Birds chirped overhead. A slight dew covered everything, even the glasses Harry forgot to remove the night before. It was dawn in Little Whinging, on the first of May.
This time of year was always hard for Harry. Normally they'd be getting ready to visit home to honor those that didn't make it.
There were festivals held in their honor, drinks named after them. They were modern day heroes. Dumbledore. Sirius. Snape. Lupin. Fred Weasley. And so many more. And yet, so many had survived including Harry, yet none of that mattered to him. Even his so very best friends, who missed him like crazy, didn't matter anymore. Nobody but those who were in his notebook. The Boy Who Lived. That's what they had called him from the time he was one. But now that term seemed insulting to him. He hadn't wanted to survive. Not when so many had died. Who died because of him.
The prophecy foretold that if either of them had died, they both would. Yet there he was. Wiping the dew from his glasses and wondering why he was there to live yet another dreadful day. He still could not understand what happened that day....for all knew, he was dead. But for some reason, he had come back. To do what? That was a question he asked himself for the past seven years. In the beginning, he was just grateful to be alive. That those closest to him were still alive. But as the years passed, the reason became more and more unclear. His purpose, if there really was one, seemed to only be to just be alive. But was that enough? What good was his being alive if there was nothing to fight against anymore? If there was nothing and no one to save? His fate seamed to be sealed at age one, when his mother's love kept him from being murdered by the evilest wizard that ever lived. He endured his aunt, uncle, and cousin's abuse just so he could grow up and save the world.
Back then, he was The Boy Who Lived for a reason. Now, he was the just the guy who survived. He was the guy who got his friends murdered. His father figure murdered. Who got the greatest wizard who ever lived murdered. All for him. They all died for him. And yes, it had worked. He did save the rest of them. But it didn't matter anymore. Too much blood had spilled in the name of Harry Potter and living with that meant whiskey for breakfast and making his wife cry. What was the point anymore?
He rubbed his eyes as his glasses lay on his chest. He stared into the cloudy morning, chilled to the bone. His blanket was wet with morning dew, so he got up and threw it across the clothesline to dry in the morning sun.
The door was unlocked. At least Ginny wasn't angry enough to lock him out, thank goodness. A nice warm shower would warm him up. A quick glance at his watch told him he was due to his weekly therapist appointment with Dr. Quigley in a little over and hour.
He had been seeing the doctor for a year and a half, ever since his "episode" he had had with that serrated bread knife in his kitchen.
"So, you're finally up," came Ginny's voice behind him in the kitchen. She was vigorously scrubbing the oven with cleaner, blue rubber gloves up to her elbows. She always cleaned when she was upset and her overly-tired and red eyes told him she didn't sleep that night.
"Why are you still up, Gin?" he asked as he reached for his toothbrush in the cabinet.
"Why do you think?" she curtly replied, as her scrubbing increased.
He knelt down to her level on the floor. "Listen, I am so very sorry about last night. There was no other way to tell me, I get that. You didn't do anything wrong. And you were not the reason I was upset."
She stopped her cleaning and stared as him, and he could see her eyes weren't just red, they were blotchy, as well as her cheeks. She obviously had been crying all night. "But you left me there. On my knees. I wonder how many of our neighbors saw that? Saw you walk away from a sobbing wife? And after you left? I laid on the ground and stayed there for an hour before coming home. I was terrified of what I might find when I did." She threw her sponge across the room.
Harry's heart broke in two at the thought of his wife too scared to come home because of him. Another person he let down in his life. He hugged her hard and stroked the back of her hair. "Oh Ginny, I am so sorry. I would never do that again because I love you too much. I could never hurt you like that," he lied. He didn't want it to be a lie, but he also couldn't let her down anymore either. So he said what he knew what she wanted to hear.
"You can't promise me anything, Harry. Not anymore. Not after all you've put me through," she cried into his shoulder.
She was right. He had not only let her down over and over again, he put her through total hell. He drew in a deep breathe and let it out slowly. "Do you want to come to my therapy appointment with me?"
"No, sweetheart, I need to sleep. I've been up partying all night and I am exhausted," she smiled as she pushed herself up.
That was their way. To make jokes and smile when the feelings get too hard to feel. Ginny was never angry with him. Never. She got frustrated, yes, but never angry. She totally understood him. Understood his pain. Hell, she lost people in the war, too.
But Harry knew the difference between the two of them: those people didn't die for her. They died for him. For if he had died that night with his parents, that madman would also have died with them all. Sure, there'd still be deatheaters, but what would they be following without their god alive?
And then he remembered the horacruxes. Pieces of Voldemort's soul would have still lived on and eventually those crazed lunatics would have found a way to resurrect him without needing Harry.
And this how it always went: the stifling guilt, the shame, and eventually, the remembering of the truth. He couldn't just stick with the truth, no, he always started out with the guilt. It was a never-ending cycle of despair that just refused to stop. He couldn't make his brain break that cycle, no matter how hard he tried. He wondered if seeing the therapist would even help today. After last night, he needed desperately to talk to someone that wasn't Ginny.
"Go to sleep then, my darling. I will be back after my appointment. Then we can make arrangements to go visit home." He knew that would change her mood. And besides, he needed to see people and places before he made his decision about Umbridge.
Ginny's face brightened. "Really? You mean it?"
"Well, Tuesday is the big day, isn't it? The anniversary? And there'll be festivities all week, starting today. I think it will be fitting to go this year. With her execution and all." As soon as he said the words, he knew it was the right thing to do.
Ginny ran over to him and give him a big fat kiss on the cheek. "Oh honey! Thank you! I am so happy!" She knew better than to ask questions. She just accepted Harry's moods and whims as they came. It was something she was used to.
"You better get some sleep then. We need to pack."
She nodded and skipped to the door of the kitchen and blew him a kiss. "I love you Harry James Potter. With all my heart."
Harry's heart ached. He knew that Ginny thought this was a sign of him turning a corner. But to see her happy was better than her weeping on her knees again. "I love you Ginerva Molly Potter," he replied as he pretended to catch her kiss and pull it to his lips, like he used to when they were first married.
Ginny shut the door and Harry could her climb the stairs to their bedroom.
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The shower was long and warm. Good thing the therapist only lived a few blocks from his house, otherwise he'd be late. But that wouldn't matter, as Harry was Dr. Quigley's only patient for the time being.
After the second wizarding war, being a therapist was in demand. Normally wizards didn't use such a muggle invention, but after the atrocities that were witnessed by so many men, women, and children, the profession exploded. Pretty soon everyone knew someone who was seeing a therapist. And while most of them stayed in the wizard world, Dr. Quigley thought that renting a house near Harry was the best choice for both of them. Knowing Harry's attempt on his own life was most likely not going to be a solitary act of a desperate man, but rather a possible repeated offense, he knew that moving as close as possible to his patient was the best way to keep an eye on him. That and the fact Harry refused to visit anywhere outside of muggle territory anymore made it less of a trek for him to make house calls.
Dr. Quigley's cottage sat on the top of the biggest hill in the area. The front was covered in ivy which gave it an otherworldly feel, though Harry suspected that's what drew the therapist there to begin with: a house that looked like home.
There was no grass, only a low-lying jungle of assorted plants and flowers. Most were already beginning to bloom, though Harry suspected it was an enchantment as nowhere near as many flowers had opened in the rest of Surrey. He was quite admired amongst the garden crowd in the area. They went as far to say that he must have had a "magic touch" with his gardens. Little did they know.
He climbed the thirty seven narrow wooden planks, which were dug into the ground as steps, to the front door. Quigley always complained that he wished his front door was more in tune with the rest of the house, but alas, it was a white wooden rectangle, as boring as a weekday muggle.
Harry knocked on the knocker three times, as he always did. And then a few short seconds later, he heard Quigley's voice from inside yell "Coming!" as he always did. It was always the same. Harry liked the simplicity and security of knowing exactly of how things would go. It calmed him. Not once, besides the first day, had he needed a drink before coming. Even though the therapist liked to make his appointments early for just this reason, Harry had been known to down a few before breakfast on occasion, especially around this time of year. But not before showing up to therapy. There was something about being able to express himself without pity, without regret, without having to hide a single feeling that added to the feeling of calmness that those days brought. Therapy was his sanctuary. During the last session they discussed having daily sessions for that coming week, but now with the trip in the works, that wasn't going to happen.
"My my, Harry, you are on time yet again," came Quigley's voice as he opened the door.
"Why, did you not want me to be?" Harry smiled.
"No, my good man. I am just glad to see how punctual you are, even during this time of year. Come in, come in," he ushered his old friend in.
"So listen," he said with a scrunched face. "I know we talked about me coming here every day this week and I had agreed, but Ginny and I are going home."
The doctor smiled. "That's wonderful! Who's idea was it?"
He sure cut to the chase, but Harry was proud of his answer. "Me."
"No doubt due to the upcoming, well, how shall we put it..." he paused before he sat down and gestured for Harry to do the same.
"Execution?" he replied, as he took his coat and placed it on the chair next to him.
"Well, yes."
Harry fingered his wedding ring. "Partially."
Dr. Quigley grabbed his reading glasses, a notebook and quill from the table next to him. "You can be honest with me, you know that. No need to hide things when in therapy."
"Well, last night when Ginny told me about the execution, I kind of freaked out on her. She stayed up all night crying, thinking I might do it again." He leaned forward and ran his hand through his shaggy hair.
The therapist scribbled something in his notebook and then looked up at Harry. "Well, did you want to?"
Harry leaned back. "No, no, not at all. I only wanted to sleep."
More scribbling. "Uh huh. And how much to drink?"
Harry sighed. He hated fessing up to his drinking habits more than anything. "A half a bottle of whiskey."
The doctor pulled his glasses down his nose. "All day?"
He pulled in a deep breath. "No, that was before bed. Before that I had six glasses."
The scratching of the pen of the paper was louder than usual. "So pretty much an entire bottle of whiskey, then, correct?"
"Yes. I opened it yesterday morning."
"And you tell me you don't want to kill yourself?" he asked without any accusatory tone.
Harry was taken aback by his question. He hadn't felt like going near a knife since that day. "No, not at all. I may not be happy, but I surely don't want to die," he only half-lied. Death was not something he feared, he just didn't want to be the one who pulled the trigger.
Quigley placed his paper on the table. "My dear man, drinking an entire bottle of muggle whiskey in twenty-four hours time is a sure fire path to your deathbed. You may have not had the urge to pick up a knife and slice yourself again, but you sure do have a death wish, whether you know it or not."
Shame washed over him like the tide. He hadn't thought of it that way. What made him feel even worse was the fact this wasn't the first day he'd done this. He had been gradually increasing his intake of the intoxicant over a period of weeks. He had never drank this much before and had no idea why it was different now.
"No need to feel bad, Harry. You are a smart man. You know this is a disease. An addiction which is covering up your feelings of toxic shame," he reached over and patted Harry's leg. "I will admit, though, I am fearful of you going off on a trip when you're reaching such a height in your alcholism. Especially when the subject matter of said trip is exactly why you started drinking the first place."
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I didn't think of that."
The older man picked up his paper and quill again and scribbled more down and sighed. "Well, we have to find a solution here. I think you need to go. But there has to be a way we can do this without you ending up in the hospital. Or worse. What is your plan once you get there? I take it you'll be staying with Ginny's family?"
He cleared his throat. "Yeah. They rebuilt the Burrow after it was burned down, so there is plenty of room there. I can't imagine I'd stay anywhere else."
More scribbling. "So, what do you propose to do?" he asked, without looking up.
Harry knew what he had to do, although he didn't want to. It was dangerous, mostly to the people around him. He had no idea what he was capable of or who'd he'd be without the whiskey. It had been so long that he had lived without it. He sighed, deep and heavy, and hung his head. "I'll take it," he mumbled quietly.
Quigley's ears perked up. "What's that, good man, what did you say?"
He knew good and well the man sitting across from him heard exactly what he said, but repeated himself anyways. "I'll take it," he said, this time louder.
The therapist clapped in glee. "Oh finally! I've been waiting so long to hear those words!"
"How you do you know it's safe, Dr. Quigley? How do you know how it will effect me?"
The doctor sat back in his chair. "Listen, you can't go there drunk. You can't drink an entire bottle of whiskey all week long, or ever again, I might add. You can't do this anymore. This is a time for closure. And you can only get that while being sober," he reached into his pocked and pulled out a purple liquid in a vial that was corked. "The potion will take effect immediately. And you have to take it every six hours or else it will wear off. You will feel it wearing off because your body will go into withdrawal. You'll start sweating. Your hands will shake. And if you go long enough without, you may go into convulsions and possibly die from shock. So it's imperative to keep on top of this." He reached over and slipped it into Harry's hands and cupped his own over his patient's. "This isn't a crutch, like alcohol is, this is a cure. If you take it long enough, you will be cured of your addiction."
Cured. That was a word that he wasn't sure he wanted to hear yet. And he certainly knew he wasn't ready. Maybe if he took the potion that blocked his need and want for alcohol, he could them imbibe when the effects wore off?
"I know what you're thinking, good man, and that would will surely mess your system up even more and possibly even land you in the hospital," Quigley retorted.
Harry stared at him wide-eyed. "What are you, some kind of wizard?"
They both started laughing hysterically.
Quigley wiped the tears from his eyes. "My good man, you are an addict. You all think alike. Whether it's a food addict, a drug addict, or an alcoholic, you all want to cheat. To get away with whatever you can so you don't have to give up your addiction. What I am challenging you to do is make the choice, right here, right now, to be sober. For good. Can you do that?"
Harry's hands had been shaking for a while but he hadn't noticed until now. Ever since his drinking increased in volume, his need for the elixir had come earlier and earlier. It was barely ten a.m. and he was already needing more. He fingered the vial in his hand. "I am afraid."
"Good. You should be. Fear says you understand the risks. But it doesn't say you shouldn't do it anyways. This won't be easy. I never said it would be. But then again, didn't a great muggle once say that nothing in life came easy?"
Harry smiled while staring at the vial. "Nothing comes easy. It's a song by Lynyrd Skynyrd."
Quigley reached down into the draw on his end table and pulled out his pipe and tobacco and lit it up. "Hmm, with a name like that, you sure he's not a wizard?"
Harry let out a small laugh.
Cherry tobacco smoke filled the air. "So the next time you think about how hard it is to be sober, Harry, remember Mr. Skynyrd and his song. Nothing, for any muggle or wizard, comes easy in life. You know this better than most. I will point out one last thing before you go. You would not be alive right now if there wasn't a reason. You were dead, Harry Potter. But you came back. And that can't be for nothing, can it? I think your story doesn't end here. I don't think it ended seven years ago that last day of the war when Voldemort died. You came back for a reason. But, good man, it's up to you," he reached over and poked Harry's chest, "to figure out why. You make your way in life, not some prophecy, not some destiny. You. If you choose to give up, then it's over. But, if you choose to live?" He leaned in close to Harry's face. "Then you can do anything." He sat back in his seat and took a draw off his pipe. "And that, my good man, is the greatest story ever told. Harry Potter, the boy who lived because he chose to. Not because he had to."
Tears escaped from Harry's eyes, wetting his lips and chin. "On my own terms."
Quigley slapped his hands together. "Exactly!"
Harry looked at the vile in his hands. He came here looking for answers about Umbridge's execution, but instead ended up addressing something so much deeper and more important than the death of some evil bitch who deserved to die in any manner possible. He thought about her being taken that night by the centaurs and wished they would have just killed her then. But no, they turned her in to the authorities. He sighed, once again, and put off thinking about her until the actual execution. Right now, he held the vial that could save his life. For so long, all he wanted to do was to numb his feelings, his memories. He never really grieved them. Any of them. And if took this potion, he'd be choosing to have to come to terms with all that he had lost. Was he ready?
No, he wasn't. But then again, he knew he'd never be ready. So why not at least try? "So, how do I take this?"
Dr. Quigley took it out of his hands and opened the stopper. "Right here is a dropper attached to the cork. One drop, every six hours. You have to set a timer, even through the night. You want to wake up in the morning," he snickered, but then thought better of his careless joke and continued. "I will send you with three vials. Just in case. But one should do you. I will give you a pouch in which to carry them all, because if one breaks, you don't want to have to rush back to the Burrow to get another." He reached back into his drawer, and pulled out a leather pouch and handed it to Harry.
Harry took it and the loose vial and placed it inside. "I think I got it."
"And Harry?"
"Yes?"
"Leave the whiskey at home," he winked.
Harry faked a smile back to him. "Of course."
"I mean it Harry." He puffed another puff on his pipe.
He walked over and hugged his therapist goodbye. "Thank you Dr. Quigley. I will do my best."
He exited the cottage and knew he spoke the truth: he would do his best. He just wasn't so sure what his best was anymore.
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This time of year was always hard for Harry. Normally they'd be getting ready to visit home to honor those that didn't make it.
There were festivals held in their honor, drinks named after them. They were modern day heroes. Dumbledore. Sirius. Snape. Lupin. Fred Weasley. And so many more. And yet, so many had survived including Harry, yet none of that mattered to him. Even his so very best friends, who missed him like crazy, didn't matter anymore. Nobody but those who were in his notebook. The Boy Who Lived. That's what they had called him from the time he was one. But now that term seemed insulting to him. He hadn't wanted to survive. Not when so many had died. Who died because of him.
The prophecy foretold that if either of them had died, they both would. Yet there he was. Wiping the dew from his glasses and wondering why he was there to live yet another dreadful day. He still could not understand what happened that day....for all knew, he was dead. But for some reason, he had come back. To do what? That was a question he asked himself for the past seven years. In the beginning, he was just grateful to be alive. That those closest to him were still alive. But as the years passed, the reason became more and more unclear. His purpose, if there really was one, seemed to only be to just be alive. But was that enough? What good was his being alive if there was nothing to fight against anymore? If there was nothing and no one to save? His fate seamed to be sealed at age one, when his mother's love kept him from being murdered by the evilest wizard that ever lived. He endured his aunt, uncle, and cousin's abuse just so he could grow up and save the world.
Back then, he was The Boy Who Lived for a reason. Now, he was the just the guy who survived. He was the guy who got his friends murdered. His father figure murdered. Who got the greatest wizard who ever lived murdered. All for him. They all died for him. And yes, it had worked. He did save the rest of them. But it didn't matter anymore. Too much blood had spilled in the name of Harry Potter and living with that meant whiskey for breakfast and making his wife cry. What was the point anymore?
He rubbed his eyes as his glasses lay on his chest. He stared into the cloudy morning, chilled to the bone. His blanket was wet with morning dew, so he got up and threw it across the clothesline to dry in the morning sun.
The door was unlocked. At least Ginny wasn't angry enough to lock him out, thank goodness. A nice warm shower would warm him up. A quick glance at his watch told him he was due to his weekly therapist appointment with Dr. Quigley in a little over and hour.
He had been seeing the doctor for a year and a half, ever since his "episode" he had had with that serrated bread knife in his kitchen.
"So, you're finally up," came Ginny's voice behind him in the kitchen. She was vigorously scrubbing the oven with cleaner, blue rubber gloves up to her elbows. She always cleaned when she was upset and her overly-tired and red eyes told him she didn't sleep that night.
"Why are you still up, Gin?" he asked as he reached for his toothbrush in the cabinet.
"Why do you think?" she curtly replied, as her scrubbing increased.
He knelt down to her level on the floor. "Listen, I am so very sorry about last night. There was no other way to tell me, I get that. You didn't do anything wrong. And you were not the reason I was upset."
She stopped her cleaning and stared as him, and he could see her eyes weren't just red, they were blotchy, as well as her cheeks. She obviously had been crying all night. "But you left me there. On my knees. I wonder how many of our neighbors saw that? Saw you walk away from a sobbing wife? And after you left? I laid on the ground and stayed there for an hour before coming home. I was terrified of what I might find when I did." She threw her sponge across the room.
Harry's heart broke in two at the thought of his wife too scared to come home because of him. Another person he let down in his life. He hugged her hard and stroked the back of her hair. "Oh Ginny, I am so sorry. I would never do that again because I love you too much. I could never hurt you like that," he lied. He didn't want it to be a lie, but he also couldn't let her down anymore either. So he said what he knew what she wanted to hear.
"You can't promise me anything, Harry. Not anymore. Not after all you've put me through," she cried into his shoulder.
She was right. He had not only let her down over and over again, he put her through total hell. He drew in a deep breathe and let it out slowly. "Do you want to come to my therapy appointment with me?"
"No, sweetheart, I need to sleep. I've been up partying all night and I am exhausted," she smiled as she pushed herself up.
That was their way. To make jokes and smile when the feelings get too hard to feel. Ginny was never angry with him. Never. She got frustrated, yes, but never angry. She totally understood him. Understood his pain. Hell, she lost people in the war, too.
But Harry knew the difference between the two of them: those people didn't die for her. They died for him. For if he had died that night with his parents, that madman would also have died with them all. Sure, there'd still be deatheaters, but what would they be following without their god alive?
And then he remembered the horacruxes. Pieces of Voldemort's soul would have still lived on and eventually those crazed lunatics would have found a way to resurrect him without needing Harry.
And this how it always went: the stifling guilt, the shame, and eventually, the remembering of the truth. He couldn't just stick with the truth, no, he always started out with the guilt. It was a never-ending cycle of despair that just refused to stop. He couldn't make his brain break that cycle, no matter how hard he tried. He wondered if seeing the therapist would even help today. After last night, he needed desperately to talk to someone that wasn't Ginny.
"Go to sleep then, my darling. I will be back after my appointment. Then we can make arrangements to go visit home." He knew that would change her mood. And besides, he needed to see people and places before he made his decision about Umbridge.
Ginny's face brightened. "Really? You mean it?"
"Well, Tuesday is the big day, isn't it? The anniversary? And there'll be festivities all week, starting today. I think it will be fitting to go this year. With her execution and all." As soon as he said the words, he knew it was the right thing to do.
Ginny ran over to him and give him a big fat kiss on the cheek. "Oh honey! Thank you! I am so happy!" She knew better than to ask questions. She just accepted Harry's moods and whims as they came. It was something she was used to.
"You better get some sleep then. We need to pack."
She nodded and skipped to the door of the kitchen and blew him a kiss. "I love you Harry James Potter. With all my heart."
Harry's heart ached. He knew that Ginny thought this was a sign of him turning a corner. But to see her happy was better than her weeping on her knees again. "I love you Ginerva Molly Potter," he replied as he pretended to catch her kiss and pull it to his lips, like he used to when they were first married.
Ginny shut the door and Harry could her climb the stairs to their bedroom.
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The shower was long and warm. Good thing the therapist only lived a few blocks from his house, otherwise he'd be late. But that wouldn't matter, as Harry was Dr. Quigley's only patient for the time being.
After the second wizarding war, being a therapist was in demand. Normally wizards didn't use such a muggle invention, but after the atrocities that were witnessed by so many men, women, and children, the profession exploded. Pretty soon everyone knew someone who was seeing a therapist. And while most of them stayed in the wizard world, Dr. Quigley thought that renting a house near Harry was the best choice for both of them. Knowing Harry's attempt on his own life was most likely not going to be a solitary act of a desperate man, but rather a possible repeated offense, he knew that moving as close as possible to his patient was the best way to keep an eye on him. That and the fact Harry refused to visit anywhere outside of muggle territory anymore made it less of a trek for him to make house calls.
Dr. Quigley's cottage sat on the top of the biggest hill in the area. The front was covered in ivy which gave it an otherworldly feel, though Harry suspected that's what drew the therapist there to begin with: a house that looked like home.
There was no grass, only a low-lying jungle of assorted plants and flowers. Most were already beginning to bloom, though Harry suspected it was an enchantment as nowhere near as many flowers had opened in the rest of Surrey. He was quite admired amongst the garden crowd in the area. They went as far to say that he must have had a "magic touch" with his gardens. Little did they know.
He climbed the thirty seven narrow wooden planks, which were dug into the ground as steps, to the front door. Quigley always complained that he wished his front door was more in tune with the rest of the house, but alas, it was a white wooden rectangle, as boring as a weekday muggle.
Harry knocked on the knocker three times, as he always did. And then a few short seconds later, he heard Quigley's voice from inside yell "Coming!" as he always did. It was always the same. Harry liked the simplicity and security of knowing exactly of how things would go. It calmed him. Not once, besides the first day, had he needed a drink before coming. Even though the therapist liked to make his appointments early for just this reason, Harry had been known to down a few before breakfast on occasion, especially around this time of year. But not before showing up to therapy. There was something about being able to express himself without pity, without regret, without having to hide a single feeling that added to the feeling of calmness that those days brought. Therapy was his sanctuary. During the last session they discussed having daily sessions for that coming week, but now with the trip in the works, that wasn't going to happen.
"My my, Harry, you are on time yet again," came Quigley's voice as he opened the door.
"Why, did you not want me to be?" Harry smiled.
"No, my good man. I am just glad to see how punctual you are, even during this time of year. Come in, come in," he ushered his old friend in.
"So listen," he said with a scrunched face. "I know we talked about me coming here every day this week and I had agreed, but Ginny and I are going home."
The doctor smiled. "That's wonderful! Who's idea was it?"
He sure cut to the chase, but Harry was proud of his answer. "Me."
"No doubt due to the upcoming, well, how shall we put it..." he paused before he sat down and gestured for Harry to do the same.
"Execution?" he replied, as he took his coat and placed it on the chair next to him.
"Well, yes."
Harry fingered his wedding ring. "Partially."
Dr. Quigley grabbed his reading glasses, a notebook and quill from the table next to him. "You can be honest with me, you know that. No need to hide things when in therapy."
"Well, last night when Ginny told me about the execution, I kind of freaked out on her. She stayed up all night crying, thinking I might do it again." He leaned forward and ran his hand through his shaggy hair.
The therapist scribbled something in his notebook and then looked up at Harry. "Well, did you want to?"
Harry leaned back. "No, no, not at all. I only wanted to sleep."
More scribbling. "Uh huh. And how much to drink?"
Harry sighed. He hated fessing up to his drinking habits more than anything. "A half a bottle of whiskey."
The doctor pulled his glasses down his nose. "All day?"
He pulled in a deep breath. "No, that was before bed. Before that I had six glasses."
The scratching of the pen of the paper was louder than usual. "So pretty much an entire bottle of whiskey, then, correct?"
"Yes. I opened it yesterday morning."
"And you tell me you don't want to kill yourself?" he asked without any accusatory tone.
Harry was taken aback by his question. He hadn't felt like going near a knife since that day. "No, not at all. I may not be happy, but I surely don't want to die," he only half-lied. Death was not something he feared, he just didn't want to be the one who pulled the trigger.
Quigley placed his paper on the table. "My dear man, drinking an entire bottle of muggle whiskey in twenty-four hours time is a sure fire path to your deathbed. You may have not had the urge to pick up a knife and slice yourself again, but you sure do have a death wish, whether you know it or not."
Shame washed over him like the tide. He hadn't thought of it that way. What made him feel even worse was the fact this wasn't the first day he'd done this. He had been gradually increasing his intake of the intoxicant over a period of weeks. He had never drank this much before and had no idea why it was different now.
"No need to feel bad, Harry. You are a smart man. You know this is a disease. An addiction which is covering up your feelings of toxic shame," he reached over and patted Harry's leg. "I will admit, though, I am fearful of you going off on a trip when you're reaching such a height in your alcholism. Especially when the subject matter of said trip is exactly why you started drinking the first place."
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I didn't think of that."
The older man picked up his paper and quill again and scribbled more down and sighed. "Well, we have to find a solution here. I think you need to go. But there has to be a way we can do this without you ending up in the hospital. Or worse. What is your plan once you get there? I take it you'll be staying with Ginny's family?"
He cleared his throat. "Yeah. They rebuilt the Burrow after it was burned down, so there is plenty of room there. I can't imagine I'd stay anywhere else."
More scribbling. "So, what do you propose to do?" he asked, without looking up.
Harry knew what he had to do, although he didn't want to. It was dangerous, mostly to the people around him. He had no idea what he was capable of or who'd he'd be without the whiskey. It had been so long that he had lived without it. He sighed, deep and heavy, and hung his head. "I'll take it," he mumbled quietly.
Quigley's ears perked up. "What's that, good man, what did you say?"
He knew good and well the man sitting across from him heard exactly what he said, but repeated himself anyways. "I'll take it," he said, this time louder.
The therapist clapped in glee. "Oh finally! I've been waiting so long to hear those words!"
"How you do you know it's safe, Dr. Quigley? How do you know how it will effect me?"
The doctor sat back in his chair. "Listen, you can't go there drunk. You can't drink an entire bottle of whiskey all week long, or ever again, I might add. You can't do this anymore. This is a time for closure. And you can only get that while being sober," he reached into his pocked and pulled out a purple liquid in a vial that was corked. "The potion will take effect immediately. And you have to take it every six hours or else it will wear off. You will feel it wearing off because your body will go into withdrawal. You'll start sweating. Your hands will shake. And if you go long enough without, you may go into convulsions and possibly die from shock. So it's imperative to keep on top of this." He reached over and slipped it into Harry's hands and cupped his own over his patient's. "This isn't a crutch, like alcohol is, this is a cure. If you take it long enough, you will be cured of your addiction."
Cured. That was a word that he wasn't sure he wanted to hear yet. And he certainly knew he wasn't ready. Maybe if he took the potion that blocked his need and want for alcohol, he could them imbibe when the effects wore off?
"I know what you're thinking, good man, and that would will surely mess your system up even more and possibly even land you in the hospital," Quigley retorted.
Harry stared at him wide-eyed. "What are you, some kind of wizard?"
They both started laughing hysterically.
Quigley wiped the tears from his eyes. "My good man, you are an addict. You all think alike. Whether it's a food addict, a drug addict, or an alcoholic, you all want to cheat. To get away with whatever you can so you don't have to give up your addiction. What I am challenging you to do is make the choice, right here, right now, to be sober. For good. Can you do that?"
Harry's hands had been shaking for a while but he hadn't noticed until now. Ever since his drinking increased in volume, his need for the elixir had come earlier and earlier. It was barely ten a.m. and he was already needing more. He fingered the vial in his hand. "I am afraid."
"Good. You should be. Fear says you understand the risks. But it doesn't say you shouldn't do it anyways. This won't be easy. I never said it would be. But then again, didn't a great muggle once say that nothing in life came easy?"
Harry smiled while staring at the vial. "Nothing comes easy. It's a song by Lynyrd Skynyrd."
Quigley reached down into the draw on his end table and pulled out his pipe and tobacco and lit it up. "Hmm, with a name like that, you sure he's not a wizard?"
Harry let out a small laugh.
Cherry tobacco smoke filled the air. "So the next time you think about how hard it is to be sober, Harry, remember Mr. Skynyrd and his song. Nothing, for any muggle or wizard, comes easy in life. You know this better than most. I will point out one last thing before you go. You would not be alive right now if there wasn't a reason. You were dead, Harry Potter. But you came back. And that can't be for nothing, can it? I think your story doesn't end here. I don't think it ended seven years ago that last day of the war when Voldemort died. You came back for a reason. But, good man, it's up to you," he reached over and poked Harry's chest, "to figure out why. You make your way in life, not some prophecy, not some destiny. You. If you choose to give up, then it's over. But, if you choose to live?" He leaned in close to Harry's face. "Then you can do anything." He sat back in his seat and took a draw off his pipe. "And that, my good man, is the greatest story ever told. Harry Potter, the boy who lived because he chose to. Not because he had to."
Tears escaped from Harry's eyes, wetting his lips and chin. "On my own terms."
Quigley slapped his hands together. "Exactly!"
Harry looked at the vile in his hands. He came here looking for answers about Umbridge's execution, but instead ended up addressing something so much deeper and more important than the death of some evil bitch who deserved to die in any manner possible. He thought about her being taken that night by the centaurs and wished they would have just killed her then. But no, they turned her in to the authorities. He sighed, once again, and put off thinking about her until the actual execution. Right now, he held the vial that could save his life. For so long, all he wanted to do was to numb his feelings, his memories. He never really grieved them. Any of them. And if took this potion, he'd be choosing to have to come to terms with all that he had lost. Was he ready?
No, he wasn't. But then again, he knew he'd never be ready. So why not at least try? "So, how do I take this?"
Dr. Quigley took it out of his hands and opened the stopper. "Right here is a dropper attached to the cork. One drop, every six hours. You have to set a timer, even through the night. You want to wake up in the morning," he snickered, but then thought better of his careless joke and continued. "I will send you with three vials. Just in case. But one should do you. I will give you a pouch in which to carry them all, because if one breaks, you don't want to have to rush back to the Burrow to get another." He reached back into his drawer, and pulled out a leather pouch and handed it to Harry.
Harry took it and the loose vial and placed it inside. "I think I got it."
"And Harry?"
"Yes?"
"Leave the whiskey at home," he winked.
Harry faked a smile back to him. "Of course."
"I mean it Harry." He puffed another puff on his pipe.
He walked over and hugged his therapist goodbye. "Thank you Dr. Quigley. I will do my best."
He exited the cottage and knew he spoke the truth: he would do his best. He just wasn't so sure what his best was anymore.
