look me in the eyes and burn

Chapter 7 - (liberosis)

(L i b e r o s i s)

the desire to care less about things

Four weeks. Twenty eight days. Six hundred seventy two hours. Forty thousand three hundred and twenty minutes. Two million four hundred nineteen thousand and two hundred seconds.

It didn't feel that long.

If anything, it felt as if Voldemort had only died an hour ago. As if it had been only two since he found out about Fred's death. And Remus'. And Tonks'. And Snape's. And Colin's. And... and...

It's been four weeks since the alleged Battle of Hogwarts. Life went on.

Already progress could be seen in Hogwarts and Diagon Alley and Hogsmead.

More and more people came out of hiding. They helped with the repairs and continued their normal lives from before the war.

Harry couldn't help with the repairs. He really couldn't. Neither could he return.

He had tried. Oh, how he had tried.

Day after day he had squared his shoulders and swallowed the bile that wanted to rise.

Day after day he had floo'ed to Hogwarts, his home, and told himself that he could do this. Helping with the repairs and restoring the Castle to its former glory was the least he could do. The least he should do. He knew that's what everyone expected of him. It's what he owned them.

But he couldn't.

He couldn't stop seeing Snape sweeping through the halls in the dungeons.

He couldn't ignore the flash every time Colin took another photo.

He couldn't stop hearing Fred laugh joyously.

It stole his breath out of his lungs and made his gaze go hazy from the tears.

It annihilated his already shattered heart every time he turned, a revived smile gracing his lips, only to be met by the empty, desolate hallways.

And he. just. couldn't take it no more.

And so he stayed in the Burrow. Day in, day out, hiding in his and Ron's room to escape everyone's well-meant smothering.

At night, when all was quiet, draped in its comforting, secure blanket, all he could do was toss and turn. Never to sleep. Never to stop hearing the ear shattering, horrific screams. Never to stop seeing the bodies covering the floor, wrapped in white cloth and staring at the ceiling with empty eyes.

There was no escape.

xXxXxXx

In the end, life went on.

Within weeks the trials were done; most were found guilty, many imperious'ed and many coerced.

In between trials, Harry was dragged to celebrations and ceremonies. 'To lift his spirits,' they had said, 'to help him realise they had won the war, that everything was over,' (it didn't feel like they had won at all).

And when he wasn't attending trials or celebrations, then he was forced listening to a stranger's voice reminiscing about their lost ones, staring unseeing at gravestones, his guilt clawing at his insides.

The stones held a different name each and every time. Not always familiar.

And Harry felt horrible for suffering at Snape's funeral the most. All the while Mrs and Mr Weasley's, Hermione's and Ron's, Ginny's and literally everyone else's voice reverberated in his head, calling this brave brave man all names possible under the sun. Traitor. Backstabber. Coward.