By The Light Of A Dying Flame ~ Drarry Fanfic

Chapter 31: Harry

Notes:

The events in this chapter align fairly closely with what happens in Deathly Hallows, so I pretty much skip over their return to Hogwarts and finding the cup, etc.

Harry had always been exceedingly accomplished at compartmentalizing.

One didn't spend the first eleven years of their life in a cupboard and not learn how to shut down any emotional response. His dead parents belonged in one trunk in his brain—the same trunk that now housed Sirius and Mad-Eye and Dumbledore and a whole host of other people who had died for or because of him. In another trunk was his relationship with Ginny, which had lasted just long enough for him to feel like someone had Scourgifyed all his insides and left him a hollow shell when it ended. Then of course there was the trunk that held his connection to Voldemort, along with every doubt Harry had ever had about his own goodness, his heroic tendencies, his worthiness of love.

And finally, there was the Draco trunk, but that was one he had decided to cast a locking charm upon and sink to the bottom of the ocean.

As Harry sprinted through Hogwarts, dodging multicolored spells, the castle vibrating around him, each of those trunks was shaking, lids clamoring to open and spill out their contents. It would seem that, with the murky end in sight, his mind had decided now was the time to unearth every depressing facet of his history, as if that might distract from the fact that he could very well die at any moment.

Not exactly a coping mechanism he would recommend.

"Harry, look out!" Ron shouted, shoving him sideways. He slammed into the wall, a sharp pain spreading through his shoulder, just as a bright green light flashed over where he'd just been running. He pointed the wand Bill had procured for him at Shell Cottage, sending his own spell down the corridor. The borrowed wand—11 inches, laurel, unicorn core—felt far too light in his hand, and the spells it produced for him were fizzy, fickle, and unreliable. He missed having a wand that worked for him, although he refused to miss a certain wand in particular.

"We're nearly there," Harry said, straightening up and rubbing his shoulder. "Just one floor up."

As he, Ron, and Hermione continued toward the Room of Requirement, Harry wiped dust and grime from his face, the pain in his shoulder receding to a dull ache in the landscape of all the chaos—both internal and external. Hogwarts was crumbling around him, and he felt each blow like a shock to his own body, his favorite place in the world facing the brunt of the assault the Death Eaters were waging. In his mind, he fashioned yet another trunk, and each fallen stone and slashed portrait he placed gently inside as they ran.

They scrambled up the stairs, which seemed to spiral endlessly, stretching higher and higher, until Harry thought he might die there buried in the back of the castle under rubble. When they finally spilled out into the corridor, he nearly fell, his legs still in motion to take another step upward, and Hermione reached out to steady him.

They stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, attempting to catch their breath and basking in the strangely quiet hallway. At the end of the corridor, lights flickered and flashed outside the window like fireworks. In front of the trio stood the wall behind which waited the Room of Requirement—but a door was already visible, carved into the stone and partially ajar, as if waiting for them. Harry glanced at Hermione and then at Ron, who shrugged. "Maybe it was left open when Neville and the rest of them cleared out," he suggested.

Harry moved slowly forward, the borrowed wand held in front of him. His gut roiled, screaming at him that this was a trap. Their footsteps were terribly loud in the absence of battle, and when they reached the door, he held his finger to his lips before slipping inside.