A/N:
Notes at the end!

Chapter 7

I want to disappear

Far from the folks I know

I want to get an answer

To why I was even born

No one here can tell me

What's been haunting me all my life

Well this rat race has left me limping

Cause I balanced on the edge of the knife

Why am I here?

Oh what should I do?

Well is this the point I'm trying to prove?

Well if there's a god in my head

Then there's a devil too

How can I tell the difference

When they both claim to be true?

Maybe god is god

Maybe the devil is me

Well I just throw my chains on

And tell myself that I'm free

Chains, are they really there?

Is this just in my head?

Well I'll just stay in bed

Life sure has its meaning

Over years I have postured the sun

Thieving preachers rob me

From many hat that I've hung

Now with my heart wide open

I listen to the wind just for a word

Sure I know it's futile

But that's all I have in this world

To look down from the hill

And howl at the moon

All the tears I cried never salted any wound

Well the earth is so tender and cruel

Well if you're not there it's still so beautiful

June

It had been three weeks since...well. Harry had thrown himself into his work, despite multiple assurances from Ron, Kingsley (their boss), and even the Minister for Magic himself that his job could and would wait as long as he needed. Harry had scoffed at them and just worked harder. After all, there was still a war going on, despite...the event. Harry had taken to calling it that in his head. He couldn't do his job if he was distracted and the event was distracting in the extreme. And Harry had promised to fight. So fight he did.

He threw himself at every sighting of Death Eaters the Auror office received with abandon and recklessness. Kingsley had assigned Harry and Ron as partners for the time being, in order for Ron to look after him. Harry resented them both rather strongly for it. He didn't need a babysitter, he just needed to win this war. Didn't they understand that the prophecy spoke of Harry? Didn't they get that he was to be responsible for killing Voldemort in the end? Harry didn't think they did. And they weren't the only ones.

Order meetings had become decidedly awkward. Albus liked to schedule them randomly so that it was less easy to track their movements on the other side, and since the loss of their spy, meetings had been more frequent. They'd had three meetings in as many weeks. Efforts were being made to infiltrate the Dark Lord's ranks again, but without the Order's main stead, it was proving nearly impossible. No one wanted to go near the Order for fear of what had happened to the previous spy. Harry had also taken to thinking of the man only as 'the Order's spy'; anything else was far too distracting.

In fact, any time the dreaded name was mentioned at meetings, Harry would abruptly and rudely leave the room to fetch another bottle of wine from the cellar, loudly proclaiming that they were out and that he could use another glass. Needless to say, Harry usually drank himself into a stupor at meetings, to the concern of all. He rolled his eyes whenever they expressed any type of worry for him, and tended to leave Grimmauld Place whenever they tried to bring up what had happened.

Sometimes, Harry wished that he could just up and leave, but then he thought of the war. He often fantasized about what he could do if only they'd let him. If it were up to him, he would just call Voldemort out for the coward he was, draw him out into the open, and then kill the bastard. Simple and effective, and then he could be done and over with this life. He could tell everyone to fuck off and go live somewhere far away, and live out the rest of his days in peace. No people bothering him, no Voldemort to contend with, and absolutely no mention of the event or the people involved. That would be fucking perfect, if anyone were to ask him. Which they didn't, naturally.

Harry sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose and rubbing at his aching eyes. Why was he here again? He didn't know, sometimes.

July

It all came to a head about two months later. Harry had been increasingly desperate to avoid his friends' concern for him. Ron and Hermione had offered for him to live with them, but he had pointedly declined. Molly and Arthur had asked him multiple times to dinner, so that he had taken to eating with them nearly four nights of the week; and every time it was the same:

"Oh, Harry dear, take some leftovers along for your lunch...I'll feel much better if you take something along...you're looking far too thin, dear..."

And on it went. Even Albus had patronizingly suggested that he come and spend some time at Hogwarts. He was sick of people treating him like glass. He was fine! He was working, and living, and coping! He was eating, and breathing, and sleeping! Well, in a manner of speaking...but what more did they want from him? He was still alive. He wasn't the...the dead one.

His dreams had taken to haunting him at night. Every night, it was the same: Harry would walk into the Ministry of Magic atrium and part the crowd, gazing upon the dreaded scene all over again. It was the only time he allowed himself to cry nowadays. No one was there to witness his breaking and he was all right with that, as long as it kept people off his back. However, it wasn't working! People were still bothering him, shooting him concerned looks, walking on eggshells around him. He couldn't stand it anymore! His anger boiled steadily, something that he could not control after continuous weeks of coddling from his colleagues.

Harry was attending another Order meeting on another desolate night in July—unnaturally cold for this time of year and rain pounding on the windows of Grimmauld Place. Harry ran his fingers through his hair, making it stick up at even more odd angles. He was barely listening to Moody's report on the goings-on of the upper echelons of Death Eater society as it was. He kept staring at the windows, which were so sodden by the water that the vision to the outside world was blurry at best. He only tuned back into the conversation when he heard his name crop up in conversation.

"...and Potter over there is too busy mooning over Snape to give us his proper concentration, is he?" Moody barked.

Harry went from restless but relatively calm to still with rage in the span of seconds. He gripped his wand, which had sprung out of its holster at a mere thought from him, and stood up to confront the older wizard sitting nearly across the table from him.

"What did you say?" Harry asked.

It was not in a tone that was familiar to his voice. It was soft, calculated, controlled; much closer to that of Voldemort or of his...of Severus. He allowed himself to think the name at last, as it only served to fuel his cold anger. No one dared to move, let alone breathe. They hadn't seen Harry this upset in a while. Albus especially decided it was best to let the scenario play out for the moment. Of course, he regretted it with the next words out of Alastor's mouth.

"You heard me, Potter. Ever since Snape was killed, you've been moping about, no concentration, no discipline, no regard for your superiors. So you've lost your lover. I'm sure there are plenty of young men out there who can scratch the itch, Potter, so hop to it!"

For a moment, Harry stood there, actually stunned speechless at the callous words from someone he respected. Sure, he knew that Moody could be a little rough around the edges, but he had never thought the man could be so stupid. The next moment, he started to laugh, high and hysterical, his wand hand lowering to rest on the table to support him. He never stopped gazing at the retired Auror to see if he maintained his serious expression. Unluckily for Moody, he did not smile at Harry's mirth.

"Are you fucking kidding me? Is that what you all th-think?" Harry hiccoughed, still laughing a bit. "That Severus was just some...just some fuck for me? Wham-bam, thank you sir? You're a great shag, we should do this again sometime?"

No one said anything and Alastor watched him carefully. Harry didn't know what the hell Alastor was waiting for. He thankfully hadn't said any more hurtful things, but Harry couldn't bring himself to calm down. And then the dam broke.

"You going to do anything with that wand, Potter?" Moody uttered, a low growl of challenge to his words.

Harry wouldn't remember snapping, wouldn't remember the curses they exchanged, or even how long the duel lasted. All he could think of was the inferno of fury coursing through him. All he could see was the red haze. He had no concern for the other people in the room. All he wanted was to make Alastor feel some of the pain he felt on a consistent basis. Because if he was honest with himself, he hadn't been numb at all. Numb on the outside for certain. But never on the inside.

Harry's insides were a tangle of emotions. Fear. Pain. Loss. Anger. Heartbreak. Injustice. All of them swirled within him at any given moment. He realized that the anger had steadily been creeping up on him for the last month. That he was a time-bomb just waiting for a reason to go off. And Alastor had provided a clean outlet for him to vent some of his frustration and anguish.

"Come on, Potter! Kingsley taught you better than that, I taught you better!" Moody bellowed, even as he parried the curses coming his way.

With an almighty roar, Harry threw spells at breakneck speed. His wand was a blur, his thoughts all gone, his emotions churning on the outside now too. All was bared now. He was holding nothing back. When he finally won the battle, it was quick. Alastor went barrelling into the fireplace behind him and it was only through the quick work of Tonks and Kingsley that he did not crack his head on the hearth.

Now that the fight was over, now that Alastor's wand was rolling away from him under the table, Harry realized what had happened. His head was clearer than it had been in weeks. The anger had sharpened his focus to a single deadly point. What if he'd lost the tenuous control he had over himself somewhere else? What if he lost it—Merlin forbid—on the job, when he had to be at his best, when he had other lives to consider than his own?

"There's the fight in you," Alastor murmured as he slowly rose to his feet. Harry looked at him, confused and still mightily upset. "There's the fire in you. Glad to see it's still there, Potter."

And with no more than a 'by your leave', Alastor stumped out of the room. Harry looked after him, noticing at once that the rest of the room was silent, still. Harry looked around him, at Tonks, Kingsley, and Ron especially. His co-workers, his friends. How could he have been so irresponsible?

"I'm sorry," he muttered, to the consternation of many present. He thought he heard Minerva McGonagall mutter something about 'being ridiculous'. "No, I am. I've been putting everyone in an unnecessary amount of danger." He paused again, his eyes downcast. "I'll be taking that break, Kingsley...if you wouldn't mind."

And then Harry left, before he could cause any more trouble. Before he could convince himself that he was wrong and that he needed to be at work. Before he could ruin someone else's life by taking their loved one away before their time. He felt tears track silently down his face as he left the little house with a snap of the door.

August

Harry was done with his anger now, for the most part. Done with his desperate need to prove himself. He was so very tired. The nightmares had changed now, too. As though his anger had kept them at bay, there were worse images coming to mind now. And Harry really hadn't thought they could be any worse than finding Severus's dead body. Oh, how wrong he had been. What was it Dumbledore had said—there were worse things than death. Now Harry knew without a doubt how right Dumbledore had been.

Harry was kept company by a litany of nightmares. The first night he dreamt something different to Severus's body, he was almost relieved. He now knew that he could and would dream of other things eventually. But once the images began to play out in his mind, he realized what a fool he had been to wish for something different to pollute his mind. The scene had started out innocently enough. It was of Severus walking through the forest. Harry initially believed it was the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts, but it turned out to be somewhere else entirely. Severus walked for a minute and then turned abruptly to the right, holding out his arm. Harry would later note after having watched the scene a couple of times that it was the left arm—the one bearing the Dark Mark.

And then the torture would begin. Severus was surrounded by his enemies, Voldemort sitting in a throne and watching as his most faithful tormented and harassed their traitor. Harry watched as they used the Cruciatus on him to no end, watched Severus claw at the ground. Trying to escape the sensations, trying to bear it stoically. He did admirably until they began throwing other curses in to complement the pain. First, they used a cutting curse to slice Severus's side from nipple to hip. It made Severus scream for the first time. Harry always winced and tried to cover his ears at this point. It made no difference for him to yell obscenities and cry and scream along with Severus. Nothing ever made a difference. The nerves were so primed by the Cruciatus Curse that it was a wonder Severus was able to stay conscious. But he did. He was so brave, so determined not to let them get the best of him. Harry sometimes shouted at him to stop resisting, show them how much pain he was in, just to make them stop. Because of course they would make it worse if he didn't show them any of his pain, or of his fear.

Whenever Harry tried to wake himself up, to end his own torment, he found that he could not. Something was not letting up on him, was not allowing him to spare himself from the utter agony of watching his lover die slowly in front of him. Because Harry was oh so confident that death was the end goal of this hell. The dream was so vivid and so clear. So unlike anything he used to dream of before Severus had died. Why Harry couldn't have normal dreams anymore, he could not fathom. It was as if the grief was pushing his subconscious to new heights. Terrifying heights.

When Harry finally did wake up, to the image of Severus's mangled body still playing in his mind's eye, he usually wretched. He sobbed and pleaded for these dreams to stop. He begged for them to be not true. The only comfort Harry gleaned from these dreams was that the body that had come back to him had been whole and undamaged. No rip in Severus's side, which the Death Eaters had taken innumerable pleasure in pouring acidic potions into. No broken leg, which had been delivered by a pulverising hex. No unbearable marks from some sort of hex Harry had never heard of. The Severus in his dreams always blacked out after that. Then they woke him up and started with more Cruciatus and more unknown curses. The dream always culminated with Voldemort pointing his wand at Severus's form on the ground. Harry never saw the final blow. Mercifully, he always awoke before that happened.

That dream had been his friend for at least three weeks. Then his subconscious had seen fit to provide him with many more images to feed his slowly-encroaching insanity.

All of the dreams were the same in that they happened not in the forest, but in a dungeon. However, that is where the similarities ended. First, there were visions of Severus alone, huddled up against a wall. Harry didn't so much mind these dreams, as they didn't show Severus being hurt in any way; but that didn't usually last very long. First, there was only Voldemort allowed to enter the dungeon cell. These dreams seemed the most confusing, the least clear. Harry could tell that Voldemort was talking to the Severus in his dreams, but he could not tell what was being said. He was too focused on watching his now dead fiancé.

The current dreams Harry was having were by far the worst. Various Death Eaters would begin tormenting Severus, first with words, and then with more curses. Harry could not bear to look away from Severus, whose face was usually contorted with pain. What made it worse was Severus's broken voice calling Harry's name. Harry generally woke up in a cold sweat from these dreams, babbling and crying.

He would give anything for these dreams to stop, for his waking life to be the nightmare...to have Severus back. He would give his very life just to have one more hour with his fiancé, to tell him it was all right if it was just the two of them, that no one else needed to know. That was all Severus had wanted: his privacy, to not be hounded by their friends...or, more likely, Harry's friends. Severus hadn't thought they would understand, didn't think that they would be happy so long as Harry was happy. Harry just wanted to be able to tell him that he loved him and would take him any way he could get him. Why had he made such a big deal out of needing to tell their friends? Why had he pushed Severus? Was he the cause of Severus's lapse in judgment concerning Voldemort? Was he the reason that Severus was dead? These questions, more than anything else in his lonely life, haunted him the most.

September

Most days Harry spent sitting at his kitchen table, staring listlessly at either the table, the fridge (where pictures of him and various of his friends were pinned), or when he was feeling particularly morose, the wall. Why the wall? Before Severus's death, Harry had enchanted that small section of wall to hide his secrets. Only he could see through the warded wall to the framed picture hanging there. It was the only picture they had ever taken together in their true forms, as just Harry and just Severus. No need to hide behind glamours or pretend to be someone else for that infinitesimal amount of time.

The picture had been taken with a Muggle digital camera, so it did not move. Harry had regretted it at the time, but now that his lover had died, he preferred that the figures captured in that moment were not moving. He could not have kept the picture with Severus's then-peaceful face and living, breathing, alive body if it had been a moving picture. It would have been too painful. They had been lying in bed on that perfect weekend nine months ago, when Severus had proposed to Harry. It had been in the wee hours of the morning, when no one else had dared to be awake, including his fiancé. Severus had been asleep on his side, facing Harry and breathing the slow, deep breaths of those who dreamed.

Just before Harry had reached into the bedside cabinet to retrieve the camera, Severus had been disturbed by something in his dreams. His face had twitched and he had uttered a low sound of distress before Harry had hushed him, lightly running his fingers down the other man's face and then leaning in to press a kiss to the furrowed brow. Severus had quieted almost immediately, and Harry had spared one last touch to his lover's grooved forehead to smooth out the worry lines before carefully rolling to get the camera. Upon turning the device on and positioning his finger on the correct button, Harry had then stretched his arm above their figures. He had spared a brief moment to smile at the look of contentment on his lover's face and then leaned in to place a light kiss upon those thin lips.

Harry stared at the frame, revealed for everyone to see now that there was no more secret to be kept. The picture was awkwardly taken, as some of his arm showed at the side of the frame. He hadn't particularly cared so long as the most important part of the picture was perfect: that of the decadently handsome man laying next to him. Harry took in the details now, not just of his fiancé but also of the smaller things he'd failed to really notice before. They were naked, naturally, fallen asleep after a fierce round of lovemaking. The chocolate brown sheets were up around their stomachs, covers kicked to the end of the bed and consequently not in the shot. Severus's left hand was resting possessively on Harry's waist, long fingers curled so that they rested nearly on Harry's buttocks. Harry's left hand, the one not holding the camera, was lightly holding Severus's face still as he pressed a chaste kiss to those fine lips.

Looking at the photo always brought tears to Harry's eyes. Hermione, Ron, Molly, Arthur, and Albus had all come in at some point to Harry's broken sobbing after he had gazed too long at the unremarkable picture. Hermione had once threatened to destroy it if he was going to keep crying at it; he had recently made an effort to make sure she was not the one who found him at his lowest point. He understood why she acted the way she did around him, and in some ways he appreciated it. At least she wasn't walking on eggshells around him like the others did, or coddling him, or offering him inane platitudes.

After these sessions of uncontrollable depression, Harry usually retired to his bedroom to lay down and hug Severus's pillow. Albus had collected one of them from Hogwarts (unbeknownst to Hermione, of course; Harry didn't want to think what she would do if she found out) and Harry had taken to sleeping with his arms wrapped around it. It was at once intensely comforting and dreadfully sadistic. Some days, Harry wouldn't even leave his bed. On those days, one of his friends would come and roust him from his self-imposed solitude to force him to eat something. He couldn't stand their looks of pity when they found him like that.

Harry reflected that the only good thing to come out of being so monumentally crippled emotionally was the numbing to dreams. He had not had a tormenting nightmare of his lover in weeks. Harry guessed it had something to do with his brain being too stunted to process anything so complex as a dream. He shrugged and lay back down to sleep, burying his nose in the Severus-scented pillow.

October

It was his first day back at work after his two-month hiatus. He was finally back to some sense of normalcy. His anger and sadness were pushed into the background on most days; on the seldom day, he could manage his emotions well enough that he seemed almost normal. His colleagues and friends alike were overjoyed to have him back to some functioning level. Hermione in particular had been pleased as punch when he mentioned going back to work. Harry knew that without her guiding him (at times gently, and other times, not so much), he may not have retained his sanity.

At the morning meeting, Harry accepted the 'welcome back's', handshakes, and numerous smiles around him with stoic dignity. He even managed to smile back at some of his better-known colleagues. Kingsley did not make any more fuss than usual, except to welcome him back with a warm smile and an assignment worthy of his station. This was something Harry could sink his teeth into, this was the type of assignment that he had not had in the weeks following Severus's death. Kingsley understood him better than anyone it seemed. It was sink or swim, that was always the way he had played it.

Harry threw himself into his work, dedicated and controlled, precisely the type of Auror the department had wanted when they hired him. The weeks seemed to fly by. Harry was rewarded with a commendation from the Minister for saving the lives of five civilians and two of his colleagues from a brigade of rogue Death Eaters. He was finally moving on.

He thought of Severus all the time, but it was usually to dream up the kind of invective he would spew should Harry fail at his various assignments. Needless to say, Harry's creativity had him smiling quite a bit during the most trying of times. It unnerved some of his friends, but mostly, they were just happy that he was smiling again. Harry thought he was coping, thought he was doing all right, that he was learning to deal with the constant open wound where his heart used to be.

And of course, as in all things, that is when the nightmares started again.

A/N: Goodness gracious. I must have re-written this chapter 15 times. It has been my constant companion for the long months I haven't been updating. My apologies. I won't give you much more than it's been a really shitty year. Here's hoping that the 24th will be a good one!

The song at the start of the chapter is by a band called Delta Spirit; it's called Salt in the Wound and it's excellent. Seriously, I cannot tell you how many times I listened to this in the past year. It was the inspiration for this treacherous chapter and I couldn't let it go to waste. Anyway, go listen to it. It's absolutely lovely, and heartbreaking, and completely a propos to my version of the boys.

Also, you may recognize that Harry runs the full gambit of the Kubler-Ross model of grief (5 stages of grief). Each month is meant to represent a stage, and follows the model. This by no means dictates how a person goes through grief! Nor is grief in any way linear (in my honest opinion and personal experience). You'll notice that Harry goes through certain emotions at different times in this chapter that more closely resemble a different stage. But I tried to keep it pretty clean. Again, I was inspired by the model to write this chapter the way it is written.

I sincerely hope that the wait was worth it, but please feel free to tell me this was the worst chapter I've written. Ugh, so unhappy with it, but I need it off my plate. I feel as though it has represented my own journey this past year, and by getting it off my chest, I will be free to move on not only with my own life, but also with this story. Cross your fingers! Cheers, guys, I'll talk to you (hopefully!) soon :)

- blossoming art