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awyeahitssam · 2 months

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Harry just can't seem to stay dead. TW: Suicide, character death, frequent character death, torture, murder, disjointed snippets, concept discontinued -

The first time he dies Harry is fifteen months old, and it’s murder. His parents are both dead already, killed by the same hand Harry himself falls to, but they aren’t in the large, white expanse he wakes up in seconds later.

In fact, Harry is quite alone.

So he does what’s natural, and cries,

and cries,

and cries.

He stops after a bit, when his chest begins to ache. If his mummy or daddy were here, they would have come.

He’s alone.

He can’t remember ever being completely alone before, but he’s a big boy. Mummy’s big boy, she always says with a beaming smile when he's been very good. He can wait for her to come get him from this strange place.

This strange, dull, all-white place.

So he sits and waits, only Harry is a child with a short attention span and an oversized imagination. He wishes he had something to do - some toy to play with. He thinks about the colorful puffs of light daddy had introduced to him yesterday longingly, and suddenly pale puffs of smoke appear before him. Pink, purple, green. All of his favorite colors.

Gasping in delight, Harry claps clumsily, but this disperses the smoke and he’s alone again.

He whines, put out. “More,” he babbles. “Moremoremore!”

Obediently, the expanse lights up again. Harry grins gummily, falling onto his back to watch the pretty colors burst above him.

After a time Harry grows bored. He thinks of home - of his blanky and his stuffed toys and his mummy’s beautiful red curls and his daddy’s laughter - and longs to return.

A portal appears below him and he drops through with a squeal of delight.

Eventually this memory fades, just like the memories of his parents, lost in the cobwebs of a small cupboard under the stairs.

...

Unlike Mummy or Daddy, the Lady has never encouraged Harry's babble or answered his questions or bowed to his demands - "juice!" or "up!" were his favorites. In fact the first time he said “no!” which usually made adults laugh, or sigh and shake their heads, Harry was spanked.

Harry had never been spanked before, not even when he crashed his toy broomstick into Mummy’s desk and got ink spilled all over himself and the ground. Mummy had said he had been a very, very bad boy to ride his broom without mummy or daddy around, and Daddy had backed her up with stern, grunting noises even though his eyes were twinkling like they did when he laughed.

Here, when he spit a mouthful of mashed banana on the floor, the Lady shrieked and threw a washcloth at him, glaring until he got the hint and sloppy mopped it up. Harry didn’t know why the Lady didn’t just make the rag do that itself, but then again Harry didn’t understand a lot of things about the Lady.

The Mister was also not very nice. When Harry was quiet Mister paid him no attention, but if he made the slightest sound Mister’s beady eyes would narrow at him and he would start to shout. Mister was very loud, loud enough that he made Harry’s little ears ring and the other boy in the house start to cry.

The Mister stopped at the tears of the other boy, and so the next time Mister shouted Harry cried. This time, Mister did not stop. He just kept yelling and yelling and yelling until Harry’s head hurt really bad, and he seemed to suddenly lose his voice altogether.

That day Harry was put into his cupboard before it got dark outside, and was not let out for a very long time.

...

The next time Harry dies he is six years old. One moment he had appeared on top of the roof of his school, and the next he is falling. (It’s not exactly an accident, but it certainly isn’t on purpose, either. Harry had landed in the center of the roof, perfectly balanced. But he had gone to peer over the edge, searching, half for Dudley and his gang, half for a way down. He didn’t have to search for long. Maybe his depth perception was bad--the teacher had said he needed glasses, but Aunt Petunia hadn't gotten him them yet.)

He breaks his neck.

When he opens his eyes in an endless white expanse he is discomfited, the brightness so disparate from the darkness of his cupboard. Almost as the thought forms, he wishes the space were not so white, and a section of the room--place--endless land--suddenly turns a comforting pitch black.

Harry stares.

...

Harry decides within his first week at Hogwarts that killing himself is too risky. At the Dursley’s he had little to no supervision, discounting nosy neighbors. Here he was watched all the time: students whispered about him in the corridors, professor’s kept a close eye on his progress in classes, and his dormitory had four other boys in it. There was no real opportunity for privacy, and he couldn’t exactly hang himself, be caught in the noose, and have to explain it all to the Headmaster. He would probably be experimented on or something. He was already so different than other boys; to push it further seemed unwise.

His first chance comes when Draco and Fang abandoned him to the mercies of the Forest, but before he can find a suitably sturdy tree branch a centaur pulls Harry onto his back and leads him from the Forest.

Harry’s getting anxious, by this point. He’s never stayed alive for so long. He feels claustrophobic in his own skin. Sometimes he scratches his nails over his flesh like it will stop the pressure in his head, but he knows there’s only one real way to be rid of it.

His time with the Dursleys had taught him nothing if not patience, so he waits. And waits. And waits.

Harry makes it all the way to Yule before puncturing his carotid with a potions knife. Waking up in the white room feels a lot like bliss.

...

Harry is face to face with Lord Voldemort, and he feels so much—but not fear.

Voldemort, he considers, is a being of rage, madness, and destruction. The only problem that Harry immediately considers is that the man might not kill him quickly.

...

Harry has killed himself many times. That doesn’t prepare him for killing somebody else.

Quirrell burns beneath his hands and Harry is so scared, relieved, horrified. He killed somebody but he is alive — yet unlike most people, even if Quirrell had killed him he would still be alive.

...

In his Second Year, Harry kills himself forty-seven times. He’d like to say it isn’t because of the entire school turning against him for an ability he can’t even control, but he’s never been in the habit of lying to himself, and that was certainly a contributing factor.

Harry had thought he’d left the condemning stares in Little Whinging, but whispers break out when he passes and people either scamper out of his way or don’t like they have something to prove.

It’s easier to kill himself with magic, Harry discovers. Typically less of a mess, too.

Snape has no desire to educate children, and especially not Harry. So the next time he finds himself in The Room, throat ripped out by a giant three-headed dog, he asks for books.

He stays for a week, studying interspersed with flying after a conjured snitch, cooking, and resting. He sleeps far better in The Room than he ever has in Hufflepuff’s dormitory. Nobody can reach him here.

It’s his sanctuary.

At the end of the week Harry has learned many things about potions, but more importantly he has learned how to make poisons.

Vomiting them up after is awful, but he has time to figure out which works best, both for killing him and for voiding after.

...

The horcruxes appear one by one.

The diary is first, of course.

...

When Harry escapes the Hospital Wing a week later the stares and whispers are worse than ever, but there’s no malice to them any longer; in fact most all of the students, and even some of the staff, are looking at him like he’s something incredible. Again.

That night Harry downs a bitter vial of poison. He’s dead before his head hits the pillow.

The first time Harry sees someone else in his sacred space, his escape from the world, he screams. He finally understands what it means when people claim they ‘see red,’ because all of Harry’s distance and half-hearted indifference shatters and all Harry can think of is splattering this intruder's blood and making his white room red.

His magic throws the teenager off his couch, rips the book from his hands, and slams him to the ground. It presses down around him, hard enough he can’t move against it, until he’s nothing more than a pinned butterfly.

“How dare you!” He shrieks. “This is my home, you think you can just do whatever you want? I’ll rip your bloody throat out, I will destroy you!”

Dark eyes stare up at him, nonplussed. Considering. “You’ve already done that.”

It’s only then that Harry actually recognizes him. He feels jolted. Alarmed. Present, like he always is here. “Riddle.”

Riddle doesn’t so much as twitch in response. He can’t, thinks Harry, with a burst of righteous pride.

“How are you here?”

Riddle’s face twists. “You should know, Potter. You’re the one who killed me.

Harry blinks down at him. Considers this. “I killed Quirrell as well, but he didn’t show up here.”

Riddle’s eyebrows draw together. “You’re twelve, and I’m the second person you’ve murdered,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Brilliant.”

“It was self defense both times,” said Harry, unbothered by the accusation. “But yes. Except for the fact that you are somehow here, in my home.”

...

When Harry next appears (absently clearing his throat - asphyxiation is far from his favorite method, but it’s certainly the easiest when staying with the Dursley’s) he doesn’t spare Riddle a glance. Though he’s reading one of Harry’s books he’s not in his space, and that’s all that truly matters. It’s more respect than Harry had been expecting. Or perhaps Riddle didn’t want to be pinned down and helpless again, which seemed far more likely.

He toes off his shoes, setting them neatly out of the way before curling into the corner of his sofa. The eyes on him are easy enough to ignore - he’s got plenty of practice by now. He tucks his legs to his chest and summons a book, flipping it open to the marked page.

Harry liked to read travel books. After being confined to a cupboard and the small, monotonous Little Whining for most of his life it was no wonder he found some excitement in accounts of exotic locations and different cultures. The rarely indulged pastime became even more excited when he entered the magical world. Reading about historically important magical sights and imagining that he might one day visit…

Tom eyes him warily. “Enjoying your summer, then?”

Harry sighed internally. Did the boy really need attention? This was supposed to be his time, his escape from the Dursleys - from everyone and everything.

“Immensely,” he returned, not bothering to glance up. He cleared his throat, slightly self-conscious at how hoarse his voice was. He had scarcely spoken ten words since his arrival ‘home’ last week.

...

“What do you want, Riddle?” Harry snapped. “Isn’t it enough you’re ruining my only get away from—”

Harry stopped himself. Voldemort had come back to life once. Who said this piece of him couldn’t as well? After all, Riddle had said they were between life and death.

“Well excuse me for wanting some conversation,” Riddle sneered back. “I spent fifty years locked away in a diary, and the last several weeks in this place.”

“You’re the one who locked yourself away,” Harry snaps, unsympathetic. “And I would’ve let you go on living if you didn’t nearly shut down the school for the second time and attempt to murder me.”

For a moment Riddle appeared mutinous. If he said “you started it,” Harry might actually kill him. Permanently. Somehow.

Instead, he lets out a breath and leans back. Harry becomes aware of his own tense posture, and quickly relaxes back into the couch, jerking his eyes away from Riddle.

This was far from the relaxation he had anticipated.

Harry let out a deep breath and flipped to the next page of his book.

The room fell silent again.

...

On the next visit, Tom is in Harry’s area. He’s using the stove, scrambling eggs, and a strange, burnt smell lingers. Harry waves his hand to banish it.

“What are you doing?”

Tom jerks around, immediately abandoning the skillet and stepping off the kitchen tiles. He eyes Harry warily, waiting for his reaction for a moment, before saying, “I haven’t eaten in a long time. I was… hungry.”

Harry considered mentioning that there was no hunger here. But physical needs and mental ones weren’t always so disparate, and Harry took his meals here during summer as well, to feel the content even if afterwards he returned to an achingly empty stomach.

Harry decides to ignore this, approaching the pan curiously. The eggs are more brown than pale yellow, over cooked and sticking to the skillet. He wrinkles his nose in distaste, waving the mess away.

He turns a frown on Riddle. “You don’t know how to cook eggs?”

Riddle’s lip curls. “You do?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’ve been able to do simple things like eggs since I was four.”

Riddle’s lips purse, but Harry turns from him without waiting for more of a reaction, cracking a few brown eggs on the edge of the skillet.

“Were you trying for scrambled, or is that just how they came out?”

“I prefer over medium,” Riddle responded after a long moment.

And so Harry began to cook. His actions were smooth, comforting in their familiarity. He hardly minded cooking so long as the Dursley’s weren’t hovering around. He had thought that fondness might carry over to Potions, but that was before he met Snape.

Harry loses himself in the motions, peripherally aware of the way that Riddle is studying him. He plates the eggs and a thought is enough to keep them warm, then continues on with toast and a fry-up. It’s a bit heavier than Harry would dare eat if he was in the process of re-feeding his actual body, but if he felt the least bit ill he would just leave this plane.

Riddle takes his first bite cautiously. “It’s good,” he says to himself.

Harry side eyes him but doesn’t say anything. He takes his own bites delicately, measuring, like he always does when returning for Hogwarts. Even here, overeating with a shrunken stomach could make him sick. And doing so, only to return to the physical plane, made his shriveled stomach all the more noticable.

...

He thinks about boarding a train.

Not often, but it does come up.

“Where does it lead?” Riddle asks once, after he’s just sat, staring at it come and go, for long enough that the teenager’s finished his book.

“Somewhere a lot less dramatic, I’m sure,” Harry murmurs, watching it leave the station once again. It’s just a feeling, but Harry believes pure tranquility lies in wait at the end of those tracks. He’s also sure that it’s a one-way trip into nonexistence, and while he occasionally (okay, nearly always) longs for such a thing, he has duties. Neville and Luna depend on him - the world depends on him - and it’s all very…

Dramatic.

Harry sighs, looking away from the tracks and climbing to his feet. He should be doing something productive.

Though honestly he would much rather stare into space for the next few hours and forget the way his friends have, once again, abandoned him.

He turns to Riddle instead.

“The Triwizard Tournament. Ever heard of it?”

Riddle inclines his head. “Yes, of course. It used to be a way for the three premier European schools to prove their superiority. A Hogwarts student most always won. The practice was discontinued in 1792, when all three champions died in the first task.”

Harry stilled, taking in a quick breath.

“The book said ‘high death toll,’ but of course it’s something like that.”

Even if he died he would come back. But if he died, and died in front of a crowd of hundreds if not thousands, then came back it would be terrible.

He would become more than the Boy Who Lived. He would become the Boy Who Wouldn’t Die. An experiment, shunted into the bowels of the Ministry.

Harry sighed, throwing himself back onto the couch.

“It’s been resurrected this year,” he divulges tiredly. “And I’ve been nominated, despite the age limit being seventeen. It’s probably another ploy by your counterpart to kill me.”

There was a long silence, and when Harry at last looked up Tom was staring at him with a strange sort of intensity.

“What?”

“You can not be killed, yet you continuously die. Still, I find the thought Voldemort being the cause of such deaths... distasteful.”

“You'd rather I keep severing my carotid?” Harry asked, unsure of where Riddle was going with this.

“Were I alive, I would rather you refrain some such activities, but as I am not…” Riddle frowned at whatever he saw on Harry’s face. “Your company is preferable to eternal solitude.”

Harry rolled his eyes, ignoring the strange tightening in his chest. “You just want somebody who can cook a halfway decent meal.”

Tom shrugs nonchalantly, not gracing him with an actual response.

“Speaking of which, I’m making comfort food.”

...

“Harry-”

“I’d like to be alone,” he says, stiffly.

“Listen to me!” Tom commands, shuffling even closer.

“Leave me alone!” Harry snarls, jerking away from his touch, and in a dizzying warp Harry is quite suddenly surrounded by blackness, a sharp contrast the the pristine white of the train station.

Harry blinks, eyes squinting at the sudden shift, but then he doesn’t feel Tom’s hand on his shoulder, doesn’t feel their shoulders pressing together, and he relaxes.

...

Sirius is dead - actually, one hundred percent, can not be reached dead - and as soon as Harry escapes Dumbledore’s office he follows.

The first thing he does when he arrives is scream. He doesn’t give a fuck about the dark eyes on him, doesn’t give a fuck about anything because the only human being that actually seemed to care for Harry (for his comfort, his safety, what he wanted) was gone.

“Fucking!” Harry slammed a fist into one of his bookshelves and watched as it went up in flames, before heaving a breath and flinging a palm full of pure, destructive magic at the picture frame of he and Sirius embracing for the first time.

“Harry? Harry!”

“You really don’t want to mess with me right now, Riddle,” Harry hissed, chest heaving, fists clenched so tight that he should have bled.

“What's happened?” Tom pressed, gently laying a hand on the trembling boy's shoulder. Normally physicality seemed to soothe something in Harry, but the wizard sprang away from Tom’s touch as though it scalded him.

“Touch me again and I will raise this god-damned place to the ground, and you along with it!” Harry bellowed.

His entire body was shaking. He felt like he was splitting into a million pieces, felt useless, felt helpless. He hated Riddle for this, for what he had become, what he had inadvertently caused. Voldemort had trained the insane witch who grew up to murder her own cousin and he hated that, too.

“You have to mean it, Harry.”

Oh, but he really, really did. It was his wand - burning hot and angry in his hand - that was stopping him, not his lack of hatred.

“Potter, you cannot win against me!” she cried. He could hear her moving to the right, trying to get a clear shot of him. He backed around the statue away from her, crouching behind the centaur’s legs, his head level with the house-elf’s. “I was and am the Dark Lord’s most loyal servant, I learned the Dark Arts from him, and I know spells of such power that you, pathetic little boy, can never hope to compete —”

Harry’s wand was lost to him, but in that moment he did not care. He had done powerful magic before, and now, with hatred blossoming from within him, he did not feel he needed the conduit.

He rose from behind the fountain, and yelled again, “Crucio!”

Bellatrix fell with a shriek, only it did not stop there. The most horrible, grating sound clawed its way out of her throat. Her agony was clear, but Harry was hardly satisfied with the proof of her pain. She had killed Sirius.

He did not care about the consequences. He walked until he stood above her, close enough to look in her eyes, were they not clenched tight in pain, and leveled a hand to her again.

“Avada—"

“Expelliarmus,” a high, cold voice whispered.

But Harry had no wand. “Kedavra.”

There was a burst of green, and Bellatrix lay dead. Harry grinned as he turned to face the Dark Lord, who simply stared at him, red eyes wide. The man appeared shocked, which only served to amuse Harry more — he looked much like Tom when he was dumbfounded — until he considered what drew him here. Voldemort… hadn’t he killed Sirius just as much as Bellatrix.

Something in Harry grew very cold.

“Did you tell her to?” Harry whispered, giddiness abandoning him swiftly. “Did you tell her to kill the only family I had left?”

Harry was shaking with residual rage. He felt like he could do anything. There were no consequences, nothing mattered, Sirius was dead—

“Such anger, Harry Potter. Such power.” Voldemort’s voice was as chilling as ever. Harry clenched his hands, eyes glaring up into red. Daring him to—to—to what?

“Did you tell her?” Harry demanded, pushing as hard as he could. He didn’t fully understand what he was doing, just that he needed to know, needed to see if Riddle—Voldemort—was responsible for this.

For a moment, Voldemort looked almost amused. Then his eyes widened, and Harry was falling…

He saw himself through Voldemort’s eyes — his exhausted slump, pressed tight lips, eyes alight.

What has the fool been teaching this boy?

He was forced back, his scar burning hotly and pulsating with pain.

He grimaced, but it was edged in triumph.

Voldemort didn't order it. Hadn’t even expected Sirius to be here at all. He didn’t particularly care that the man was dead, other than the errant thought that he was the end of a noble bloodline.

Voldemort’s face shifted to a snarl. The sharp gleam of hunger in his eyes was gone, consumed by fury. “How dare you,” he hissed. “Crucio.”

Harry should have expected it, but he did not. Perhaps he had gotten too used to pushing Tom’s boundaries to recall that he was dealing with a different beast altogether.

Harry was not in control here. Here, Voldemort could fight back, and he could win.

Harry fell, teeth biting into the flesh of his lips to keep from crying out. He arched from the ground, tendons straining, bones creaking as he bent to an unnatural angle. He hadn’t forgotten the agony he experienced in a dreary graveyard, but remembering the pain didn’t acclimate him to the sensation any better. Once upon a time he thought the basilisk burning through his veins was the worst feeling he would ever experience. He knew better, now.

“Scream for me,” Voldemort whispered. A hand brushed over his hair, barely there at all, and Harry ground his teeth together hard. “Don’t fight it, Harry Potter. Surrender…”

"Fuck you," Harry hissed out, barely having to open his mouth for the parseltongue.

The cruciatus stopped abruptly.

“What?” the Dark Lord whispered, or perhaps hissed.

Harry let his eyes slit open. “I said fuck you,” he repeated.

...

He falls sixteen years, six months, and two days later to Voldemort's killing curse. It’s the second time; the first brought him to the white room originally, and Harry wonders if the second will close it off to him.

But no, he appears in the train station as always. It seems death is still his choice, and though some might think a lot of his character for going towards it without this guarantee, the shards of Voldemort would undoubtedly scorn him for it.

This time Harry doesn’t question the new presence, doesn’t so much as glance at the other horcruxes who hover away from it, bright eyes wary. Unlike the others his very soul recognizes this piece of Voldemort, whose form is but an infant, skin raw and rough, flayed-looking.

It shudders, so obviously in pain, and Harry thinks it says something about the horcruxes, about Tom Riddle and Voldemort and everything in between, that the man doesn’t have enough compassion to help his own soul.

And they accused Harry of self-loathing.

From the depths of his soul, Harry really does pity them. Yes, he hates them at times, feels annoyance and affection and a chaotic jumble of incomprehensible things for the destroyed soul pieces, but he loves them too. Perhaps has loved this one the longest: this burnt husk of Voldemort that’s always been with him.

He wonders if he can even go back without him, can stand the hollow feeling where Voldemort’s soul had once fit alongside his own. He can almost feel it now, a black, echoing chasm. Or perhaps that’s just the grief for all those already dead...

Harry picks the child up easily, ignoring Tom’s grunt of discontent and the diadem’s irritated hissing. They haven’t been introduced yet, but Harry trusts the others not to allow him to attack Harry, if only in self preservation.

The reminder of the ring’s punishment is still fresh enough in their minds.

The horcrux doesn’t flinch away when Harry moves to cradle it to his chest, infinitely gentle and conscious of no-doubt sensitive skin. He wonders if its state is because of Voldemort’s Killing Curse or the neglect of Harry’s soul, though he rather suspects the former by the way the horcrux twists into him, soft whines ceasing as the cool silk brushed his tender skin.

Harry coos at it thoughtlessly, watching in wonder as it seems to oh-so-slowly heal, skin warping until it’s a smooth, pale, utterly human bundle. Dark eyelashes part and Harry is somehow unsurprised to find his own bright green eyes staring back at him from Tom Riddle’s toddler face.

What is a bit shocking is the amount of trust those eyes hold. Harry can’t ever remember looking at somebody like that. Logically Harry didn’t think Tom Riddle was capable of it.

Emotionally it made something in him melt.

Damn toddler-horcrux. Maybe Harry did have some kind of paternal instincts after all.

“That’s not one of us,” Tom Riddle sneered.

“Don’t be a berk, Tom, he obviously is,” Harry sighed. The toddler turned to look at Tom condescendingly, before turning back to Harry with a gummy smile.

Fuck, he was cute. And manipulative. Don’t trust him, Harry. Don’t give in.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Harry said sternly, even as he gently combed a hand through soft, night-dark curls. “Just because it’s working doesn’t mean I don’t know.”

“Really, put that thing down, love.” The locket said.

“This one is more mine than any of you are, and he’s staying in my arms, where he belongs.”

Harry stared down into green eyes contemplatively, before shrugging. “Well, for the moment at least. Soon I’ll need to return and off Voldemort before he gets any grand ideas of hurting more of my friends. Nagini first, though.”

The toddler huffed loudly, pudgy hands reaching up and tugging at Harry’s hair. Harry huffed, wondering if this was typical child behavior or baby Tom was trying to punish him. He caught the small hand and gently untangled it, keeping it loosely clasped in his own.

“Here’s the thing,” Harry said, looking up from the toddler. “If you guys hurt a hair on his head while I’m gone, you’ll be getting on a train to the afterlife. Express.”

The horcruxes looked bitter, mouthes twisted in disdain, though the youngest was merely watching Harry with the same thoughtful gleam in his eyes he had for five years. Harry stepped towards him, raising a brow until he held out his arms reluctantly to accept the child.

It immediately began to bawl, struggling to get back to Harry. Harry leaned in, pressing a kiss to its forehead and cooing softly. “It’s okay, my darling. Tom has you, you’re safe. He won’t hurt you, and I won’t be gone forever.”

It worked. The babe settled under his babbling, with a few heavy sniffs. Harry smiled down at it softly, and looked up to meet Tom’s gaze, intent on his face.

“I’m trusting you,” Harry says lightly, reaching out to cup the boy's cheek. He’s older than Tom, now, standing a bit taller than the sixteen year old. “Take it seriously this time, won't you?”

“You want me to care for our soul while you ensure my permanent death,” Tom replies smartly.

Harry hums, considering that. He’s standing close enough that the toddler manages to squeeze tubby fingers into the front of his robes, clinging. He slowly lets his hand fall from Tom’s face, gently grabbing the hand and holding it, instead.

“Yes,” he agrees, “that just about covers it.”

Briefly, Tom looks annoyed. Then, inexplicably, he looks fond. “We really are nothing alike, Harry Potter.”

Harry smiled at his surrender, a crooked, muted thing. “Now who’s lying to himself?”

End.

...

This guy is long abandoned, I believe I stopped touching it about five years ago or so. I found the fact that I was tracing the same plot points from the incredibly silly, and didn't enjoy the way I had expressed Harry's 'depression'. Really, I was just writing snippets, playing around with the concept when I started. I was about to just delete everything, and then I thought, I know at least one of you will enjoy this. So, here it is!

A story may come tumbling out in 3-5 years with the same general premise, but with some large changes. If that ever comes out, it will be a love note to mental health, and depict the struggle as realistically as I can write it.

Hope you have a peaceful night/day! 🖤

#TW sui #tw sui ideation #tw torture #snippet #disjointed snippets #Harry #horcruxes #weird op moment #written 4-5 years ago #won't be continued #my (old) writing #look at me trying not to claim it

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