is at a Muggle bar this time, looking for some sort of sanction in alcohol and his own haunted mind. He orders two shots of vodka to start and glances up at the bartender's face.

He is pretty. Also unsettling. Something about it is familiar.

"Would that be all for you?" he asks. His voice is husky and he smells like cigarettes. He is white with Hispanic features, his eyebrows and hair a thick black. He is not pretty, but handsome.

Harry looks down at the table, pointedly avoiding his gaze. He remembers the days in which he would entertain such a man, with his mouth and tongue and body. He'd make love and leave not in the morning but weeks later -- neither regretful nor forgetful. But he has since then marred his body. He is not sure if the most unlovable thing about him is himself or his appearance. He tugs down his long sleeves to further cover his arms.

"For now," says Harry, feeling worse about himself than he already was.

The man leaves and returns moments later, setting two shot glasses in front of him and filling them. Harry nods slightly. "Thank you," he says. He waits for the man to leave. The man doesn't.

Harry bites his lip and stares back up at the bartender. "I'm good now," he says. "You can go."

"Harry," says the bartender, "Potter, right? In a Muggle bar, starting off with vodka? Why, I'd never."

Ah, muses Harry. A wizard. Harry scowls, downs one of the shots, and says, sweetly, "And I intend to follow it up with -- what would you guess -- that's right -- more vodka."

The bartender chuckles. "I'd meant no offense."

"Good job on that one, then."

"Feisty one, aren't ya?"

"Notoriously," retorts Harry.

The bartender smiles. He sticks out his hand. "I'm Death," he says.

Harry raises an eyebrow. "An interesting name. You aren't a fan of my story, by chance, and how I survived via the Deathly Hallows, are you?" He takes the man's hand anyway and shakes it.

As Harry takes his second shot, Death says, "Nope. I'm no copycat; this name is mine, born and raised. Though..." he adds, "I am a fan."

"I figured," says Harry, sighing.

"You don't like that, do you? People being fans of you?"

"Cuts down on the number of friends one can have, at any rate," says Harry. Death fills back up his shot glasses and Harry smirks. "But fans aren't too bad sometimes, either."

"I think we could be friends," says Death, cocking his head. "Don't you? The bartender and the alcoholic. That's a good pair right there if I've ever seen one."

Harry chuckles, his face flushed red. He does not even dare to deny the accusation of alcoholic because the truth of it rings in his head. "Sure," he says between breaths. "Friends."

Death's hand caresses Harry's. Harry stops laughing, his face flushing an even deeper red. "Or," says Death, his voice rough, "perhaps, more than that, hm?"

Harry lets his hand remain for a moment before his sense comes back to him -- and the fact that his body is covered in scars, that he hands touching him now is so close to many of them, to revealing his big, fat, depressing secret. He yanks his hands away and splutters out, "You wish." He swallows while Death grins at him and adds, "And offering to sleep with me moments after we meet is still fan behavior, by the way."

But Death just keeps smiling at him and Harry cannot deny that warm feeling gnawing at his gut that isn't just hunger and though Harry protested at the beginning of the night, by the end he is a being of willingness. Their bodies wrap around each other and it is fierce but gentle love made. Harry forgets even about the scars on his arms and hips and thighs, the ones he carves into himself after losing someone in the field or remembering he failed to save someone in the past. Using a razor or a knife or a spell, when the thoughts in his head become too much, he takes it out on his body.

He thinks they are ugly, even if this opinion is just about himself and no one else's scars; he's always been an exception, hasn't he? Harry Potter, the boy who lived -- when has he ever not been special?

They sleep with the lights off, hiding these marks, so when Harry awakes with the lights turned on, he expects to wake alone. He thinks he will lose everyone in his life eventually; his friends, his family is already gone, his fans, even perfect strangers.

But he is not alone.

Surprisingly, he is being held, with warm, thick arms, wrapping around him. Death is running his fingers up and down Harry's scars, humming lightly in his throat.

Harry tugs his arm and lays it flat against his chest. "They're ugly," he spits out. "You don't have to remind me."

"I did not intend to," says Death, running his fingers now in Harry's hair. "That sentiment is not one I share, either."

Harry pauses. "What?"

"They're beautiful," says Death, breathless. "Will you let me touch them?"

"Uh," says Harry, unsure how to feel. "Okay." He slowly extends his arm and Death grasps it -- softly -- and begins again touching his lined scars. His arm hand is running along Harry's rubs, ridges, playing them like ladder rungs. Harry feels loved for who he is, but also feels confused.

Harry Potter is not supposed to be loved. Too much blood -- of himself and otherwise -- rests on his hands. His self destruction is not evidence that he's lived; it's proof that he shouldn't have.

It is however nice to see someone who has seen this darker, hidden side of him and embraced it, and it's even nicer to see someone think of his self harm scars as something other than gnarly.

At least, he thinks that until Death mutters, "Beautiful. Would you ever cut for me, love?"

Harry's eyebrows furrow. He thinks a lot of things in a few short seconds.

One; he will likely never meet someone like this again. This is rare and he is lucky -- or targeted -- to run into a person like this. Perhaps, actually, the term is 'unlucky.' When he told Hermione about his self harm -- of the three people, now four, that even know about it -- he had been warned about people like this. She calls them 'fetishists' and 'dangerous' and 'toxic, possibly abusive.' People will see your self destruction and fucking love it.

Two; he recognizes Hermione's warning, but is also hesitant of its relevancy. Death is nice. (Though aren't they all?) Death... was nice, he decides, until he asked him to hurt himself.

But, three, he does want to hurt himself. And if someone wants a show, why not give it to them? What's the harm? It's just a fling and even if it isn't, what's the harm? Nothing would change. it's not like Harry will be perfectly mentally healthy if he doesn't do this.

Four; he absolutely cannot do this. He is more than his self destruction. He's a hero, a philanthropist, a hard, diligent worker. He has two modes. Two. It's wrong to get his night business mixed up in the day.

So Harry separates himself from the handsome, fucked up man, and says, "Get the fuck out of my house."

This is the one story in which Harry makes good decisions. He heeds warnings. He values his life, however minutely. The one love story with a good ending.

Except it isn't. Except when has Harry Potter ever valued his life, when has any love story been this short?

Harry returns to the bar. He begins only going to it. No longer is a jumper; he's a regular. He drinks and flirts and takes Death home ever week to every other day to every night. He is reluctant to admit it, had never thought it'd happen, but he has fallen in love. He thinks of Death as an extension of himself, if only because he think of his starvation and self harm as the same.

Death buys him new knifes. Sharp ones, pretty ones, knowing full well what he uses them for. When Death moves in with him -- into the grisly house of Grimmauld Place, Kreacher kicked out the moment Harry could -- he takes to cleaning the dishes. He sees his giftfs blood stained and dull and knows Harry just got back from the hospital again, seeing his private Healer. He sees the scars.

Death smiles.

Neither of them ave been this happy in a long time. And sure, Harry weighs less than he did in second year and sure, Harry has permanent nerve damage on his left arm and sure, sure, he's preforming more than poorly in work and social relations -- but he has Death, and he has his coping skills, and those get him through the day! He's fine. He is finally fine.

And he is at least attending work. That proves he's doing something right, his ability to keep doing what he needs to do, his ability to still live paycheck to paycheck.

He is working. At least until he isn't. Death brings up the idea to him on evening while Harry is drinking. He is four shots of vodka in and hysterically laughing while retelling the climax of his second year. "And you wouldn't BELIEVE what Tom RIDDLE -- that mother fucker -- said to me, he says--"

"Harry," says Death, interrupting him. it is clear this has been on his mind for a while now. "I need to ask you something."

Harry pouts. "Can I finish my story after?" he asks, whining.

Death smiles induldgingly. "Of course," he allows. "But I need you to pay attention."

"Okay. Cool. I'm paying you attention. Amen."

"Harry."

"Sorry."

Death sighs. "I was wondering if you would let me take over the fiances. Be as sort of stay-at-home-husband in the future, maybe a father. What do you think?"

Harry's immediate answer: "No."

"Harry--"

"Nah -- nah, listen to me. I ain't nobody's bitch."

Death scoffs. "Nobody's saying you are!"

"You are! That's how you get trapped, y'knoow."

"What is?" says Death.

Harry throws his arms in the air. "Financial takeover! IF, by chance, I do not have my own income, I can't afford to leave. That's basics maths right there, baby."

"We can figure that out," promises Death. "I could deposit a portion of my income into an account for you--"

"And I need to work," Harry continues. "I have to work."

"Why?" asks Death. "It doesn't sound like you love your job--"

"You don't know that--"

"Then say it right now," demands Death. "Say it, right now, that the job you've wanted since you knew about it actually lived up to your expectations. Say it."

Harry puffs out his checks. He blows air out. "That doesn't matter," he says at least.

"But if you don't want to work, and if I'm offering you an out, why not take it?" pleads Death.

"Because," says Harry, holding another shot in his hand. "I have to work."

"That's not a clear answer."

Harry realizes he's right. he takes a shot and says, afterward, "If I don't work to better the community, then to the wizarding world, and to myself, then I'm -- I'm just a recluse who drinks a lot and unknown to them," he lowers his voices, "Hurts himself."

"I don't see the problem with that," says Death honestly.

And maybe he is just a little too loose lipped, because he says: "That's one of the reasons I was so reluctant to date you."

Death blinks at him. "What?"

Harry backtracks. "Not that I regret it, of course."

"But?" Death prompts.

"But... you do encourage me to hurt myself."

"I thought you liked me doing that," says Death, hurt. "I thought you were happy losing weight."

"I am!" assures Harry. "It's just... not... normal? Not a normal thing for a boyfriend to do?"

Death cups Harry's hand in his own. "Since when have you ever been normal?"

Harry relaxes, huffing. "That's why we're here. Because you're just like me."

"Hm?"

"A fucking freak."

Harry does end up financially dependent on Death. He makes the decision irrationally and impulsively, but it is a decision that is made. He doesn't mind it, not once he's used to it, but he talks about it with his friends and it seems to be the straw that breaks the camel's back.

"We're worried about you, Harry," Hermione tells him. "You're much too thin -- and we've heard you're going to your pritivaite Healer far too often--"

"So you only care about me starving myself when I lose weight from it?" accuses Harry, wrapping his arms over his chest. "Is that it?"

"No, Harry. We're not saying that."

"Then why are you confronting me now and not, say, five months ago?"

"Because--"

Harry laughs. "Who knew consistency could yield such results, right?"

"Harry!" says Hermione. She sighs. "Please. It's not just your weight, alright? It's not just that your cutting has obviously gotten worse. It's all of it, together--"

"So you're saying--"

"Don't snap at her," says Ron. "Don't do that, okay? You know what we mean. You know. Let's stop the deflection."

Harry rolls his eyes but says nothing.

Hermione relaxes. "This giving up your job to depend on your boyfriend -- who you barely know, who me and Ron haven't even met--"

"His name's--"

"We don't care," says Hermione. "It doesn't matter. It's selfish destructive, what you've done. There's no other word for it."

Harry thinks that he can show them self destruction. It's his thing now, don't they know? Retreating in on himself and pain? "Why doesn't it matter who my boyfriend is?"

Hermione sighs and exchanges a look with Ron. "Do you wanna know the truth, Harry?"

"Yes," relents Harry. "Please."

"We don't think you have a boyfriend at all."

Harry stares at them. "Wait," he says after a moment. "You're for real."

"Yes," says Ron. "We're 'for real.'"

"We think you have what's called 'major depressive disorder, with psychosis,'" says Hermione

"You think I'm crazy," laughs Harry.

"We're not--"

"You're sitting over here, armchair diagnosing me--"

"We're just saying--"

"No!" says Harry, standing up. "I'm not listening to this."

Hermione stands up, too. "We think you've just quit your job, sold your belongings, and are relying on money from a person that doesn't exist. Can't you see our perspective?"

Harry's hands ball into fists. "Can't you see mine?" he spits. "I'm not listening to this. I'm just not."

Harry turns on his heel and leaves the dinner. He, once home, collapses onto the couch and lays his head on Death's lap. Death listens as Harry recites the event tiredly. Death runs his hand through Harry's hair meanwhile, smoking a cigarette with the other one. "I'm sorry, love," he says once Harry's done. "You don't have to go back to them if you don't want to."

"But..." says Harry hesitatingly, "They're my friends. They've been my friends since forever." Some of the only other people he can be even semi-genuine with. People he's been around since his first year, eleven years ago.

Death is not deterred. "I've been friends with some folk since forever, too. Perhaps you should check them out, hm?"

Harry is equally unmoved. He sees these friends -- Draco, Pansy, and Blaise -- and is even more so. But for some reason, over time, he distances himself from Ron and Hermione and becomes, dare he say it, closer to these. The effect Death has on him is persistent. He has made Harry's friends distant strangers.

Harry takes to Draco, Pansy and Blaise as if they are new people entirely, high school rivalry forgotten -- and to a certain extent, they are people. It has been four year since last they've even spoke, save for the occasional run in when he and Draco are both doing Auror work. They are new people, changed personalities, and all take to Harry like bees to honey.

But there are strange things about them, still feelings he can't seem to shake. The way they handle knifes at meals. The way they look at Harry's too-long sleeves. they way they buy drinks for Harry incessantly.

Something is wrong here. It is the same sort of illness that Death has and just like with Death, Harry ignores it. Haryr plays along. Why not? Let them be an audience to his slow, slow suicide. He doesn't mind. No, he doesn't mind at all.

But there is another thing off here, and it has nothing to do with violence. Interestingly enough, when he mentions Death's name, none of them recognize it.

A year later: Harry meets Ron again when Ron chasing a Dark wizard. He had almost forgot that Ron was an Auror, too, and apparently one right on Harry's trail when he is captured. Ron stands over the unconscious wizard, panting. Neither one is sure what to say. If it is right to say anything at all.

Ron breaks the silence. "It's been a while," he says.

Harry toes the ground awkwardly. He shoves his hands in his robe pockets. "Sure has."

"How are you--?"

"Fine," says Harry shortly.

Ron refuses to take the hint. "I just think... we got off on the wrong foot, you know. Last time we talked."

Something dangerous flashes in Harry's eyes. "Is that so?"

Ron gains confidence. "We didn't mean to hurt you. And we didn't mean to get so far away from you."

"I did," says Harry, sharply. "I meant to get far, far away from you."

"And toward Malfoy, huh?" says Ron, eyes narrowing. His sweetness has turned sour. His temper always did match Harry's. "The fact that you'd choose him over us just goes to show--"

"Goes to show what?" Harry barks. "That I'm crazy? I'm out my mind? 'In psychosis'?"

"It's not an insult if it's the truth!"

"I know what I am!" yells Harry, waving his wand threateningly. "And I'm not fucking loony. I'm tired of people telling me what I am and what I am not!"

"If you aren't cray," spits Ron, "then stop acting like it! Come back to us!"

"Why are you the deciding factor?"

"As opposed to?"

"As opposed to meeting death! To proving everything I think is real is real!"

"That won't happen," grits out Ron, "because he isn't real. We know you're traumatized from dying, but creating Death as a character is not heathly-"

"What?" laughs Harry. "What are you talking about?" He catches a figure leaving a store up ahead "Ah-ha!" he exclaims, pointing. "There he is now!"

Death waves to them. Ron scoffs, rolls his eyes, and heaves the wizard's body over his shoulders. He mutters something indistinguishable.

Harry scowls. "What did you say?"

Ron glances at him. "I said there's nothing there."

Something about this incident strikes Harry as devastating. It is not because he thinks he's out his mind -- because he knows what he saw and perception is of course reality -- but because... well, because Ron thinks he is. Because he has lost one of his best friends for good and no longer just estranged them. He did not even bother to see things from their perspective and now won't even get the chance. It hurts. Of course it hurts.

Harry spends his days drinking on an empty stomach and opening up his arms for his and Death's amusement. Now, he watches as Death smokes cigarettes and then puts them out on Harry's arms.

It is not enough. It hurts and burns and aches but the battle in Harry's mind cannot be stopped or sustained. it grows and grows and hurts more than Harry's body could ever.

So he breaks out the knife. He settles back onto the couch, their blood stained, old couch, and readies the knife -- but Death takes it gently from his hand. Harry blink. For a moment here Harry is convinced that Death will tell him not to cut himself.

And then Death says, to Harry's mystification: "Don't cut." He then adds, "Stab."

Harry stares. "Stab?" he says slowly.

"Yes," says Death, like it's no big deal. "Stab. Stab the knife through your hand. Do it."

Harry takes the knife back and stares down at his free hand.

Yes. He imagines the sensation, the knife sticking out of his palm.

Stab. He imagines the fear, the adrenaline. The blood.

Stab the knife through your hand. And then the relief. He imagines the relief.

Do it.

Harry takes a deep breath. He notices he's shaking and grips the knife tighter. He holds it back -- and then readies himself to swing it downward.

One. Two. Three.

Death is smiling. There is blood everywhere.

He goes to St. Mungos later that day, when the bleeding refuses to stop. He sits in his private Healer's office while she does a diagnostic charm. "Harry," she says. "Here for self inflicted wounds again, I suppose?"

Harry nods sheepishly. Luna Lovegood sighs but says nothing.

She became a Healer as soon as she graduated Hogwarts and has been one of the only people Harry has come to trust with the details of his constantly declining mental health. She wears light blue, long sleeved robes and has various sharp objects always tucked into her hair.

Along her neck is a long, purple scar, as if someone tried to slit her throat, and nearly succeeded.

Luna raises and eyebrow. "A stab wound?" she questions. "That's a new one."

Harry flushes red. "I guess," he says.

"You've been getting more and more adventurous."

"I like the term creative."

"The other one is 'reckless.'"

"I guess."

"Result is the same either way, hm?" She casts a spell over his hand and Harry feels his skin stitching itself back together. "It will take some time to heal completely. Keep it clean, keep it bandaged. It will be fine." She summons a roll of gauze. "You've lost motor function in your hand for some time, though."

Harry winces. At least I'm not working anymore, he thinks.

"I get it," says Luna, drawing Harry out of his head.

"Come again?"

"I get it," says Luna. Harry is suddenly hyperaware of Luna's long sleeves, coating her arms with faux color. I get it. "It's hard, isn't it? It's hard to stop."

"Have you?" Harry asks.

Luna purses her lips. "No," she admits. "But I am working on it. I rarely do it anymore. It's progress." Harry cannot say the same. Since Death's arrival, he's hardly gone a day without it, this precious coping skill. "Isn't it so helpless, though? You think you're got the scars already. You can't erase them. What's the point in trying to stop now?"

Harry swallows. "Yeah," he says, feeling small.

"But it's worth it," says Luna. "To try anyway." An underwhelming finish, thinks Harry. "But, anyway. I heard about your new friend. You haven't talked to me about them, and they've been around for a while. How come?"

"Well," says Harry, shrugging. "It's Malfoy." Which he thinks explains everything

Luna doesn't htink so. "And it's also a friend of yours. Something I'd hope you trusted me enough to tell me about."

"You're a Healer," says Harry. "Not a therapist."

"I'm also a friend. Or so I'd hope."

Harry says nothing. The silence is stinging. "I heard you're close with Pansy Parkinson now. She's a Healer, too. Works here. Did you hear?"

"She might've mentioned," Harry says dully.

"I try to avoid working with her."

"Really?"

"We used to date," says Luna, like this isn't a mind blowing confession.

"What?"

"Yeah. Not my best moment." She finishes wrapping his hand. "I have no quarrels with Draco Malfoy, Harry. I don't think he's the one you need to be worried about."

"Pansy's fine," says Harry.

"Ask her about me, Pansy. See what she says. I wonder afterwards if that's the type of company you wish to keep."

Harry swallows. He imagines himself and Death with Pansy and Luna replacing them. Harry imagines what is under those sleeves, what is the cause of the scar along her neck. "Okay," he says, meekly.

"And Harry?"

Harry is not prepared for more heart wrenching conversations. "What, Luna?"

"I tried to slit my throat," she says, running her hand along the scar. "And when I did, I held the knife and heard almost a voice behind me. I hear it often, when I cut, when I hurt myself, when i think to. It told me to kill myself. I could've sworn there was a real person there with me. But there wasn't. It was just my head."

Harry's mind is racing. He is in denial, denial, denial. "Why are you telling me this?"

Luna looks at him, almost pitifuly. "Something to keep in mind," she says. "Just something for you to know. Perception... is not always reality. Okay?"

Harry is for some reason angry and confused and sick to his stomach but he says, "okay," and Apperates in such a haste he nearly splinches himself.

He does ask Pansy about Luna. It isn't pretty. He is never sure how so feel. He drinks his little heart out only to feel worse in the morning, every morning. He hopes to have no perception, no relativity, no consciousnesses. He hopes to drink himself to death and Death merely smiles and buys him more vodka.

When Harry comes to, he's not sure how he got there. He is laughing, wandering the streets of Diagon Alley with his friends. He feels something wet drip down his arms and looks down.

Blood.

Harry blinks, trying to come to himself, but he's still laughing and is only distantly aware of pictures being taken of him.

"Harry?"

A voice, familiar, but not Draco, Pansy, or Blaise, who are all joking around him.

No.

It's Luna.

Luna and Hermione and Ron, all out for lunch, or out shopping, or something, it doesn't matter, all watching him. He sees shock on their faces.

And then, also, on Luna's... disappointment.

What am I doing? thinks Harry. What have I done?

He opens his mouth to say something but knows in his soul that anything and everything he could've said would have failed him. He looks arounda t his now-friends and thinks again What am I doing? He Apperates away.

Harry feels the blood pour out of him from his splinched finger, the failure of his travel the only thing sobering him. His breathing is rapid and his mind jumps from one thought to another at the speed of light.

A few things: The press knows now. The wizarding world knows now -- this secret he has kept close to his chest since fifth year is now out and he had only drunken control out it. He imagines the image of it posted on newspapers sent out to thousands. Him, giddy and laughing, sleeves rolled up and dripping blood onto the road. Harry's gut churns just thinking about it

Another: Luna does not hate him -- but the opposite of love is not hate, it's apathy and she is definitely apathetic. She sees him with Pansy, after knowing her story, because Harry wants to be enabled more than he is loyal to Luna.

His self destruction, he thinks, is selfish. He has ruined all genuine, real, painless relationships he's ever had. He has lost the one person who'd been in a situation like his.

"Are you okay?"

Oh.

Death.

What does he even say or do now? He burst out into tears and collapses into Death's open arms. Death shushes him as he pats his back, comfortingly.

Death pulls back. There is something in his hand.

"I think you should have this."

And during Harry's fit of despair, he hands Harry a knife and tells him to kill himself.