But no! Harry did not need comfort! That was ridiculous. He was no longer a child, he was NOT afraid of fighting Voldemort or the tournament or if Malfoy or the Ministry or Dumbledore discovered his Dark magic or whatever the hell Death wanted from him or even if Skeeter wrote embarrassing things about him in the paper - the paper was wrong! He was not a small, sad orphan. He was a very big, very brave boy. And he did not need parental comfort!
"Harry?" Alabasandria asked, and Harry flushed, remembering that he was surrounded by people who were not allowed to see him act like a baby.
Sirius and Alabasandria were busy killing Voldemort for him. He was grateful, truly, although the lines of the prophecy hummed in the back of his mind, a constant, painful reminder that he could not pawn off his duties to anyone, not really. All of this was Harry's problem, and his alone.
Voldemort, the tournament, the Ministry, the Prophet. Death, Malfoy, Dumbledore -
Deep breaths, Harry. He did another round of those stupid, terrible exercises from Sirius.
"Harry!"
"Sorry…" he murmured, grateful that he zoned out regularly enough that no one questioned him on it. He didn't listen to mama as she kept discussing things, focused on the thought of being back home, tucked into his dragon bed sheets with a hot cocoa and safe from all harm. Ugh, even his wonderful bed sheets were ruined now. A dragon! How in the fuck was Harry supposed to fight a dragon?
"I need a book for this essay," he said, interrupting Alabasandria and dragged himself through the shadows before anyone could question him.
Landing at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, he headed back towards the castle at a leisurely pace. Perhaps he would say hello to Hagrid. Although, he wasn't sure he wanted to be around anyone at the moment. With all the moodiness he could muster, he kicked at a rock and put his hands angstily in his pockets.
Honestly, he was fourteen! He was almost a grown-up! He was a necromancer, with unspeakable and terrible power. He didn't have any reason to be overwhelmed. He'd handled Quirrelmort without much fuss. The Chamber had been tough, but he'd been unprepared, unlike now. And Umbridge certainly learned her lesson. Despite all the drama, he'd solved that all neatly in the end. Everything was fine. He literally could not permanently die.
But he was a necromancer, and he knew there were things worse than death. He did not covet pain - blistering wounds that would leave permanent scars from a dragon. He might receive the Dementor's Kiss and have his soul sucked out completely - nothing but a husk of a body and a shattered mind. Or maybe Dumbledore would go after his mum, or his friends, and maybe they'd all spend the rest of their lives in Azkaban.
Maybe things would get dangerous enough that mama would drag him away from the castle and his friends, his entry into the tournament and magical oath be damned. (Or maybe, the smallest part of his brain whispered, she might pack up and leave you alone. She did promise that once. Maybe you're too much effort. Maybe your friends get scared and leave as well.)
Fine. He was fine!
Harry scrubbed the hem of his jacket against his face and kicked at some rocks.
But one tear slipped through. Harry stared at the little imprint drying into his jumper and felt a wave of anger boil within him. Fury rattled his bones and he stood straight, shaking with the injustice of it all. He was Harry Potter, he had killed before! He was not a child! Wand curling out in a flash, Harry blasted through the thick trunk of a tree.
The lovely, heady call of Darkness trickled into his mind and Harry released it with glee. The necromancer tore at the earth, peeling the life from the trees, the grass, the birds, and small creatures fleeing from the mass of ink blackness rising from him. In a ring around him, life fled.
Harry sank to the earth. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. None of that had made him feel better at all.
Refusing to cry, he stomped his way back to the castle.
"Are you alright, Harry?"
At the Black Lake, trousers hitched up to his knees stood Neville, face red in the sun and clutching several glass jars.
"I'm fine. Hi Neville," Harry tried to be polite and held back the emotion in his voice. Neville noticed though, because he gave Harry a concerned look that made another flash of anger blast through Harry so quickly that it gave him mental whiplash. He didn't want anyone's pity!
"Um, what are you doing?" Harry babbled as he dug his fingers into his palms to calm down.
"Oh! Well, Professor Moody let me borrow this excellent book about local botanicals, and I was trying to gather some fresh gillyweed in case we ever need it for potions. It only sprouts this far north for a few weeks and it looks like the merfolk have picked most of it. Um, would you like to help?" He offered Harry a shy smile and held out a jar. "It's very relaxing."
Harry accepted the empty jar with shaking hands. He kicked off his shoes, rolled up his jeans, and joined Neville in the shallow edge of the lake.
"What's gillyweed?" He asked. Neville's soft voice was calming and he was desperate to bring his focus to something else.
"It's a really rare species with a lot of useful properties. I'm surprised you don't know it, it's used in a lot of potions. Since it's an aquatic species, it's really good as a basic stabilizer. It's soothing to the skin and is usually paired with aloe for some simple medicinal potions, particularly against burns. Or you can eat it plain and it lets you breathe underwater for an hour or so."
"Underwater? Really?"
"Apparently," Neville said with a shrug. He pointed to a dark hazy mass beneath the water. "I've never tried it. I think that's some right there. It's a bit deep though, I wasn't looking to swim."
.....
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