Never trust a survivor until you know exactly what they had done to survive.

The problem for Harry with this statement was uncomplicated. She didn't know how she survived or what had caused her to get into this predicament. So, therefore, she didn't know whether she could trust herself or not... Or if the people around her should either. However, she did know one thing. She needed to get out. Now.

The first thing she noticed as she came to was the sharp stab of a broken mattress spring into her left ribs, near the bottom, an annoyance more than actual pain. Funny, in comparision it was nothing but a twinge compared to the absolute, undiluted ache that wracked her body currently. The second was her own breaths, barbed and sporadic, like someone had bathed her lungs in mercury and it was slowly hardening, encasing, solidifying her lungs. The third was the most poignant. Her mind, thoughts, felt as if someone had shredded them into pretty little ribbons dusted with sparkly sequins that caught her attention, but didn't give her much more information than one thing. She knew nothing.

Groaning, another rattle leaving the sanctity of her tightening chest, Harry's head creaked to the side, neck straining, her eyes flickering open, burning at the bright light that singed her pupils like a hot iron to freshly sun-ripened skin. Everything around her felt broken, shattered, shards that apart made no sense or blinded her to the bigger picture. Including herself. Geez, she felt seconds away from turning to ash, microbes, atoms. A pile of dust to be blown away by a gust of strong wind. Forgotten. Gone. Right then and there, all she could do was feel.

"It's okay Miss, calm down. Everything is okay. Take some deep breathes. "

No. No, everything wasn't okay. She couldn't focus, thoughts skimming behind her eyes only to dance away from her straining grasp when she tried to hold onto them. A conveyer belt that was set on max, just giving her a distorted sense of what was passing through her mind but nothing solid, tangible to hold onto. She had no life-line.

Where was she? What was this place? Who was speaking to her? Finally, after copious amounts of blinking and mental toiling, the bleached room began to bloom with color in ink blobs, like those pictures psychiatrists would hold up and expect you not to say it looked like your mother getting an axe to the head, pigment becoming prominent the more she tried to fight through the fog that was enshrouding her mind. Shapes began to form, losing their ominous, formless masses into recognizable objects.

Tiled ceiling. Barren walls. White. Everything was so white and Harry hated it. Loathed it. She wanted to dip her hands into cool crimson paint and spread it all over, leaving behind fingerprints and smudged lines. Her own little cave paintings. A curtain, segregating her off from... From what, she didn't know but it made her feel claustrophobic, made the man taller, made her smaller. She didn't enjoy the feeling of being small... Weak. A man, bathed and drenched in a lab coat towered over her, smiling down, glasses askew. Disarmingly unassuming with his lanky frame and thin face that grinned down at her. Harry wasn't buying it. Like a snap-shot from a shaky camera, Harry saw him, imprinted on her eyelids, dripping in crimson paint too. That image... That she liked.

Her heart picked up the pace, her right hand, shaking tremendously, came up to rub at her forehead as tried to remember. Everything felt agonized, tortured, whittled down to her nerves that were exposed to a winter blast of frigid air. Red felt warm, safe, alive. White felt cold and sterile and this world she had awoken to was too clean for her liking. Where had all the red gone?

"Please Miss, keep still. You've been in a car collision. You need to take it easy."

He went to grab her arm, rough fingertips scraping her skin and the world snapped to like a taut elastic band. Focus. She needed to focus. Snatching her arm away, Harry's gaze locked onto the man's warm hazelnut eyes. Facade. His pupils were to alert, to thin and small to be welcoming. He was on his guard, wary, watchful. Why was he wary of her? Something was wrong. Something was so very, very wrong about him. Wrong with this room. Wrong with her being here... Wrong with her. She could feel it deep in her gut like hot stones. Nothing was right. Nothing was as it should be.

"Where... Where am I?"

Was that her voice? It sounded guttural, hazed, words choppy and keen. Had she always sounded like that? Or was it the pain decorating her like it couldn't with the white room? Harry tried to think, tried to piece her thoughts together with crude, flimsy stitches of logic and rationality but she couldn't. It wasn't right. She wasn't right. He wasn't right. Nothing was right and strangely... That felt good.

"You're in Gotham general hospital. Don't worry, you're in good hands."

No, she wasn't. That she did know somehow. He looked like a doctor, talked like a doctor but Harry knew, just knew, it was about as real as his friendly eyes. Harry sucked in a preening breath. She couldn't think, couldn't remember. The more she tried to chase the phantoms of memories tickling the edge of her conscious, the deeper they buried themselves. It was like a game of whack-a-mole. Her hammer was always a second too late to clonk the little fuckers right on the head. She couldn't remember how she got here. She didn't remember where she should be. She didn't know what or where Gotham was or what she was doing in it. She didn't remember her na-... she couldn't remember...

"Who... Who am I?"

Something sticky, hot and salty ran down her cheek, her voice becoming more fractured. Of course, somehow, someway, she knew the little things. She knew she had black hair. She knew she had green eyes. She knew she was short for her age. She knew she was seventeen. She knew she had a scar on her forehead, for some reason that was important, too important her mind screamed at her. She also knew there was something missing, something she normally had, something she needed and it was gone. Taken. She could almost feel the ghost of it in her hand. Long. Thin. Pointed... A knife? But her name? Where she came from? Her family? Her friends? Anything else? Nothing. Her mind was like swiss cheese. The little moles didn't bother to try and pop their beady heads up anymore and Harry was left to the abyss of her frantically whirling mind.

"Harry. Your name's Harry. Please, try not to worry. Temporary memory loss after this type of trauma is normal. You'll remember all soon enough. However, first, you have to rest and let me do my job."

Liar. He was lying. Harry was sure of it. She needed to... She didn't know what she needed to do. The list of possibilities was endless. However, laying in this hospital bed while she let this stranger 'do his job' was not one of them. Against the better judgment her body was demanding she give it, Harry tried to jerk herself into a sitting position, only for her left arm to tangle, shoulder bending awkwardly across her back, something digging into the soft tissue of her wrist.

Her gaze snapped to her arm, her hand, only to find it strapped to the flaking iron bed frame by metal handcuffs. Harry gave it an experimental tug, strangely more curious than truly alarmed, the sting pushing the fog invading her mind even further back, her face slowly turning to face the man above her who was flicking through a shiny hospital file. Wrong. It was all wrong.

"If I was in a car accident... Why am I cuffed to the bed?"

Harry asked, gentle tone concealing the firepit breathing to life in the hollow of her sternum, head cocking to the side like a puppy. Finally, he sighed before flipping the folder closed, the clack of metal against metal jarring Harry's sensitive ears. For a moment, just a slither of a second, Harry could have sworn she saw anger dance in the recess of his dark eyes before it was gone, replaced by a warm, friendly smile. Fake. Red. She wanted the red back and she wanted him coated in it. Was Harry even her real name? No. That was the only thing that had felt right since she had woken up.

"Just a precaution, I assure you. Now, let me do my job and it will all be over before you know it."

She couldn't see what he was doing as he turned his back on her, facing a shiny chrome gurney tray. Wrong move. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong! Frantically, Harry tried to pull her wrist free, but it did nothing, only cut into her skin, a trickle of blood running down her bare forearm, soaking into the cuff of her hospital scrub shirt. She wanted off this bed and away from whoever this man was. She wanted out of this room and building. She needed out.

"Here, this will help you sleep."

He turned around, a needle glinting in the fluorescent lighting, strange amber liquid swirling in the little glass tube. She couldn't sleep. Sleep left her open. Left her weak. Vulnerable. Her breathing became more ragged, hot, like smoke billowing from the inferno building inside of her, her tugging further distraught. She may not know where or who she was, but she knew... Knew, whatever came or would come, she couldn't let this man put her to sleep. She didn't think she would awaken again. She wasn't going to die surrounded by white. She refused.

"Stop! Get back! I'm warning you!"

He didn't listen, only smiled that damned smile, less fake this time, as if he was enjoying her struggling before him. Anger, rage, feverish and spicy on her tongue blazed through her as he strolled to her side, grappling her chained arm in a harsh grip, sharp needle point pressing into the crease of her elbow. No. She couldn't let him, she wouldn't go to sleep! Without thinking, not that she had done much but feel since she had awoken, Harry's hand slammed up, palm open, directed at the man and with a shout of a word she didn't understand, her tongue and teeth wrapping around the syllables like an old lover's caress, he flew from her crashing into the wall, taking the curtain, table and thankfully, needle with him.

"Bombarda!"

Was that... How did... Did she do that? Nevertheless, she had no time to ponder or question anything when the man staggered to his feet, snarl whistling through the air. Harry met his with her own salivating teeth and warning growl.

"We could have done this the easy way, Potter. No pain. No hurt. Just done. But, then again, you were never one for the safe route, were you?"

The man reached into the inner pocket of his lab coat, pulling out a... Stick. A stick?... A stick! That was what she was missing! Yet again, Harry had no time to really think much of anything, let alone this new discovery, as the man began to fling the stick back as if he was about to flamboyantly throw it at her with an extravagant series of wrist flicks... Or throw something at her. That incessant tickling prickled the base of her neck, contracting her muscle, taking over like instinct. Move. She needed to move!

Just as a flash of putrid red, rotten and moldy, tinged with brown crackles of lightning, Harry used everything she had to roll and fling herself to the right, cuff cutting deeper into her arm, more blood gushing down her arm. Fortunately, it worked. With a mighty clang and clash, the bed subsided, turning over, slamming to the floor on its side, taking Harry with it. The bite of tile slamming into her already aching hips and ribs knocked the breath clean out of her lungs and the bump to her head made her eyes dance for a moment. However, the bed had stopped that light that had come zooming towards her from actually hitting her, barricading her in, a safe harbor. She was still alive. That's what mattered.

"Stop fighting Potter! You and I both know you can't run from the ministry forever. Give it up and I'll make it quick."

What was this man? What was she? What the hell was this ministry? What the fuck was going on?! First she was Harry, now Potter? Nothing made a lick of sense. As his heavy footsteps rang out clear and loudly behind her, Harry found she didn't really care for the answers perhaps as much as she should have. This, whatever the reason or happenings behind it, broken down, was simple. Too simple. It was either him or her and frankly? She chose herself. Time to crack open the red paint.

Crouching up with a heave and a muted pained whine, back pressed against the bed, mattress thankfully stuck down to the bed frame, Harry waited for just the right moment to strike, when he was just close enough. When he was only a few steps away from spotting her over the bed, Harry's knees snapped up and by all that was worth anything in this nightmarish place she had blinked dreary into, she pushed.

The bed grated and squeaked obnoxiously loud against the tiled flooring as it skidded back, knocking into the man behind her. As he fell to the floor with a grunt, the bed turned once more, taking Harry with it as it flipped, all of them ending up as a tangle of metal bars, limbs and snarled teeth.

"Fuck! You won't get away! I knew you were lying when you said you didn't remember... Just another one of your little games, ay, Potter? It ends here!"

He threw a punch her way, just clipping her jaw, but the strength was strong enough to send her head whipping around. From the corner of her swimming vision, she saw his arm raise once more, stick in hand, and Harry sent a sharp kick to it, slamming her heel down and hearing the bone break under the pained yelp of the man. It did the job, his hand dropped the stick and running on instinct, Harry clambered on top of his prone form as much as her chained arm let her, using her free arm to pluck up the stick. Mind numb, thoughts fragmented and piercing, Harry could only think one thing. Survive.

It didn't take much to jam the point of the stick under his jaw, stabbing into the soft flesh. It didn't take much to stare into his wide, shocked eyes with her own hard, frigid gaze. It didn't take much to snarl her own retort.

"Avada Kedavra."

With a flash of bright green that blew her pupils wide, the man sagged to the floor completely, like a puppet with his strings cut off. Harry followed suit shortly, the pain finally ringing home as she rolled and sagged to the floor, stick still tightly clasped in hand, head lolling as her eyes shut, breath ragged and temperamental. Dead. He was dead... She had killed him... Shouldn't she feel bad about it?

But she didn't. She couldn't. It was him or her and in the end, she had come out on top. However, surely for killing someone, even in self-defense, she should feel at least a little something? Yet... She didn't. She felt nothing for him. Nothing at all. Exactly who the hell was she?

Clenching her teeth until her jaw cracked, Harry pushed up once more, her arm twisting uncomfortably. Right. She was still chained to the bed. Flicking her gaze to the stick, Harry frowned deeply as she lifted the tip to the metal, voice a hushed whisper.

"Alohomora."

The cuff popped free with a click. Well. Whatever she could do, whatever she was, it seemed she didn't need her memory to do it or be it. That was... Welcomed knowledge. Deep down, she had a feeling she was going to need all the help she could get. Pulling her wrist free, Harry gingerly rubbed at her wound. Deep, but not too deep to be threatening enough. Just painful. Oddly, Harry enjoyed it. She was... Alive. She didn't know why that felt so exhilarating but by god, it did.

Pulling her arm to her body, her biceps brushing her chest, something crinkled loudly at the action. Bewildered, she edgingly delved her hand down her top, into her bra, digging around until her fingers met not skin, but... Paper. Wearily, Harry pulled it out, eyeing it as she flipped it around her fingers. Another surprise? Just for her? They really shouldn't have...

It was thick, almost too thick to be paper, heavy too and folded. Casting one last glimpse at the fallen body beside her, a shell of skin draining to ashen gray, with nimble, shaky fingers, Harry unfolded the note she had found hidden on her person.

Mad scrawlings. Dates, numbers, names, places, words that made no sense were splattered around the papers outer rim, almost like a border to the blaring, giant in comparison, writing taking up center stage. Harry swallowed deeply. She didn't know who that man was. She didn't even know if Gotham was the name of the hospital or the place she was in, damn it, she couldn't tell you if she even had a mother or father or siblings out there, but that writing? That she knew... It was hers.

It was her writing staring back at her, shouting, screaming... Warning in bold, shaky, splodged black letters that were hardly intelligible. And what had she told herself? Not her name. Not where she should go. Not where she should be. Oh no, that was obviously too simple. Instead, the result was a sickness and a dizzying moment of panic.

'They aren't far behind him. Get out now.'

The paper crackled as she scrunched it into a tight fist, gaze being drawn to the body beside her. With a twitch of her jaw, a flare of nostril and a keen, sharp slant to her eyes, Harry crammed the piece of paper back into her bra. No doubt she would need the numbers and words around the edge at some point, but first, she needed to leave and leave now.

And to do that, she needed the man's lab coat, a spot of luck... And shoes.

What do you think? To be continued or quit while I'm ahead? If you have the time, drop me a P.M or Review letting me now!

Until next time, stay beautiful!~AlwaysEatTheRude21