September 2. 7:15 AM

The sharp morning sun was already beating down as Harry ran up the hill to the castle, after completing a jog to the far side of the lake. His lungs were burning as he took step after step on the dirt path, but his mind was calm for the first time since stepping on the train to Hogwarts.
He was covered in sweat, despite the early hour, and felt relief with every drop that trickled down his neck. This was freedom, running a few miles in the quiet morning with no one to tell him what to do, no one to laugh at him, no one to whisper or yell or stare or hit.
Harry reached the castle doors, but didn’t slow, and instead trotted through and continued up the seven flights of stairs to the Gryffindor common room. And then his relief turned to a ball of anxiety.
Giving the password, “helium,” Harry slipped through the portrait hole and made his way to the boys’ dormitories. Neville was awake and nodded at him with an awkward smile, but the rest of the boys were still asleep, which Harry was grateful for. He grabbed a change of clothes and his heavy bag, and went to shower.
As the water poured over him, the room totally still besides his stall, Harry felt tears well and anger bubble up.
Stop acting like such a baby. Stop acting like such a poof. No wonder no one likes you. His mind ran in circles, faster and faster as his throat closed up. You deserve this, you deserve pain, you deserve to be alone, you deserve pain, pain, pain.
Harry Potter punched the wall, a release of his frustrations and feeling the gratifying feeling of sharp pain in his hand. His chest loosened as he felt his fist throb in time with his heart. This is good, he thought, this is alive and this is safe and this is numb.
Harry twisted the knobs to stop the flow of water, dried off with his towel, put on a tee and some jeans, and replaced his glamour that had fallen with the spray of water.
Then he dodged the glances in the common room and trotted down to the kitchens, asking an older House Elf to get him a mug of coffee and an apple. He sat at the miniature table and sipped the dark drink, letting the warmth of the cup radiate through his knuckles.
Harry’s thoughts turned to the previous day, of arriving at the station hours early and smoking fag after fag to ease the nausea in his stomach, of applying his glamour quickly, of riding alone and falling asleep again and again, of waking up again and again as his head hit the glass window or he heard a noise from beyond his compartment, of the glares he received as he boarded a carriage, of the distance people gave him at the feast, of the way Ron had dragged his bed away from his, saying he didn’t feel safe sleeping so close to him.
Harry had barely slept as whispered words came back to him again and again, reminding him of what he was: a freak.
So when he woke up at 6 AM, he decided to free himself from the castle and all its gossip, and do some training. For what, he didn’t know, since he wasn’t joining the Quidditch team this year, but it had felt good to run until he was numb and couldn’t think of anything but putting one foot in front of the other.
And now let coffee trace its way through his veins.
His whole body hurt, battered and bruised from a summer with his uncle. Though Petunia had gotten a good hit in with the frying pan, directly to his chest.
“You don’t happen to have something stronger, do you?” Harry asked the army of House Elves that were scurrying around, sending food up to the Great Hall for breakfast.
“Only Butterbeer, sir,” a squeaky voice replied. “We’s not supposed to have anything mores dangerous about.”
Harry curled his lip but nodded, reaching instead into his bag to pull out the small bottle of whiskey in there. He poured it in his coffee, trying to remember how much of the vodka he had left in his trunk.
Harry had charmed his muggle ID before leaving Hogwarts last year, with the only intention of buying cigarettes, a nasty habit he and Ron had developed while hanging out with some older Gryffs last year. Instead, Dudley had coerced him into buying him alcohol, letting Harry keep whatever change was left over each time, leaving Harry to buy his own supply. Proving highly lucrative, Harry eventually acquired enough money left over to not only get him drunk every day, but also to buy a pack of clean white tee shirts and two pairs of jeans. He hadn’t had his own clothes, clean and fitted, besides his robes, even once in his life. They were cheap but he felt better roaming the world in something besides grimy hand-me-downs five sizes too big.
The whiskey coffee mixture made Harry scrunch up his face, but he continued to down it while flipping through his Transfiguration text. He had owl ordered all his books this summer, since no one was going to come to rescue him, he knew, and he had already perused all his texts deeply, especially on the days he was locked in his room with nothing to do.
The time ticked by, the lonely boy taking small bites of his apple and large gulps of coffee, counting down the minutes until he had to get his class schedule.

9:12 AM.

Monday: Charms, break, lunch, Double Herbology
Tuesday: Double Potions, lunch, Study Hall
Wednesday: Double Transfiguration, lunch, Care of Magical Creatures
Thursday: Double Potions, lunch, break, Charms
Friday: Double DADA, lunch, Double Transfiguration

It wasn’t too stressful of a schedule and though Harry knew all the Double classes would grow tiring, it was better than having a packed schedule full of single periods in different classes like previous years. NEWT level narrowed everything down, both a blessing and a curse in Harry’s opinion. He had bloody Potions and Transfiguration twice, despite them being Doubles.
Luckily, he was in Charms now, being given the introductory lecture and being glared at by most the Gryffindors.
Harry propped his head in his hand and copied down his schedule, over and over and over until his hand, already stinging in the knuckles, began to cramp up. It wasn’t long after that class was dismissed, already given three feet on how theory affects mindset while performing non-verbal spells. Bloody fantastic.
Harr slips away from the class as they filter through the door. He climbs the far stairs up two floors and finds a cozy balcony, far from the occasionally used elective classrooms on the fifth floor. There, he lights a cigarette, breathing in the much-needed smoke.
He sits alone for three hours, smoking cigarettes and nibbling on a second apple, then throwing it as hard as he can toward the horizon.
He feels dizzy, but has no appetite.
He feels empty and it feels good.




12:22 PM.

Severus Snape sat beside Minerva at lunch and gazed at the Gryffindor table. Since October of last year, when the Dark Lord had finally been defeated, Harry Potter had sat with a gaggle of annoying Lions at every meal, no longer off chasing horcruxes with the Headmaster, or hiding from those who twisted his words.
This year, there was already a notable difference in the boy. He was separate, estranged from his friends it seemed. Others shot glares at him, even the Weasley boy. It was as if he had become inflicted with a contagious disease.
Severus shifted his food around, an unease settling onto his shoulders. The dunderheaded Potter boy was taking up too much of his time, as usual. Silly social problems have nothing on the life and death circumstances of previous years, anyway. But the whispers heard in the hall bothered him, and Minerva’s seeming lack of interest furthered his irritation. If one of his own was facing such adversity, he would pull them aside as soon as possible. Hopefully the problem would be corrected soon and Severus could continue his life as distant protector of the boy, happy to berate him up close.
He examined his own table, noting the few numbers and stillness of his students. The war had destroyed many families and torn several of his students from life too early. There were barely any seventh years, and his sixth years were missing Gregory, Vincent, and Millicent. The few remaining were either uninvolved in the war or considered blood traitors now. They graced the halls with silent dignity. The first years, on the other hand, contained a rowdy bunch, primarily Half Bloods he had noticed with surprise. It seems that the Sorting Hat had determined his house safe once more.
Severus was snapped back into reality by a gentle nudge from his right. The nuisance that is Remus Lupin sat there, always with a soft smile.
“So, Severus, what is the best way to harvest Red Clover dust?”
Infuriating werewolf, always trying to lure him into conversation about topics that everyone knows he adores. Can’t he get a moments peace to contemplate the ever evolving social hierarchy of his idiotic students? Can’t he further obsess over what trouble the Potter brat must be getting into? Can’t he escape that damn werewolf smile?