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Harry has always been careful with the things he's been given - whether that be the broken and discarded toys from Dudley, his trunk, his meager clothing, his glasses, or his invisibility cloak from his father, he's always handled them with care. He's never realized it, but Harry has never broken any of these items or misplaced them.
It was an accident in every sense of the word, really. In Potions class, he was struggling to focus on the assignment - he couldn't see the instructions on the board and he really didn’t get that much sleep again last night, and eating on no sleep makes him feel nauseous, along with having to deal with Hermonie nagging at him for not sleeping right and not eating, like what does she want him to do? Not have nightmares? It's not his fault he can't get these memories out of his head -
He just was at his wits end, so potions class was the least of his worries right now, but he tried anyway so that he could have some peace and quiet later and allow his brain to turn off for a moment.
Harry adjusts his glasses while blinking hard, trying to clear the blur out of eyes unsuccessfully. He squints and figures that the words on the board say something along the lines of “stir” but Harry's unsure whether it's clockwise or counter. Well.
Cheers.
And sticks the stirring rod he picked up from his desk into the oddly-colored potion, hoping he doesn't blow it up. Looking up at the board once more to figure out how many times the potion needs to be stirred, he thinks the number is a three but it looks a bloody awful lot like a seven with a line through it.
Maybe I should sit closer to the board, Harry grimaces and rolls his eyes at himself. Yeah, like Snape wouldn't see that as the chance to torture me some more -
BOOM
CLANG
Harry startles so hard at the sound of someone else's cauldron exploding that his glasses fall off his face and drop to the floor with a clatter. After quickly glancing at the student who's now being glared at by Snape, he bends down to pick up his glasses.
Just before he can grab them, another BOOM resonates throughout the room, and he flinches and drops the heavy stirring rod right on his glasses.
CRUNCH
Now, Harry usually is very good at bottling up his emotions to deal with later, by himself, or not at all. But this.
This was the breaking point for him.
Harry freezes, going very still as he processes what just happened. His eyes see the crushed and scattered glass on the floor, but his mind doesn't really register it as he crouches down to pick up the stirring rod.
Moving the stirring rod only causes more crunching noises and Harry lets out a dry sob. His eyes begin to tear up as he angrily slides the rod across the floor and gingerly cups the broken glasses in his hands.
Harry stares down at the broken remains of his glasses, his breath coming in quick, sharp bursts. His throat tightens as he shakes his head, muttering under his breath.
"No, no, no, no, no."
His fingers tremble as he gingerly picks up the shattered pieces, as if handling them with care now will undo the damage. The glass shards are sharp against his skin, but he barely notices. His vision swims, not just from the lack of his glasses but from the stinging behind his eyes.
He sucks in a ragged breath, but it does nothing to stop the rising tide of emotion. His mind is screaming at him, berating him. Stupid. Careless. If you can't even take care of something this small—
A hand lands on his shoulder, and he flinches violently.
"Mate, you okay?" Ron's voice is cautious, hesitant.
Something in Harry snaps.
"Am I okay?" His voice is sharp, almost hysterical, as he turns to glare at Ron. "No, I'm bloody well not okay, Ron! I just—I just—"
His hands shake as he gestures toward the broken glasses, his vision too blurry to even see Ron's reaction properly. His whole body is trembling, frustration bubbling up in his chest like a rising tide. His throat feels raw as he swipes angrily at his eyes, furious that tears are falling despite his best efforts to keep them at bay.
"Harry—" Ron starts again, but he's cut off.
"Just leave me alone!" Harry shouts, his voice cracking.
He barely registers the way the classroom has gone quiet around him, the way Snape's sharp gaze has turned toward him with an unreadable expression. His breathing is erratic, and he knows he's losing control, but he can't seem to stop. He doesn't even care anymore.
Snape strides toward him, sneering down at the scene before him. "Potter, you are making a scene over something utterly insignificant. Do stop sniveling like a child."
Something inside Harry shatters alongside his glasses.
"Shut up!" The words explode from his mouth before he can think. "Just shut up!"
Ignoring the gasps from his classmates, ignoring Ron calling his name, ignoring everything, he turns and bolts out of the room. His heart pounds against his ribs as he runs, his feet carrying him blindly through the corridors. He doesn't stop, not until he's in the girl's bathroom on the 2nd floor and hissing angrily at the snake on the sinkOpen and then plunging into the darkness of the Chamber of Secrets, the cool air wrapping around him like a suffocating yet soothing embrace.
He collapses onto the cold stone floor, pressing his forehead against it as his whole body shakes. Anger, frustration, guilt—it's all too much. His knuckles ache as he clenches his fists, and before he knows it, he's slamming them against the floor, against the walls, against anything to make the storm inside him go quiet.
His breath comes in sharp gasps, his mind spinning with hateful whispers.
Pathetic. Weak. You let him down.
How can he even be trusted with anything if he breaks something this small?
His vision blurs—not just from the missing glasses but from the hot sting of tears flooding his eyes. He chokes out a sob and grips his head, fingers digging into his scalp. He tries to push the thoughts away, but they claw at him mercilessly.
It was just a pair of glasses. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t feel like his entire world was cracking apart. But it does.
He punches the stone wall beside him, over and over, welcoming the pain, welcoming the distraction. His knuckles split, blood smearing against the cold, damp stone, but he barely notices. He can't even see it - its pitch black. His breathing is ragged, uneven. He feels like he’s unraveling, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop it.
Why did he care so much? Why did this stupid, meaningless thing make him feel like he was failing at everything?
Because it was his dad’s. Because it was the only thing of his dad’s that he had with him every day. Because if he couldn’t even protect something as simple as this, how could he be trusted with anything bigger?
The self-loathing crashes into him so violently he curls in on himself, wrapping his arms around his knees as he sobs. He feels like a child, broken and lost, but he can’t stop. He hates himself for it. He hates that he cares this much. He hates that he can’t control it. He just hates himself.
He starts tugging violently at his hair, trying to ground himself and failing, causing only physical pain to add on to the emotional and mental pain he's experiencing. The rage and sorrow and guilt and shame bubble up, deep in his chest and he screams.
He doesn't know how long he stays there, raging and crying and screaming at himself, but after what feels like an eternity, he hears footsteps outside the entrance, echoing faintly throughout the Chamber. He stiffens, holding his breath, waiting. Then—
"Ah, Harry. Are you in there?"
Dumbledore’s voice is calm, steady. He doesn’t sound concerned or angry. He just sounds… there, albeit a little echo-y.
Harry doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even lift his head. He doesn't even give an answer to the question. He doesn't think he can talk right now without breaking down into more screams and cries.
Dumbledore doesn’t push. Instead, he just starts talking. Not asking questions, not telling Harry what to do—just talking.
Harry listens, despite himself. He doesn’t know why, but the familiar, steady cadence of Dumbledore’s voice is grounding. Eventually, the headmaster pauses, then asks, "Are you hurt, my boy?"
Harry lets out a bitter laugh, but it sounds more like a broken sob. "I’m fine." He hopes the Headmaster can hear him, because he can't speak any louder or say anymore words, knowing that it's going to trigger something.
He hears Dumbledore hum, "Could you open the chamber for me? I do not possess your ability to speak to snakes." Dumbledore chuckles.
Not wanting to, but knowing it's not an actual choice, he just hisses at the entrance without lifting his head. once again hoping that it's enough.
Descending footsteps approach Harry and he only just tightens himself into a ball even further.
Dumbledore hums at Harry and he glances up to see Dumbledore observing his hands. "You said you were fine, Harry, but I believe your knuckles suggest otherwise."
Harry blinks, looking down. His hands are raw and bleeding, the skin split in places. He hadn’t even noticed.
Without a word, Dumbledore steps closer and kneels beside him. He waves his wand over Harry's split skin and it stitches itself back together, even feeling a few bones snap back into place. Then, he waves his wand again, and Harry watches as his glasses repair themselves with a simple flick, good as new.
Harry stares at them, his throat tightening all over again. Seriously? I reacted like that to something that was literally fixed in less than five seconds?
"There we are," Dumbledore says softly, handing them back to him. "Quite fixable, wouldn’t you say?"
Harry swallows hard, his fingers closing around the frames. "I—"
Dumbledore doesn’t let him finish. Instead, he does something unexpected.
He pulls Harry into a hug.
Harry hasn't had a hug like this, ever. It's always high fives or slaps to the shoulder that he flinches from, but it's never hugs. Never has he had any form of physical contact where he just feels safe and not much else. It's a nice experience. He wishes he got more of them.
For a moment, Harry stiffens, unsure of what to do. But then, slowly, he sags into it, his forehead pressing against Dumbledore’s shoulder. The dam breaks, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he allows himself to just feel.
Dumbledore pats his back gently. "You did not overreact, Harry. You were simply overwhelmed. It happens to the best of us."
Harry doesn’t have the energy to argue. He just nods, gripping his glasses tightly in his hand.
After a long moment, Dumbledore pulls away, smiling kindly. "Now, I believe you missed dinner. Shall we remedy that?"
Harry sniffles, pressing his eyes hard enough to see stars burst across his black vision as he wipes them. "Yeah. Okay."
Dumbledore walks with him to the kitchens, mindlessly talking and not expecting him to answer, which is nice for a change. Not being expected to do something.
They reach the secret entrance to the kitchens and Dumbledore smiles as he tickles the pear. Once on the other side, the house-elves fuss over him immediately, piling his plate high with warm food and sneaking him extra dessert "because he deserves it."
And for the first time that day, hell that month, Harry lets himself breathe.
In and out.
It's all he can do for right now.