Regret it he did the next morning when he woke before the sun rose.  Harry wasn’t sure what had woken him at first until he realised he had tried to shift position in his sleep and his shirt had pulled over his skin ever so slightly.  He froze as pain lanced through his back.  Crap.  Crap, crap, crap. 

His back had bled again through the night and his shirt had dried to the torn skin.  Every move he made shifted the fabric and pulled on the edges of wounds, brushing welts and igniting fire in the intricate latticework covering the expanse of skin.  Oh, but this was going to hurt so much. 

It was still early and though he felt more tired than when he’d fallen into – onto – his bed, Harry knew he wouldn’t sleep anymore that morning.  Instead he took advantage of the privacy afforded by the time of morning as the other boys might as well not have been in the same room, dwelling as they were in their dreams.  Harry pulled the curtains around his bed closed before placing a silencing charm on the inside. 

He’d promised Ron once, a long time ago, that he wouldn’t do that – use a silencing charm on his bed – because his friend had said he wanted to be there, to help if Harry had a nightmare.  As much as Harry didn’t want to shut Ron out – especially knowing how hurt Ron would be if he knew Harry was breaking his promise – he couldn’t afford for anyone to find out about his latest injuries.  He had a week of Umbridge’s little meetings and he’d already reasoned out exactly why he couldn’t tell any adults about it. 

The first thing Hermione would do if she knew would be to go to McGonagall or Dumbledore, and Ron would most likely agree.  Even if he didn’t, the idea of the two of them knowing caused an ache in Harry’s chest that he couldn’t quite explain, but it felt similar to the feeling he got at the idea of them finding out about the extent of what happened at the Dursleys.  Harry assumed it was shame.  And that would make this week that much harder to get through.  One week.  He just had to get through one week. 

Not even that, he thought as he began to peel his shirt very slowly from his damp, clammy skin.  Four more days and it’s over.  He would try to never provoke another detention from Umbridge again, make her believe he didn’t need any more ‘rehabilitation’ and it would be over and nothing need ever come of it.  Things always get better eventually anyway, he thought and that voice in the back of his head was wondering if he was becoming a little hysterical, but of course he ignored it. 

The Dursleys were horrible but he only spent a few weeks or at most a month or two there every year now.  Four days was a small price to pay to stay at Hogwarts.  Harry didn’t even realise how his thoughts were warping his perception as he went from one seemingly logical point to the next, becoming more irrational by the second without knowing it in the corners of his mind.  It never occurred to him that his logic was flawed. 

He found he had to pull harder and harder on his shirt against one spot on his back where it refused to budge, so welded to the flesh it had become through the night.  As he gasped at the ripping sound that came from both skin and shirt; he never noticed the fact that he was now absolutely certain that despite it all, this pain was still a small price to pay to stay in the only place he’d ever thought of as home, regardless of the fact that ‘home’ should never have had a price to begin with.

It took him more energy and time than he would have liked to get ready for the day and the sun was a shining but obscured golden semi-circle on the horizon with pink and purple clouds dancing above and below it when Harry drew back the curtains with his bare back screaming at him.  He was grateful the other boys all slept late most days – half the time missing breakfast for the extra fifteen minutes of accidental sleep they got in exchange – and crept to his trunk to find a shirt for the day and to stuff the bloodied, balled-up remains of yesterdays down the side of his other belongings.  If he left it out a house-elf would be at it within the hour and his secret wouldn’t last.  Particularly since Dobby had taken to personally cleaning whatever room in the castle he happened to occupy.  He saw the amount of blood on the shirt but failed to see the patches of clear and green-tinged wetness also staining the shirt in places as it was shoved to the bottom of his trunk.

The shirt he’d picked for the day was slightly more well-worn than the one he’d chosen the day before and was softer on his skin, though his back still complained.  Loudly.  He was distracted enough that he didn’t notice the eyes that blinked lazily open shortly after his back was covered. 

Ron had stayed in the common room with Hermione the night before; waiting up for their friend to return from detention and doing homework while they waited.  Hermione had finished the entirety of her assignments and Ron had done all but one – which for Ron was saying a lot as they had piled up alarmingly – before Harry had stumbled into the room around midnight looking pale and defeated. 

Ron had never seen his friend look the way he had last night after a detention, except perhaps the night he’d seen Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest in their first year.  To see it now was unnerving, especially when it was so unexpected.  It had been Snape for goodness sake; it wasn’t as though it had been a detention with Umbridge.  Harry always returned with a sickly look to him on the nights he’d been with her, but Snape was as routine as detention could get with Harry, given how often they baited each other and Snape’s tendency towards needless sadism (in Ron’s eyes... though Hermione had put it into words for him).

Harry’s mood changes in their brief discussion had left his two friends utterly disconcerted and they had both noticed his glazed eyes and the light sheen on his skin.  Hermione had suggested as Ron was leaving that he should try talking to him again before going to sleep and they had decided together to keep an eye on their younger friend and to check in the morning to see if Harry had come down with something or was simply being his usual secretive self.  Once Ron had reached the dormitory that night however, he had found Harry already asleep and hadn’t been able to wheedle anything further about the night’s events out of him the way he sometimes managed to do due to Harry’s ever-present fatigue.  Harry’s secrets would have to stay secret for a little longer.

Ron and Hermione didn’t usually mind it overmuch, the tendency towards secrecy was an inherent part of Harry’s nature as they had both learnt early on, and they both knew it had more likely than not developed early on because of Harry’s relatives and the lack of any kind of support if such secrets were told.  That didn’t stop them from coaxing him to open up about anything and everything whenever they could though.  They wouldn’t have pushed so hard but to get a little from Harry meant a lot and there seemed to need to be a great deal of resolve and persistence in uncovering his secrets.  There was always the obvious underlying insecurity to work around; Harry needed to be certain the people he opened up to wouldn’t abandon him straight after and if he was in any doubt he would close up immediately.  It was a mark of how strong their friendship was that he told them as much as he did. 

It was another reason Ron had been so furious with Sirius for his words of the other night.  Harry had unveiled an insecurity of his; one of those things he held extremely close to himself at all times and revealed to few.  He had entrusted that to Sirius in his outburst about his godfather’s possible recapture – though considering the way Harry had spoken his concern, its revealing hadn’t been entirely intentional; rather, a reaction to the idea of losing Sirius to Azkaban again – and Sirius hadn’t just disregarded it, he had stomped all over it and set the foundations of unconditional trust Ron and Hermione were constantly trying to build up for Harry’s sake back immeasurably.  He had made Harry doubt one of the few people he thought he could trust and his own judgement in choosing those people. 

It was no secret Harry thought badly of himself, though he tried to hide it.  If he didn’t trust the people closest to him when they proved that he was genuinely worth loving and having around, then he would convince himself of the opposite far too fast for anything to be done.  It was a tenuous situation and Sirius hadn’t helped.  Then again, nothing was as bad as the way society was currently viewing Harry Potter, as Ron found later that morning.

 __________________________________________________________________________________ 

“And have some of this one too.”

“Ron, really... no wait-”

“And this.”

“Ron, stop!”

But Ron ignored Harry’s protests and flailing hands with the ease of long practise and continued his quest to fill Harry’s breakfast plate with everything within reach of his long arms. 

“I can’t eat all this and you know it,” Harry said, trying to reason with Ron even as another sausage was added to his plate. “This will all go to waste and other people might want some of this stuff.”

Ron gave Harry a doubtful look.  “Yeah, ‘cause we’ll all starve if you have another sausage.  Come on, it’s not like Hogwarts is going to run out of food anytime soon.”

“Lucky for you,” Harry muttered as he watched Ron’s focus shift to his own plate before grimacing as his friend tried eating a poached egg and two rashers of bacon in one go.  Despite the not so appetising picture his friend made, Harry had to smile as he belatedly realised he was mimicking his friend and eating a breakfast he probably wouldn’t have touched otherwise.  He was struck – possibly by the normalcy of the moment as the three friends ate breakfast together – that Ron and Hermione were his family.  He shifted in his seat a little; more aware than ever of the secret upon his back that was weighing heavily on him, separating him from his friends in some intangible way. 

Perhaps he should tell them?

He looked at Ron, remembering the many times his friend had defended him, looked out for him.  Looked after him.  He’d rescued Harry from the Dursley’s when they were twelve.  He’d been hurt by Harry’s godfather, even if it had been an accident.  He’d seen the way the world saw him just last year, turned on him and seen Harry from the other side.  And he’d come back.  He’d apologised. 

Harry could trust Ron.  He knew he could, five years had proved it.  He should tell him.  He really should... 

He shifted his focus to Hermione who was hidden behind the Daily Prophet, only the top of her frizzy hair still visible.  He could trust her too.  So many years, so many years of adventures the three of them had shared and so much pain they had weathered together.  He should.  He really should...

Then he saw his own face, small, in the corner of the front page of the paper hiding Hermione’s face.

“Anything interesting?”  He kept his voice curious despite the welling pit of trepidation.

There was no response and Harry tried again.  With the sudden loss of his appetite he needed a distraction – the food was only serving to make his stomach churn and watching Ron eat was never a good idea to begin with.  “Hermione?”  He called a little louder.  She lowered the newspaper until he could see her eyes and the top of her nose and he noticed the hesitation and concern in them.  His stomach, still churning, dropped at an alarming speed into his shoes.  “What’s happened?”

His apprehensively resigned tone roused Ron and he snapped out of his obsessive eating to look at Hermione as well.  She quickly shook her head, brown hair flying everywhere and coming dangerously close to becoming smattered in her breakfast, which sat ignored at her elbow.  “No, no, nothing’s happened.  Not really...” she hesitated, glancing at Ron and giving him a look that Harry didn’t understand.

“What do you mean, ‘not really’?” He asked, growing suspicious as his friends shared another look.  He rolled his eyes, remembering from the year before the many times his friends had tried to shield him from the vitriol the Daily Prophet had printed about him during the Triwizard Tournament.  No way was he going to allow them to do that again. 

They may have been the only two people he trusted to have his back – he trusted Dumbledore and Sirius and most of the Order as well but they were all keeping secrets from him and Dumbledore hadn’t so much as looked at him since the year before, which hurt more than he’d have liked to admit – but shielding him from things wasn’t a solution to his problems.  If people were talking about him, he wanted to know exactly they were saying.  It’s not like he could possibly be called worse than he had been already in his fifteen years.

Reaching out he ignored Hermione’s pleas of “no Harry, it’s nothing, don’t-” and plucked the newspaper from her hands before turning it around.  Staring back at him was himself; a very large picture of himself having just returned from his encounter with Voldemort the previous year; dirty and bloody, pale and terrified, and half sprawled across the body of Cedric Diggory, mouth open in silent screams and sobs the camera couldn’t catch.  The headline above the photo did all the screaming, proclaiming ‘Harry Potter Saviour or Sinner?’ 

Neither Ron nor Hermione missed Harry’s confusion and, as he read the article, they watched as the confusion morphed into surprise.  Hermione wanted to moan and Ron grew furious and wanted very much to find Rita Skeeter and wring her neck when they noticed Harry’s eyes attain an understanding they shouldn’t have held and a far too self-deprecating smile touched his lips as though he should have known all along. 

“They think I killed Cedric,” Harry murmured blankly to no one in particular, eyes still on the article.  Hermione rushed to argue.

“They don’t want to admit You-Know-Who’s back and they have to explain it somehow.  They’ll do anything to discredit you because you’re the only one who saw His return.  You can’t believe what they write!  You shouldn’t take any notice of it; really, they’re grasping at straws, tell him Ron.”  This was accompanied by an elbow shoved in Ron’s direction, catching him in the gut.

“Hermione!” He shot her a look of complaint but she nodded in Harry’s direction where that smile was still lingering on his face.  Ron wanted to scream and rage at the unfairness of it all.  They expect him to be their saviour one moment and blame him for things he can’t help the next, Ron thought furiously, brain working over time to come up with an argument against the article that might actually breach Harry’s insecurities.  Of all people, why did everyone have to pick on the one who just accepted it all?

“Seriously mate, Hermione’s right.  You can’t pay any attention to that crap, you know that.”  Ron felt thoroughly useless as Harry’s eyes remained fixed on the paper in his hands and ignored the feeble attempts to reassure him.  What was there to say?  In the end there would always be horrible things said about Harry and he would probably always be affected by them.  “Harry,” Ron pleaded, trying again to draw his friend’s attention away from the slander.  “Harry, listen, they’re all lies.  You know they are.”  Ron could hear the beseeching edge in his own voice but it didn’t matter.  He would have been thrilled when Harry’s eyes lifted to his own if it hadn’t been for the look on his friend’s face.  It hadn’t changed.

“But they’re not, are they.”  The smile was gone but Harry looked miserably numb, only the barest hints of his chaotic emotions and the storm of his tumultuous thoughts breaking his blank mask through the defeated cast of his eyes.

“Harry!” Hermione gasped and Ron knew that if Harry had been sitting beside Hermione he would have had an elbow in his gut as well.  “You know it’s not!  It was not your fault.  You were there when you-know-who came back, you know what really happened.  You can’t say they’re right, you can’t!”  Hermione tore the newspaper from Harry’s unresisting fingers and tossed it away as though it was a poisonous snake – which, unsurprisingly, was the way she saw everyone who worked for the Prophet.  It was clear that Harry was lost in his own thoughts but Hermione wasn’t finished, “How can you possibly buy into what they’re saying when you know they’re lying?”

“Hermione,” Harry finally said tiredly, “you weren’t there.  They may have the details wrong but even you can’t argue that I was at fault.”

“Of course I can because you weren’t!”  Hermione was becoming quite red as the angry flush in her cheeks spread and her eyes were glistening with tears of frustration.  Even Ron was looking a little worried despite being red in the face himself due to his anger at life and the injustice in it.  Harry just shook his head and Ron fought not to yell.

“Look, you can’t accept the blame for His actions.  You aren’t the same person-” Ron broke off as Harry suddenly leaned forward determinedly; having apparently lost patience in an argument he thought he knew better in.

“It was me who said we should take that cup at the same time.  It was me who Voldemort was after.  Cedric only died because he got caught up in an attempt on my life and I helped to lead him there.  I couldn’t even stop Wormtail from... It was me.  My fault.”  Neither Ron nor Hermione had a response to that or the time to get one out as Harry abruptly stood and left the hall.  Both of them had heard Harry hint as much and Ron frequently had to listen to Harry apologising to Cedric in his sleep; but hearing it said so vehemently, hearing Harry’s utter conviction in his guilt and the rightness in him feeling it was something else and it left them both speechless for a long moment as they stared after him.

“I don’t think it’s just... what did you call it?” 

“Survivors guilt,” Hermione murmured, her tone matching Ron’s as both of them sat unmoving, still looking at the doors Harry had disappeared through.

“I don’t think it’s just that ‘Mione, he really believes it’s his fault.  Like he thinks he cast that killing curse himself.”  Ron was in awe that his friend was so convinced.  Ron and Hermione had spoken about it in a moment alone when it became evident at Grimmauld place that Harry was so weighed down by his grief that it was affecting his appetite and sleeping habits and they had decided to do what they could to convince him otherwise but neither had thought it would be as difficult as it had proved. 

Now, in the face of the wizarding world agreeing with Harry and convincing him further of his misplaced culpability, both were feeling rather helpless.  Not only did they have to contend with Harry’s conviction, they also had to disprove the newest labels society had branded him with.

Hermione was nowhere near as surprised by the small brown owl that suddenly landed in a bowl of cereal to her left as Ron was if the way he jumped half a foot was any indication.  Giving the little creature an absent pat on the head, Hermione took the note it carried before ducking as it nearly clipped her head with a wing in its clumsy, slightly soggy take-off.  Ron peered curiously at the missive from beside her.

Ron looked confused until Hermione flicked her eyes up to meet those of the Headmaster and Ron’s followed.  Dumbledore smiled at both and when Hermione nodded agreeably he returned it before turning to McGonagall and picking up on an earlier conversation.  Hermione dropped her eyes back to the piece of parchment in her hand, thinking of the many precarious situations her and her friends seemed to constantly face; physically, mentally... politically.

Ron’s eyes followed the Headmaster for a moment before being drawn to the left to meet the dark ones still trained on him.  Ron offered a perfunctory glare which was returned but both were weak and neither student nor teacher seemed to put much effort into it, both looking away quickly with more important things on their minds.  The sun was blocked and the Hall darkened but not even a distant rumble of thunder could break Ron from his musings.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Upon leaving the Great Hall, Harry leant tiredly against the wall before hissing under his breath and taking an immediate step forward.  His back was extremely tender and moving hurt but it was manageable.  Putting weight on it or leaning against things was out of the question still.

He sighed as he turned away from the doors to lean his shoulder against the wall instead and knuckled his eyes, exhausted.  He wasn’t overly shocked by the turn the media had taken but to have his innermost thoughts splashed so largely across a newspaper so widely read was disconcerting.  Demoralising.  Not the best way to start a day.  But then, the stripes on his back had ruined any semblance of a good day already so it wasn’t too much of a loss.  He did find it irritating that his friends so adamantly denied any fault on his part when it was fact that he had had a hand in the death of a schoolmate.  He wished wholeheartedly that he wasn’t at fault but in reality he was and he had to face the consequences of that.  If that meant facing a world of disappointment – of hatred – then that was what he would do.  He owed it to Cedric. 

Knowing that was hard enough but having to convince his friends of his guilt, having to say it in different ways over and over until they understood he was a bad person, that ate away at him and made the hurt and loss ache that much more.  He wished they would accept it and get it over with.  But then, when they eventually did, would they realise he wasn’t who they thought he was?  Would they not want anything more to do with him because of it?  Were they in denial because they didn’t want to accept that their friend was capable of doing what he’d done?  Should he actually want to keep them in denial?  He couldn’t tell them.  It was like a slap in the face after the thoughts he’d had in the Great Hall over his breakfast.  How hopelessly naive he’d been, of course he couldn’t.  Because he needed his friends, and it was the only way he was going to keep them...

“So Potter, which is it?”  Harry couldn’t muster any more than a slow turn for the blonde behind him.  The blonde behind him who happened to be alone.  That was unusual.

“Which is what Malfoy?”  Even to his own ears he sounded exhausted and his reply came out half spoken, half sighed. 

“Saviour or Sinner?  Don’t know many murderous saviours myself.”  What he had just said answered the question in his own mind.  How could anyone think he could ever be a saviour of anything?  He was making it far too easy for the blonde who had been set against him since his first day here and at that moment he really couldn’t have cared less.  He was so tired.  His reply to Malfoy’s question was weak and his voice still sounded weary. 

“Yeah, no one would ever call your father that.”  Malfoy’s wand was out before Harry had time to blink and he was so shocked at himself for his lack of any kind of defensive movement that he didn’t notice Malfoy was as well.  He hadn’t gone for his wand.  Hadn’t even thought about it.  What was wrong with him?

“With reflexes like that I know who my money’s on in this war.”  Malfoy sneered but the surprise ruined the effect somewhat.  Not that Harry noticed or would have cared even if he had.

“Yeah, me too,” Harry murmured before spinning on his heel and walking away.  It was only when he was halfway up the stairs to the second floor that he realised what he had just done and, spinning mid-step, he saw Malfoy’s undisguised shock before he lost his footing and fell.

He didn’t fall far, only sliding two steps before his foot caught and stopped his descent, but his weight fell on his back and he couldn’t stop his gasp.  He had to take a deep, steadying breath before he realised his eyes were shut and they flew open, trying to focus through the fire searing his back.  Malfoy hadn’t moved though his wand was hanging limply in his hand at his side, face still displaying open shock.  It wasn’t something seen on a Malfoy often.  Harry painfully hauled himself up, as shocked at his own behaviour as Malfoy.  Where the hell is my head today! 

Malfoy took a step forward and when he broke the stunned silence there was no malevolence in his voice, only something that sounded like curiosity.

“What was that Potter?”  Leaning weakly on the banister though he tried to hide it, Harry shook his head quickly, trying to think.  He had to get out of there before he showed any more signs of weakness and so he attempted what he knew would distract Malfoy fastest.  He tried to piss him off.

“Didn’t know you cared so much Malfoy.”  Even to Harry the attempt sounded weak but though Malfoy’s expression didn’t lose its curiosity it still gained an indignation and his voice raised several octaves when he replied.

“You wish Potter, just looking forward to the show.  Then again it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen you faint.”  Something was off in Malfoy’s voice as well though his sneer was the same as ever and Harry simply rolled his eyes, too tired to care.

“Whatever,” he muttered before pushing himself to climb the stairs.  It was slow going and if he’d looked behind him he would have noticed the eyes trained on him but he didn’t.  Relief was muted by his exhaustion when Harry finally arrived at the top of the flight and was able to remove himself from Malfoy’s line of sight.  It was muted further when he realised his first class was DADA.  His day had clearly been destined as one of the worst of his life from the start.  Except, perhaps, for yesterday.

Meanwhile Draco Malfoy was left at the bottom of the stairs trying to figure out what the hell had just happened and Snape, having followed the blonde from the Great Hall and shrouded himself in the darkness of an alcove nearby while anticipating an altercation and ensuing loss of points, withdrew to the dungeons even as his mind wandered the halls and the first heavy raindrops started pounding against the walls.