𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐚¹- hp.

𝐱𝐱𝐱𝐢𝐱. swallows of blood and bullets.

꧁—— ❦ ——꧂

His lungs are on fire. There are flames tearing through his chest and ash rising in his throat, and all he can taste is blood. His lungs are on fire and his arms weigh heavy from the egg, but he will not — he refuses to let anyone get there before him. It's his own fault, really, for leaving it unattended for so long. For putting even a trace of trust into the school and believing he could leave it and lessen the risk of ruining it by carrying it around with him at all times. But to put it underwater... it's something he can't bring himself to think about. There's a painful tug in his chest, beneath the scorch of flames, when he does.

He thinks ( more so knows ) that he would need to be good and dead, a pile of bone dust and rotted flesh, before he allows the staff to have such a private look into his life. A layer of himself not quite bubbling the surface of his skin and a longing that seems to be consistently lodged in his throat. It's like a distant cry smothered by the hand of some God. It sits, right there, behind his teeth and bounces in his mouth like small bullet pellets until it draws blood and just when he thinks he'll open his mouth and release it from its captivity a hand is shoved over his teeth. It reeks of despair and decay and then someone gently whispers that it will all be okay, everything will all be okay. He doesn't know what it is, or what everything means but it unsettles him, and so he allows the hand to close his mouth and lets the pellets continue to bounce around. A layer of himself, and yet the layer furthest from him at all. So, he allows the flames in his lungs to burn and prays he gets to it before the staff does. He would rather drown than have them see the flowers she's strategically placed, or the words she's written in the margins, or the overall reminder of her that is his and his alone. He'll die before he allows anyone to place his book underneath the water, or anywhere that isn't where he's left it.

In the dark of the corridor he soundlessly moves his lips in a prayer. He's praying he won't run into the staff or Filch, because he'd have no explanation for his whereabouts. Only half of his body is covered by the cloak and water soaks the floor beneath him with every step. It makes the running that much more difficult, slipping and sliding against the polished floors, skidding when he rounds corners with one arm flailing wildly to balance himself. He well and thoroughly looks like a mess, and he could not care less. And then, halfway down the staircase, not thinking about what he was doing, not concentrating on anything but making it back to his dorm before anyone else did, Harry's leg suddenly sank right through the trick step Neville always forgot to jump. He gave a low cry, an ungainly wobble, and the golden egg, still soaked, slipped from under his arm. He lurched forward to try and catch it but it was too late.

The egg fell down the long staircase with a bang as loud as a bass drum on every step — the Invisibility Cloak slipped further — he snatched at it, and the Marauder's Map fluttered out of his hand and slid down six stairs, where, sunk in the step to above his knee, he couldn't reach it. The golden egg fell through the tapestry at the bottom of the staircase, burst open, and began wailing loudly in the corridor below. Harry pulled out his wand and struggled to touch the Marauder's Map, to wipe it blank, but it was too far away to reach. Pulling the cloak back over himself Harry straightened up, listening hard with his eyes screwed up with fear, and, almost immediately —