I am currently re-writing chapters 1 & 2, as I, do not find them quite as good as they should be.
And, in an effort to tell you that something is, in fact, going on, no matter how slow: I present you with a preview of the revised chapter 1.
Changes stop at first break.
Tell me if its better, will you?
(BTW: If I manage to get off my butt, I hope to have at least this chapter completely re-written before this upcoming Monday)
---------------------------Broken - Book Zero: Chapter One: Oh, Bloody Hell-------------------------
Every day, every moment of your life, everything you have done and ever will do irreversibly changes the future.
On this particular, day, on this particular, other wise seemingly meaningless moment, were if not for events that took place five years ago, on an equally otherwise unimportant, and fleeting moment.
A single day in history, forever celebrated for one, passing moment that took but a mere second! Certainly, one would think, Columbus would be quite forgotten, despite the falsehood behind his day, at the doorstep of such absurdity.
Alas, it is for two quite important reasons that make this moment so important that a entire day would be wasted with whisky and celebration, and that none argued with such.
Foremost, this moment, forgiving its briskness, is that one moment itself. Changing common life is not such a small feat.
Alongside that, lay another shocking fact; These people, living in an underground society, unknown by normal folk, considered dear old Christopher as nothing but an attention seeking, slanderous, and, among many other names, a charlatan, and wasted none of their time on him.
Of course, in all irony, the people who considered the slightest possibility of such a world, or even of the very basis of this idea, were all quickly considered childish and immature, even, in some unfortunate cases, clinically insane.
Thus, those of the 'normal folk' who dreamt such bright dreams as these, were, and are either; Raw to this unsightly plane of reality, currently staring at bright, wight walls and laughing, or, preferably, imaginative thinkers beating the Queen of England, at the bank.
The latter, in my humble, unimportant opinion, is quite more sightly than the straight jacket.
Magic, honestly. Why do only the insane people get the reality of it all?
But where does this leave me? I like to presume you do not consider me mentally disturbed, yet, at the very least. So, either I have not yet grown up, or I stand in the twilight of reality. A median value. An outlier of reality standing among the wisps of imagination.
I'm still wondering where my money is, though.
-----------------------------------------XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-----------------------------------------
Little Whinging, Surrey, England.
Compared to the houses in the city, this small suburb was the very image of perfection. Every house was the same, with a beautiful front lawn, of course, flowers and plants preened and trimmed to perfection. Superficially, it looked like a perfect place to live in.
But there was one person who knew it really wasn't. It was way too perfect, statistically, er...T.V. drama speaking, there was just no way every house on this street was so wonderful. It just wasn't realistic.
-----------------------------------------Number 4, Privet Drive-----------------------------------------
"BOY!" A male voiced rang through the house. '
'What was my name again? No one ever says it. I remember hearing it once... I think it was...Gregory? No, I don't think so...thats one of Uncle Vernon's associates... Harold? No, thats not it.'
"Come clean up this blasted mess!" The voice continued.
'Well, I suppose Dudley has knocked his cereal bowl over again, it is about that time of the day.'
"BOY! I said NOW! Come clean up this blasted mess."
One Vernon Dursley demanded, again.
With a quick look around his cupboard, noting some new dust that he would have to dust that up later with that old dish cloth ` Aunt Petunia gave him - well, she actually threw it in the trash - he found it there, a few more pieces of drywall on his comforter (If you could call it that, it was more like gigantic old shirt, decorated with holes and stains, cut down the side to make it larger), a few more illegal immigrants (you know, spiders and such), the young boy, looking to be around the ages of 3 or 4, groggily got out of bed (once again, if you could call it that), rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and got up to go clean Dudley's cereal.
As he walked in the kitchen, he was greeted with a fist to the face, courtesy of his Uncle.
"When I say 'now', I mean 'NOW', boy"
He growled, his chins flapping up and down as he talked, and then waddled back to his chair at the semi-elegant dining table, at which were seated two other people. A young boy and an older woman.
If one were to see the boy's 'comforter', then they were to look at his Uncle, they would think two things. First, they would think:
'Yep. Shirt was definitely his' and then, they would think 'Wow - has he gained some...er..a ton of weight?.'
"S-sorry, U-Uncle Vernon"
The young boy, now sporting a bloody nose and a split lip, well, another busted lip - it was already busted in several places, apologized from his spot on the floor.
"Well? What are you waiting for? Go clean up that cereal. Then..do something about your face. Use the hose in the backyard to clean up. And be quick about it, don't want the neighbors seeing you."
The shrill voice of his Aunt Petunia spoke up now. Petunia Dursley, unlike her husband and son, who were round, had multiple chins, and about no neck at all (If they did, no one could see it under their chins), was a thin woman with a long neck. And she was a complete prude.
In this Dursley home, unlike Vernon's parents home, there was a distinct feature that separated the male and female sex; weight. If Dudley were the writer here, I am sure he would not have written this next sentence, maybe just let it be thought that the cupboard's occupant was a girl, or write a few sentences making fun of him. But, as he is not, let it be said that he is not included, as he is not considered part of the Dursley household by any of the Dursleys.
No one outside of the house even knew he existed, well, no one normal did. Well, actually, I lie - some of Vernon's relatives do - sisters, cousins, parents used to before his mum passed away and his dad moved away. No one on Petunia's side ever visited, but, then again, they were all dead.
"Good Riddance!" Vernon always said, liking to bring it up whenever his nephew was in the room.
But they (Vernon's relatives) believed all the lies told by the Dursley's-the boy was a demon incarnate, a hopeless nut-case, his parents died in a car crash...the idiotic lies were endless.
Oh, sometimes I do wish I wasn't just a bystander to this child's continued streak of misfortune of which he so fondly called his life. But, alas - I am just no one in this world. I operate on the other end, wherever it may be, just telling his tale, amongst many, many others.
Now, lets get back to this young child. He was currently cleaning up cereal, wearing a shirt several sizes too big for him, looking more like it was Dudley's, the same could be said of his trousers. If it weren't for the belt, well, rope-thingy, they would have slipped right off. He had an crazy mop of dark brown, almost black hair, covering his eyes, which looked like it was cut by a one year old with a pair of safety scissors. His face was covered with dirt and, of course, blood. In fact, he was covered from head to toe with muck. It wasn't something that pleased the eye, truth be told. He was so covered with it, that his skin took on a much darker appearance. He had particularly nasty scars and cuts on his knees and elbows. The boy also had quite a few on his palms-but, of course, good old Vernon, being the nice chap he is, tried to keep those down to a minimum. You see, even if he couldn't walk, Vernon figured he could still do stuff with his hands. Like pulling himself into the kitchen to clean up cute little Duddikins uh-oh.
He didn't have any shoes-just dirtied cloth covered his feet, well, part of his feet - it was pretty torn. On his face he wore a pair of glasses with tape holding them together in the middle.
'Austin...no...Arthur...no.'
He continued to think as he tried to scrub one nasty little fruit loop off the floor.
Apparently, it had taken him so long to get there that the cereal had had enough time to dry. And it took him a minute and a half to get there.
'No, no! Just come off you fruit loop! If I don't get you off, I won't get food for half a week 'cause Aunt Petunia will have to do it...Please come off, please come off, please, please, please...'
He started to mentally chant as he scrubbed. After about a minute, the mess, strangely, just disappeared into thin air with a loud 'pop'. The boy just looked at the spot where the mess used to be, astonished. Happy that it was gone, of course, but still astonished.
Of course, this caught the attention of the family sitting at the table. And of course, Vernon was the first to speak up.
"What did you just do, boy?"
"I-I don't k-know, Uncle V-Vernon"
The boy replied, very afraid at what this mans next course of a action might be.
"Where is the cereal then?"
The boy was now very afraid of his uncle - he was talking calmly. To him. Which could only mean a world of hurt was on its way to him.
"I-I d-don't k-know, sir. I w-was j-just wishing f-for this fruit loop to c-come of off t-the f-floor... t-then t-the whole m-mess j-just d-disappeared"
He tried to explain quickly, less his Uncle get and angrier. But alas, it was to no avail, as the beating commenced.
[Read the following at your own risk. Unless you like that kind of stuff. Which you better not]
"I will not tolerate," the pudgy man started, punching the boy into the the nearest wall, hard.
"Any," the boy was on the floor now, being kicked and kicked by the angry pig of a man. One could actually hear a loud, disturbing 'snap' as the arm nearest the offending leg was broken, bent at an odd angle. The boy was now desperately trying to apologize. For what? He didn't know. This happened before, and he knew better than to ask questions. Asking questions was the number one no-no in the Dursley household. Just apologize.
"I-I'm s-sorry!" He cried, but the man just continued, despite his repeated pleas for forgiveness.
"Of your," The boy continued to cry, and beg for forgiveness, but the fat man just kicked him hard in the jaw to shut him up. Now the boy just whimpered and continued to try to apologize, only to fail due the pain in his jaw and the blood he was coughing up.
"FREAKISHNESS!" The man finished, giving him the hardest kick he could muster in the his stomach, causing the boy to kneel over in pain. Attempting to move his arms to the offended area, as is reflex, only for one arm to make it there, while the motion caused the pain from his right arm to finally register in his head, and to spike to unbearable levels.
He was about to scream in agony, but managed to think better of it. If he screamed, the neighbors might hear, and then he would get into even more trouble. So he just substituted it with a barely audible whimper. All while trying to say 'I'm sorry'.
[OK. Its safe now.]
"Now, boy. Into the cupboard. 3 weeks, no food. Don't come out." Vernon growled out, before shoving the boy into the direction of said cupboard with his foot.
The boy just nodded, or, tried to-the pain stopped him. Then he attempted to stand, only to fall right back down in agony, well, more agony if that were possible, as he found that his left leg was also broken. It probably happened when that one kick forced his legs to try and twist around the corner of the entrance to the kitchen...
Throwing the possibility of walking for the next six weeks or so out the window, he started crawling back to the cupboard, in which he spent the majority of his time.
When he finally reached his small 'room', about twenty or thirty minutes later, he attempted the get onto the thing that was his mattress, by grabbing nearby objects-the rusty old pipe running up the wall that made his place smell like a wet dog for a while after anyone used the guest bathroom (That made 'Aunt' Marge's visits a ton of fun), the mattress itself, and even the huge, rusty nail sticking out of one of the support columns.
That almost worked, up to the point where his weight got to be too much for his single good arm, and he got a real nasty cut from the nail-but failed, and even ended up causing himself more pain due to falling down quite a few times, and of course the rusty nail. Finally just settling on staying in his current crumpled position, too tired and in too much pain to even move into a more comfortable position. Before he fell asleep, he heard yelling from Uncle Vernon. He only caught every other word;
"Ruddy owl...what?...I will not let that freak into my house!"
-----------------------------------------XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-----------------------------------------
About forty minutes after the young, scrawny boy had left, the Dursleys were cleaning up the dishes and such after their nice breakfast of eggs, bacon, pancakes, and in Dudley's case; cereal.
OK, thats a lie. A really big, fat lie..
In actuality, Petunia was cleaning up, Vernon and Dudley were in the living room, watching some gorey action film that was totally not suitable for Dudley.
Everything was dandy, Petunia was just going to join her husband and son when suddenly a black streak flew across the room.
Then everything collapsed into utter mayhem and confusion. Of course, Dudley and Petunia panicked, Dudley, hyped up from the movie, started screaming something about a terrorist attack, while Petunia just scrambled wildly looking for a phone so she could call the police. In the meantime, Vernon got a good look at the thing.
"Ruddy owl! Get out of my house!"
He yelled, causing both Petunia and Dudley to stop in their tracks, and look at the thing currently perched on on of the armchairs. It was a pitch black owl, whose big, yellow eyes was staring at Vernon, sticking out its leg, which, upon inspection, had, what appeared to be, a letter within talons. This obviously confused both father and son, I mean, since when do owls deliver letters? Only Petunia knew what it was, and she was currently rooted in the ground, staring at the owl with shock and fear.
"No.."
Petunia muttered, so quietly that the other two barely heard her.
"What?"
Vernon asked/demanded of his wife.
"I-ts f-from tha-that place!"
She screeched out. At this, Vernon's brow furred in concentration for a few split moments before his face lit up in shock.
"You don't mean...do you?"
Vernon asked, knowing his wife would know what he meant.
He got a nod in response. At this point, Dudley, who was about three hundred miles away in the day-dream land of burgers and various forms of 'yum-yum' food,
"What are you talking about, mum?"
His face the very picture of confusion. Petunia and Vernon glanced at each other warily, and exchanged a silent look, Petunia then cleared her throat and said, in a false tone,
"Never mind, Duddikins, go up to your room and play on your computer, OK?"
Of course, he wasn't convinced. He was their son, after all.
"But..."
The boy protested, but was shot down by his father.
"Dudley. Room. Now."
Dudley just nodded and waddled up to his room, planning to blow up some aliens. Just goes to show how ignorant he really was.
After a few minutes of silence, both of them finally got over their shock, and Petunia decided they should open the letter. Of course, Vernon protested, but at least there was one person in that house preferred to be rather safe than sorry. The envelope was addressed as Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, written, not printed, in a fine, curly script, and, to Petunia's chagrin, had that familiar wax seal on it that she had once seen on an envelope addressed to her sister many years ago. With a final 'gulp', she tore it open and began to read the letter out loud.
Dearest Mr. and Mrs. Dursley,
As explained in the letter I left with you when I left little Harry on your doorstep, I will be doing checkups on him according to the day I left him in your care , first when he turns five, than when he turns seven and a half, then nine, and finally, I will be sending Hagrid to come help him get all of his school supplies after his eleventh birthday before he leaves for Hogwarts.
I look forward to seeing you and young Harry again.
-Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
After a minute of letting this process, they realized that one of them was coming over to their house tonight. And this didn't go over well with them. At ALL.
"No! I refuse! I will not let that freak into my house! I won't allow it!" Vernon blasted, while Petunia was shaking her head with worry.
"Vernon," she said, stopping his ranting and getting his attention. "What are we going to do? He's coming over at 7pm. It's already midday. We've got seven hours to do whatever we need to do..."
Vernon just looked at her like she was mad.
"Isn't it obvious? We're not going to be home when he gets here! We're visiting my poor, ill father down in southern England, remember?" He told her, with an evil smile plastered on his face.
"Oh, yes, why of course, dear" Petunia muttered, catching on.
-----------------------------------------XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-----------------------------------------
Several hours later, a short and plump woman with shoulder length red hair was could hardly contain her excitement as she walke- er, speed-walked down Privet drive in Little Whinging, Surrey, England.
'Thank goodness for that emergency meeting of the ICOW! I wonder what happened this time...oh well! '
She thought as her grin got wider and wider with each passing minute. If it were daytime, I could only imagine the reactions of people in the street as she sped past them.
'Whats got that woman grinning like a maniac? And whats up with those weird clothes? Must have escaped from the loony ward.. '
They would think.,of course, the worst part of that would be, she would know precisely what they were thinking (Well, of course, she couldn't read minds, but she would have a pretty good idea what they were thinkin' , and she would just go on grinning like a 'maniac').
'Oooh! I getta see Lily's son! I wonder what he's like...I haven't seen him since half a year before Lily and James died...'
At that, her smile faltered, but she quickly strayed away from the thought. going back to her unusually giddy thoughts, of which sounded like what she would've thought like back in her school days.
'I hope his hair isn't so unruly like James'. I remember the day before he and Lily got married, I tried everything possible, and not, to get his hair to stay down, so his hair would at least look good for his wedding...I was ready to just burn it off and give him a wig to wear before the day was over!'
She chuckled at this, remembering the good times, well, times were still good, but the good time when everyone was still...alive-before the war took so many away. Forcing herself to stop reminiscing about old times after she almost ran head on into a mailbox, and pay attention to where she was going, she saw that she had passed her destination a a few minutes ago. Punishing herself mentally, she turned around.
A few minutes later, she had arrived at her destination, number four Privet Drive, and was about to knock, before she decided that their type used that strange button by their door that made a sound to alert them of someones presence, for being a muggle, one of their kind (not like her), invention, she found it quite ingenious...maybe she would ask her husband about it later...
Shaking her head from that thought, she went searching for said button. A second later, she found it, and went forward with pressing the noisemaker. Hearing the noise, a decently loud 'ding, dong', she straightened herself back up,with the intention of waiting for either Lily's sister or brother in-law to answer the door.
Just about then she was ready to smack herself for being stupid - what was with her today? First she nearly runs into a mail box, then she fails to notice a glaring yellow sign posted on the front door of the Dursley household! Granted, it was harder to see as the sun waned in the sky, but it still practically screamed 'look at me'! Man, how excited does one have to be to act this foolish? Normally, she was the smarter one out of her and Arthur, the sharper knife of the pair! But right now, Arthur would look like friggin Dumbledore in comparison to her! Well, thats an exaggeration, but you get the bright yellow paper sign told any neighbors , or whomever else may visit, that Vernon's father was terminally ill, and that the whole family had left to visit him in southern England.
Disappointed, VERY disappointed, she turned to leave, when she figured she'd go and check out his living conditions. Make sure they were treating her almost godson right! Vernon always had been a mean, fat pig. He and Petunia had always detested Lily. Actually, all magical folk for that matter. Of course, they would never admit it, but she knew it was because they were jealous of what Lily and every other witch and wizard had, and they didn't. The were terribly selfish when it came to what they wanted. She could only hope they hadn't taken out their hate on that poor kid. He was already an orphan, he didn't need them to hate him, on top of that.
So, taking a stick out of her trouser pocket, she - well, to the untrained eye, it looked like nothing more than a rather straight twig children might play with, but of course, to anyone in the same boat as her, it was much, much more than a mere piece of wood. She pointed it at the doorknob and muttered something that sounded like gibberish, and, if one listened closely enough, they would've heard a soft 'click' as the door was unlocked. Casually strolling into the house, she found it to be well-kept. From what she could see in the dark, everything looked practically spotless.
After finding everything to her taste on the ground floor, she headed to the stairs, which were located by the front gave another appraising glance at the spotless house, everything was in top ship-shape, the floor was gleaming, as was the kitchen, everything was clean and she could not find one spot of dust. Petunia must be a complete neat freak, she thought, smirking slightly to herself. Passing by the cupboard under the stairs, she stopped dead in her tracks as she heard something coming from withing the cupboard. A whimper.
Fearing the worst, she immediately tried to convince herself that it just mice, or the floors creaked or...She couldn't help herself, muttering a few incoherent words, the stick in her hand lit up. Hesitantly, she flashed the white-light-giving-off-weird-flashlight-stick towards the cupboard.
What she found shocked her more than she ever imagined was possible.
--------------------------------------Sorry, just felt this was needed--------------------------------------
Opening the cupboard, she spotted some sort sort liquid on the floor that looked eerily
like b- no, she would not think the mysterious fluid back to its source, she found something terrible. Never would she have thought that Petunia would treat her nephew in such a sick and cruel way. Vernon, she imagined wouldn't like him, of course, but this? She didn't think anyone was capable.
Her godson lay there, unmoving, in a pool of his own blood. His arm was bent at an unnatural angle, the opposite way it was supposed to bend. His body was covered in cuts and bruises, with one of the more nasty cuts on his left palm - or at least, it looked that way, judging by the amount of blood coming from that area. His brown hair was stiff with dried blood, and it drooped down his face, accenting the already horrific look. His left leg appeared to be broken too, but not as bad as his arm. But it still had to hurt like - well, go ahead and insert whatever word you want there.
Ignoring the overwhelming feeling of nausea, she tried to form a coherent thought - anything would go right about now.
'OK. Breath. In, and out.'
Finally getting her brain to work, and breathing under control she realized that she had to get him to a hospital, fast. He had lost much more blood than was considered healthy. Not that there really was a healthy amount to lose. Reaching out to him and putting her arm on his shoulder, she flinched as she felt the roughness of the skin uncovered by the..rag he was wearing, indicating what she could only pray weren't scars.. She closed her eyes tightly, fighting back the tears, and with a loud 'crack', they were gone.
--------------------------------Unknown location. St. Mungo's Hospital--------------------------------
Celeste Lucarelli was the St. Mungo's best emergency care healer (Muggles would call her a 'doctor'), and one of the local psychologists, and by far the best. This was most likely due to having to save over 24 people from critical injuries in less than twelve hours, and being the on-site interrogator for the group she fought with, she had to know how to weave her way into a man's mind and break it within the hour.
She was also one of those people who loved her job and hated it at the same time. Helping people was why she loved it. Seeing a guy who was on the verge of death just two months ago leave with a smile and a handshake made her day. But of course, whenever she lost someone....it brought back painful memories of the war, and of her brother...
People always wondered why she tried so hard. Why she spent her free time in the library, working on finding out what was wrong with the man in bed six and had a strange..burn, I guess, on his arm that was slowly killing him. Why do that, when she could be at home relaxing?
"I will settle for nothing less than a one hundred percent survival rating on my watch" She would tell whoever asked, with serious, yet mournful look in her eyes.
Yawning, she finished whatever she was writing and got ready to pack it up for the day, it was getting late, when a loud 'crack' from the check-in desk, maybe five feet from her, max, broke her from her thoughts.
Looking upon the site of the noise, she saw them. There was a short, plump red-head woman wearing some type of rainbow-shawl-thing, with a horrified expression on her face, and her arm holding - 'Dear god,' was the one thought that went through her mind as she gazed upon the battered and bruised body of a young boy.
"What the hell are you all standing there for?" the woman holding the boy yelled at the shocked onlookers.
"Get him some help!" she yelled, obviously trying not to break down into a crying fit.
By the time she said 'standing', Celeste was already into action, pouncing upon the boy and delivering what appeared to be...medical treatment, with a 'stick' not unlike the one the woman before her had.
Shouting commands left and right, she got the hospital out of its daze, and the correct healers to start preparing a room for the boy.
-----------------------------------A few minutes later, Harry's mind------------------------------------
'Mmm, this feels good,' the boy described the feeling he awoke to. Hearing the sound of voices and other noises, he tried, but failed to not open his eyes, curiosity getting the best of him, to find the source of this warmth and of the noise.
Of course, he regretted this action immediately, as it somehow brought back all the pain he knew he should have been feeling the second he awoke. Crying out in pain and clenching his eyes shut, he suddenly realized his motions were being constricted by what felt like...arms? Suddenly fully awake, he started pleading with the figure, whoever it was, for whatever it is he had done.
"I'm s-sorry! I d-didn't mean t-to, please!" He yelled, and in the shock proceeding, whoever was holding him failed to stop him from squirming out of the grip.
Glancing around the area from his spot on the floor, Harry just looked confused, he had never been in a place like this before - They were in a white hallway, with tiled flooring, a weird...sort of clean smell strong in the air. Looking up at the person who's grip he had just freed himself, he saw a thin woman with long, brown hair reaching to her mid-section. And with her eyes as wide as they were, he could see they were a bright, sky blue. She wore a white scrub with red bordering, and matching trousers.
Noticing movement from the corner of his eye, he turned his sight to the people beside her. There was another women, with her shorter, blond hair up in a ponytail, a clipboard and pen in hand and blue eyes like the brown-haired one, but not as bright.. Then there was a very noticeably tall man, towering over a foot above his female counterparts, with short, black hair that stuck up, and matching eyes.
Then, behind the first woman, there was a shorter, plumper red-head woman, wearing a horrified and worried expression, one that might be seen on a person who's son just died.
"I-I'm sorry!" the boy continued, using his good leg and arm to push himself away from the group. The serious expressions on the faces deepening into a frown at this, while the red-head woman just became even more frantic, looking like she wanted to reach out and help to boy, but afraid of scaring him.
The boy continued to apologize as he backed away. He suddenly stopped when the adrenaline faded away and his now re-opened wounds, well, what had healed over a little had been re-opened, caused him a massive amount of pain. But he didn't scream out, as any other child his age would've done, had they been in that much pain - instead, he just bit his lip and bore through it.
The adults just gazed upon the blood trail left smeared on the floor by the boy, the short woman more than the rest, with horrified expressions on their face. They also saw him just bite his lip and bear throughout, as if he had been in this much pain before.
'Bloody hell,' I would say they thought that in unison, but in reality, only the man did. the others used a much more...colorful vocabulary and much more worried tones. And I suppose by now, you know 'the red-head woman especially', so I won't say that again.
Now sobbing to himself, looking odd, as when a child usually did that, they were hugging their knees, but he just sat there, looking horrid, with an arm and leg bent the wrong way, his arms wrapped around his stomach, and his tears cutting through the blood and grime on his face.
"I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." He mumbled on, staring down at the floor with lifeless eyes.
Right about now, they didn't have a single idea of what to do. Not a clue.
Celeste had never encountered anything like this in all her years here. She doubted anyone here had. She could only chew on her brown hair nervously - a bad, well, not really bad, habit she had developed during the war.
The red-head woman could only stare worriedly and anxiously at the boy. She wanted to go up and hug him and tell him everything would be all right, but didn't, as that might scare the boy more than he already was The rest of them, much like the ones mentioned above, could only stare at him as he continued to apologize and wonder, what he was apologizing for? Minutes passed before anyone moved or said anything.
"A-aren't yo-u gonna hit me?" The boy asked looking up through a parting in the long and messy mop of hair covering his head. Eyes widening in the response of worried and shocked looks. Why weren't they angry?
Ah, but then he realized his 'mistake'.
"Gah!" He shouted suddenly, before anyone else could speak up, and backed away a bit more.
"I-I'm sorry! I didn't mean to ask a question, honest! Please, I'm sorry!" He begged franticly. Shaking his head over and over, with his eyes clenched shut, awaiting the pain he was sure would come.
Finally shaking out of it, the red-head woman said,"Why would we hit you, Harry?" she forced out a comforting smile, but you could still see the worry in her eyes. She had her arms behind her back, twiddling her fingers anxiously.
The boy looked around, as if wondering if he was 'Harry'. After a few seconds, he reached a conclusion; yes. He was this 'Harry'.
"Because I've been bad," he replied meekly, looking at her, surprised, with the eye that could see through a parting in his hair, whose bangs ran down almost to his mouth, and looked as if it hadn't been washed in weeks.
She frowned at this and spoke her mind, "What have you done so bad that you deserve to be hit?" Of course, she didn't voice the last part of what she had really questioned in her mind 'like this?'.
He looked up, surprised again. No one ever asked him asked him anything-well, Dudley asked him if he was stupid a lot. Usually, in places where they could have asked, the Dursley's ordered or demanded. Then he realized something - Uncle Vernon would get mad at him for them being so...decent to him, was the most he would say. The time the old lady down the street had been nice to him when he was four was the last time he had been let outside.
They must've noticed he was missing by now - it was at least nine, which was the time Dudley demanded popcorn for whatever terribly violent movie he was watching that night. And Uncle Vernon reinforced his sons wishes. Forcefully, of course. He was in so much trouble when, and if, he got back - he didn't know what these people were like, or if they would let him or rather, make him go back.
"W-well, I - " He paused, thinking, "I made Dudley's cereal mess disappear this morning. And Uncle Vernon doesn't like my f-freakishness. " He said, forcing the last word out - giving the impression that he didn't like it.
And their frowns deepened, if possible. The woman was about to speak up again, to question him again, when Harry coughed painfully into his hand with a disturbing noise and when he removed it she saw his lips shine with blood.
"Molly, not now," Celeste, the brunette woman, addressed the red-head. A serious look replacing the frown. "We have to administer medical treatment as soon as possible." She turned to Harry and spoke in a calmer, more gentle tone.
"Harry, we're going to help the bleeding and pain, ok?" She looked at him with sincerity in her eyes. Of course, this only served to confuse him even more.
What is that look in her eyes? he asked himself. He didn't even dare voice it, 'don't ask questions' was the number one rule at the Dursley's. But it only applied to him, of course.
They watched as he looked them over with one eye, Celeste especially, cautiously, as if expecting them to strike any second. This went on for several minutes, before he coughed again - harder this time.
'Well, at least if they beat me too, I might die...then maybe I won't be in so much pain anymore...'
He looked up at them again, noting their worried looks with confusion, and slowly made a motion, as if to stand, but stopped before the pain got to be too much. So, biting his lip in pain, he started using his good arm and leg to slowly crawl toward them, not seeing Molly look at Dr. Owens (The tall guy) pleadingly and him nodding gruffly in understanding.
Hearing that 'tap-tap' noise of someone walking toward him, Harry looked up, afraid at a big man with short hair in a white coat. Trying to back away, but failing miserably (You try to crawling backwards on a broken arm and leg). Watching with that one right eye that was able to peek through his hair, he watched as the man bent down and held out his arms.
"C'mon kid," He said, with a gruff sort of kindness in his voice, "Help me help you get on."
Harry just looked at him funny - this man was going to carry him, to wherever they were going? That could only mean more pain, he knew it. But he had told him to get on. He only got more pain when he didn't do what he was told...
Reaching the conclusion that he should climb on and at least try to avoid some extra pain, he crawled up to the man warily, they then tried to get the boy into a good position in the mans arms, lest they hurt him more. Finally getting him set up in the mans arm bridal style a few minutes later, with a little help help from Celeste and a fussy Molly.
Of course, the lack of anger so far confused the boy. It confused him a lot. He could only clench his eyes shut and wait for more pain to be added onto the pain he was already in as they carried him down this strange, white hallway.
Opening his eyes just enough to see a little slit of the outside world, he glanced into some of the rooms on the side of the hallway he could see, well, he didn't like what he saw.
The people in these rooms looked...bad. Many had cuts or burns...often strangely colored ones. A lot of them had a tube, or tubes sticking out of their arm. They were being held here, the boy thought. Those tubes held them in place, and those cuts and burns where from people like the guy who was holding him. He visibly tensed even more at that then he already was, something which worried the people around him. That was another thing - why would these people be worried about him? Uncle Vernon always said he wasn't worth anything. Not a thing, not even to worry over. That he was a bad person.
Was this a place for bad people? Were all the bad people kept here, away from the good people? That had to be it. And these people around him were acting, making him feel like he was safe, but once he was relaxed, they would strike. He was here because he was bad and deserved to be punished.
---------------------------------An hour later - Harry's Hospital room----------------------------------
Molly Weasley paced nervously outside of her almost-godson's hospital room. The healers were still trying to heal him. Not trying as in 'trying to save his life', but rather 'trying to let him know that he could trust them so they could heal him'. He was just crawling around the room frantically, and surprisingly fast for having to limbs out of commission, and screaming 'I'm sorry!' over and over. They tried asking him what he was sorry for, but he just replied 'For being a bad person', which only raised so many more oh so lovely questions.
They were going question him about how this happened, despite it being obvious, tomorrow morning - they couldn't possibly do it tonight, it was already nearing nine o' clock. The Dursleys were being tracked down. Believe it or not, Vernon's father was just fine, and they were nowhere in southern England.
Her pacing was interrupted with a loud 'crack', not as loud as the one she had made earlier, but very similar, as a man with man with short, slightly curly red hair appeared out of thin air in the direction the 'crack' was heard. He wore a dirtied gray suit with a read tie. Looking around the hallway, he spotted Molly,
"Molly, what happened? The message from the hospital only - oof!" He was interrupted part way through by Molly, as she now had him in a death-grip hug.
"Oh, Arthur! It's t-terrible! H-Harry's h-hurt! He's b-bleeding a-and his arm, and h-his leg... " She chose to sob into his chest rather than finish and shake her head, as if trying to get out of this terrible nightmare. Well, actually, remove the 'as if' right up there - she was trying to get out of the terrible, sick, nightmare.
Arthur's eyes widened at 'Harry's hurt'. Molly always spoke about him at home, wondering what he was like. Hell, she was almost always mad, whenever the boy was mentioned, that Dumbledore wouldn't let her go, per the Dursley's requests. She always shouted bloody murder whenever she got yet another very polite letter saying 'no'. And she wrote howlers to the man. A LOT of howlers.
He just stood there and held her as she cried, rubbing soothing circles in her back. The man tried to find words to comfort her - but nothing else but 'He'll be just fine, Molly, you'll see...' came to mind, so he just told her over and over as he tried to calm her.
They stood there, for, Arthur guessed, twenty, maybe thirty minutes, tops. Molly was just starting to calm down - her tears slowing down, gradually being replaced with hiccups, when they were interrupted by a woman with red hair and blue eyes, with her eyes shut in frustration. She quickly started talking.
"I'm sorry, Molly, but he is still refusing to let us help him. We've tried just about everything - but he still just crawls around the room, apologizing for being a 'bad person' until we tell him to stop. The blood is starting to make me sick." She finished, finally opening her eyes and looking up to find to very pale-faced people, one of whom she didn't recognize, but could guess who he was.
"Ah, you must be Arthur - Molly told me you were coming." She started, greeting him with a smile that immediately turned serious "Are you aware of everything that has happened, or do we need to fill in some blanks?"
He nodded his head. "Uhh, yeah. I only know thats Harry's been hurt. How bad is it? Is he going be OK?" He started to let his concern out, seeing as his wife was comforted.
Meanwhile, Celeste just rolled her eyes 'Let the interrogation begin'.
"Mr. Weasley, slow down - let me just say that he will be physically OK," She started her explanation, but paused a second before the interruption - she knew it was coming, as she delivered news like this more than she liked.
"Physically? Why did you just say Physically?" He and Molly and had sat themselves down on a pair of chairs near Harry's room door. Arthur had started chewing on his fingernails - an old habit that acted up whenever he was particularly nervous or scared. He thought he had rid himself of it back at school, but he had skyrocketed into a high level of both factors, so he didn't even bother questioning it.
Celeste sighed. She had become and emergency care doctor and a psychologist for the hospital not because she liked the fields, but because she was good and experienced at it, and she could the most she could for the hospital in said fields. When she wasn't busy with either one, she preferred checking out other, less critical patients - give herself a break.
"I was getting to that. He...Harry's not very healthy mentally right now. In fact, he is pretty damn broken." At that, he got a shocked look from Arthur, while Molly blew her nose with a tissue from the the box the doctor in front of her had given to her.
"I'm sorry, I would love to butter it up, and make it look better - but it really can't be. He has no confidence, he thinks, he is convinced he's a bad person, is afraid to ask a single question - when he let one out earlier, he freaked on us. Poor kid kept on apologizing over and over, and shut is eyes as if expecting pain. He thought we were going to hit him for asking a question. I can only pray to whatever cosmic force is out there that we've at least found most of his mental issues."
She stopped here and took a deep breath to stop herself from freaking out and bawling. That was another problem with this job - she cared too much. So many died here, she just felt so terrible when they did, even if she only talked to the guy, or girl once. She had to deal with her own emotions and try to help with those of others.
Looking back at the worried couple, she realized, seeing the redness of their eyes and the wetness on their cheeks, that she better hurry up and finish pulling over this band-aid, lest she make it any more slow and painful.
"And he is not doing well physically, either. He is...pretty banged up, so try and be prepared when you go in there. But at least that would be fairly easy to heal - if he would let us touch him" Molly had started crying again - having had enough time to replenish her army of tears. Arthur just looked astounded, two questions strong in his mind - was the boy really that bad, and who had done this to him?
"I've never dealt with something this...severe. Especially not on a child - and their so impressionable... I hate to say this, but I don't know if we can pull him out of this." She finished, shaking her head.