Erasmus breathes deep of water.

And then there is five seconds of wild confusion as he chokes, as someone grips on to him and hauls him out of the water in great splashing wetness to drape him on the cold tiles like a landed fish. Flailing helplessly, he coughs, dragging desperately at the air in an attempt to draw in oxygen, choking on the water that he coughs up. Hands turn him over roughly, thumping him on the back.

“Don’t you dare!” Harry shouts at him. “You’re not going to die, that’s the easy way out! You coward!”

‘Coward’ stings, even when he’s drowning in a sea of watery air. Whatever else he is, he’s not a coward. He’s not.

Naked on all fours, dripping onto the tiles and coughing up water, he chokes and splutters while Harry’s fury fills the room and makes it almost impossible to breathe even as his magic roughly forces life into Erasmus.

“I won’t let you die!” Harry yells at him. “I won’t let you!”

So Erasmus is left to gasp himself into life, furious at Harry for saving him and furious at himself for being so weak and furious at the world for putting him here, leaving him here. And hurting, oh so hurting.

Hermione drapes a towel over him, thick and warm, and Mrs Granger pulls him into her lap, unconcerned by the water all around, and holds onto him as he gasps and chokes and sobs. His tears are of anger, pain, shame, rage; equal parts relief and regret.

A great sucking noise makes him jump violently, a noise like the monsters of the abyss howling for blood or like the draining of the seas, as the water pours down the plughole, taking all peace with it. Erasmus looks up through tears. Mr Granger stands there, the plug, still dripping, dangling from his hand.

What has he done?

-

Dying didn’t scare him. Not-dying does. What will they do to him? Will they lock him up? Will they send him away? Will they decide he’s too much trouble and just get rid of him? He doesn’t want to leave this house. He hates it and he hates the people but he likes them better than anywhere else. He doesn’t want to go. But he’s messed up now, he’s messed up big time, and he doesn’t know what they’ll do to him.

Apart from, apparently, put him to bed with a bowl of soup.

There’s no yelling. Just soup.

Erasmus eats three spoonfuls and then is promptly sick because his stomach is tied in knots. This can’t be it. Can it? Where’s the anger and the yelling and the pain? His whole being expects it, is tense in anticipation of it, and it doesn’t come.

It doesn’t come.

Erasmus doesn’t sleep that night, he just stares up at the roof. Harry doesn’t come in to go to bed, it’s just him and the shadows. In the morning he sneaks downstairs and puts on his warmest coat and goes outside onto the patio with his breakfast. That feels safer. He can see them coming that way, he’s got room to run. Maybe they won’t even find him.

But Mr Granger comes outside. Erasmus tenses, ready to run, but the man just sits down and opens up his paper. Erasmus slowly relaxes, watching some sparrows bickering over yesterday’s crumbs.

After a long silence the newspaper drops just far enough for Mr Granger to look at Erasmus over the top. “Why did you do it?”

Erasmus meets those calm, unaccusing eyes, then looks away. He studies a leaf, the veins, the striations, the variations in shadow and tint. He hasn’t thought about what he did, only the potential consequences. “I don’t know.”

Mr Granger nods and lifts the newspaper again. The sparrows shout insults, the wind paws at the bare oak tree, the clouds scud across the grey sky. And Mr Granger says nothing.

-

Finally Erasmus figures out that there isn’t going to be any yelling, let alone anything worse. He doesn’t get that. He’s just tried to kill himself, Harry was furious – and there isn’t going to be any yelling? Don’t these people know how it’s supposed to go? They all just go on as if everything is normal.

Almost normal, because at lunch the next day Harry says, “Hermione thinks you should tell Mizz Carter about the bath thing.”

“So tell her, then,” Erasmus spits angrily. Everyone is always trying to run his life.

“You have to decide to do it,” Harry shoots back. “We can’t decide for you, it’s up to you. But if you want, one of us can tell her for you.”

He hesitates. Remembers calm acceptance. “Can Mr Granger do it?”

“We’ll ask him,” Harry says.

But Hermione nods.

Relief is overshadowed by a terrible possibility. “I suppose you want to tell Dumbledore too,” he says sullenly.

The other two shake their heads, to his surprise. “We’re not your keepers,” Harry says. “We just thought Mizz Carter could help. And he’s not your guardian, he’s got no right.”

“Would you tell him?” he asks, daring in curiosity.

“No,” Harry says immediately. “But he’s messed with my life enough and I don’t see why it’s his business.”

“Neither do I,” Erasmus mutters.

Harry shrugs. “So don’t tell him, then.”

And apparently it’s just that easy.

-

“Do you want to die?” Mrs Carter asks him neutrally.

Erasmus jumps to his feet. “No!”

“Think about the question, please, Erasmus.” Her voice is brisk, not soft, and that steadies him. He trusts brisk, there is nothing to trust in soft. “Do you want to die?”

He thinks about it. Really thinks, about closing his eyes forever and never waking up, about no more nightmares, about the touch of Mrs Granger’s fingers on his cheek, about no more fear and lies, about the taste of cinnamon in the apple pie they’d had last night for dessert, about the mercy and terror of oblivion.

“No,” he decides slowly. “But everything was so hard and I was so tired and it was so easy just to let it all go...” He nips at his thumbnail with his teeth, then bursts out, “Harry called me a coward!”

“And are you?”

“No!” he says in instant repulsion.

“Please, Erasmus, at least think about the question.”

“Harry said—”

“I’m not interested in what Harry said, I want to know what you think.”

He remembers nightmares and fears and the weight of lies. How hard it is to go on and how easy it was to stop. But... “No,” he says quietly. Then, more firmly, “No.”

“Why not?” she prods.

“Because it was just that moment, when everything was too much. I’m not running away.”

She nods. “We all have moments of weakness. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in that.”

There is, Erasmus knows, but he doesn’t tell her that.

“Now, this may be the most unpleasant of all: Will you do it again?”

“No!”

“Erasmus.”

He remembers glistening metal and his voice is a whisper. “Maybe.” He tells her about the knives.

She hears him out in non-judgemental silence. “All right,” she says when he’s finished. “What I should like to do is this: I want to get the help of the others in your household.” That means telling them everything, and he flinches. “This isn’t a punishment, Erasmus, and we’ll only do it with your permission. But I think they would all be willing to help you identify temptations and help you resist them. You say you don’t want to die—”

“I don’t!” Most of the time.

“—and so we can get your friends to help make sure it doesn’t happen.”

He sits there, staring at her in open-mouthed shock, and for the first time she looks really and truly worried. “Erasmus? Are you all right?”

When he speaks his voice wobbles and he feels like the world itself wobbles because it’s all so new and different and strange. “Friends,” he croaks. “I don’t remember having friends.”

Her eyes are gentle, her voice is soothing. “Erasmus, you don’t remember very much.”

His voice is harsh and he feels like he’s made of cold hard flint, immobile, unbreakable, unloveable. “I remember having none.”

-

Harry doesn’t know how he feels about it all. He can’t exactly claim to like Erasmus but it’s still horrible that the boy tried to kill himself. Understandable in a sick sort of way, but horrible. He spends that night curled up next to Hermione in the middle of her parents’ bed, Mr and Mrs Granger either side of them like they’re a couple of terrified five year olds. He feels like a five year old, lost and useless. Dumbledore sent Erasmus here to try and help him and all Harry can do is let him try to kill himself. How is that helping anybody?

He doesn’t want to talk to Mrs Carter on her next visit but Hermione makes him.

Mrs Carter looks at him with calm, steady eyes. “He said you called him a coward.”

Harry winces. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It was an emotional moment. People tend to say things they regret.”

“Then why bring it up?” he demands. He doesn’t want to be here talking and he definitely doesn’t want to be here talking about this.

“Because I’m interested in why you said it.”

“Well I’m not.”

“And do you think that’s reason enough to drop the subject?”

“Yes!” But no one ever does what he wants, they only ever do what they want, and so he’s not really surprised when she doesn’t drop it. He holds out for five minutes, but that’s it. “I was jealous, okay!” he shouts at her. “I couldn’t let him die and I had to make him live, but I was jealous! I wanted to do that, I wanted to escape everything, but I never had the courage. It hurts so much and I wanted it to end but I just couldn’t. I’m the coward, not him!” Tears blur his eyes. “Is that what you wanted? Have you got it all now? Or do you want more dirty secrets!”

“I don’t want your secrets, Harry,” she says softly. He buries his face in his hands. “I just wanted you to know what you felt.”

He hears her footsteps, but to his relief they pass him by and go to the door. Then almost immediately Hermione comes pattering in and Harry reaches blindly out to her and she wraps him in a warm hug. “It’s okay, Harry.”

Harry remembers now why he’s never been able to try what Erasmus did. This is his reason why not. “I’m sorry, Hermione.”

-

Dawn rose on black-robed, white-masked figures that surrounded them like white-faced dementors. Sick and bleeding, aching horribly, and tied once again to the gravestone, Harry tried not to let his fear show but he knew too well that it did. The Death Eaters had returned to their master. Chastened, it was true, but once again at his side. He was so dead. Hermione was so dead. This was really really bad. “I’m sorry, Hermione,” he whispered helplessly. This was all his fault, all his doing. If he’d just stayed away from her she’d be safe in bed right now. If he hadn’t begged her for help with the Summoning Spell she’d still be in Hogwarts instead of here in a graveyard surrounded by people who wanted to kill her.

“This is not your fault,” she whispered fiercely, glaring at him, and he was amazed that even in the middle of all this she could still be so intent on making him feel better. He had to get her out of here because he couldn’t get the one person who had always supported him killed.

He just didn’t know how he was going to do it.

“And I’m sure you have all heard of our guest of honour,” Voldemort was saying. “Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived.” He stood behind the gravestone Harry and Hermione were tied to, sneering down at them while the Death Eaters laughed.

“Sycophants,” Hermione muttered. Luckily, Voldemort didn’t hear her.

“He’s brought with him a friend, but I’m certain no one here will object.” He glanced around as if daring one of them to object and give him a chance to deal out punishment. No one took the dare. Voldemort rounded the gravestone. “In honour of our guests, let us celebrate my return.” He smiled at Harry as if he hadn’t just spent much of the night torturing him. “Let us play a game.”