Subjectivity
Chapter 1
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Disclaimer: I am not JKR, a medical doctor or a neuro-scientist.
–
He gritted his teeth, surveying Magnolia Crescent under the day's last light. The air smelled wild somehow, as if his accidental magic had brought some measure of forest into the suburban neighborhood.
But, maybe he was just smelling his own sweat.
He was expelled. Must be expelled. The letter just hadn't arrived yet.
And nowhere to go. There was no way he was going to return to number 4. Not with the color of his uncle's face, as he dragged his trunk out the door. Not when he couldn't - didn't even know how to - return Marge back to normal. So, where to go?
He'd have written to Ron, or Hermione, or even Prof. McGonagall, but he had sent Hedwig with Errol to the Weasley's even before Marge had arrived.
Just one foot after the other. He'd end up somewhere. He'd think of something.
After what he'd already done, there was no point dragging a heavy trunk around. What use were his school books to him now? He was expelled. They'd snap his wand.
But, he couldn't bear to abandon them. Maybe he could teach himself. He would have laughed, if he hadn't felt his throat swelling. Shouldn't he be honest, at least to himself? He'd never even really read along with the lectures without Hermione forcing his nose down. How could he possibly teach himself?
Yet he wouldn't discard his trunk. Maybe it would still work out. What to do with the trunk then?
If he was expelled – and he couldn't imagine otherwise, after Dobby's pudding mess the year prior – he might as well try another spell. A featherweight charm later, and he could pull the trunk easily.
He might even be able to fly to Gringotts. But, he would have to pass through the Leaky Cauldron – where they would all recognize him. And if anyone were looking for him, (They'd snap his wand! He was expelled!) he'd be walking straight into their arms.
No, he'd stay in the muggle world. At least until he thought of a way to get through the Leaky Cauldron unnoticed. Now he just needed a place to go. Somewhere to spend the night.
He scuffed his foot along the ground. He heard a small clink, and bent to pick up the 50p piece. What he really needed was 10-20 pounds. Enough for a hotel, whatever that cost. But he slipped the coin into his pocket anyway.
His stomach rumbled, even after he'd been allowed to eat at the table. No, he wouldn't go back to Pivot Drive. Wasn't it better to starve on his own, than to starve while being belittled by his own family?
His mind turned to dinner in the Great Hall. A long table heavy with food. The soreness in the back of his throat got heavier. He blew his nose on his hand, and wiped it on his trousers. It wasn't like anyone was watching.
Harry turned the corner. The steps leading up to the Little Whinging library were turning pink under the sunset. And, wonder! The lights were still on inside!
He hurried up the steps and tried the door. It opened easily. He pulled the trunk into the stacks. Making sure that no-one was looking, he shoved the desk into the shadow under a library carrel, and pulled the chair back to protect the trunk. Wood grains and shadows blended. No-one would see the trunk, if they didn't sit down in the desk.
He wiped his hands on his trousers, and left the geology section. The next stack over was physics – and it had another carrel. He sank down against the wooden back, and put his head in his hands.
Someone had thoughtlessly left a newspaper on the desk.
"An airplane bound for Paris from London was hit by lightning shortly after takeoff and returned to Heathrow. A British Airways spokesman Christopher Oswald said the plane was hit soon after it took off around 6:30 p.m. Thursday. He said there was a brief, minor issue with one of the two engines, and the captain decided to return to the gate as a precaution.
"Oswald said a new plane was brought in, and the flight continued as planned.
"Oswald further said it's not unusual for planes to be struck by lightning and that their metal skin acts as faraday cage to protect the passengers and electronics."[1]
He pressed his palm against the paper. Somehow, it was reassuring to know that life was going on outside of his trouble.
Further down the page was an advertisement.
"Seeking paid volunteers for a scientific study. Contact Dr. Bormost at (0)20 7589 5112."
Paid? Well, maybe he would call. He pulled the page from the newspaper, and went hunting for a payphone.
He found one on the wall between foreign literature and the washroom. He warmed the 50p piece in his hand for a moment, before dropping it in the payphone's slot. A few rings later, and a friendly voice sounded:
"AIBL PhD office. Jill speaking."
"Hi, Jill. I, uhh, found an advert in the paper -"
"- for Dr. Bormost's AI research study. Yes, of course. Can I have your name, please?"
"I'm Harry. Uhh. Harry Oswald."
"Right, Mr. Oswald -"
"call me Harry, please."
"Of course. So, Harry. We're the Artificial Intelligence Bioengineering Laboratory. We're doing a study on AI-brain interaction, and we're looking for volunteers. I can give you some brief details, if you're interested?"
"Ok."
"So, the compensation is 15000 pounds. The study would require you to be in observation for 3 weeks. You need to be over 18, with no-preexisting health conditions including blood-clotting or bleeding problems, depression, or immune disorder. If you're still interested, you should come to Imperial College tomorrow between 10am and 4pm."
"Where to?"
"It's past Kensington South Station. Walk up Exhibition, then right on Princes Garden. The bioengineering faculty is in the Global Health Building. Number 15."
"Thanks. I'll think about it. Uhhh, until tomorrow, then, maybe."
"Have a nice evening, then, Harry."
"You too. Bye."
He could probably take the commuter rail, if he hid under his invisibility cloak. An early trail wouldn't be very crowded on a Saturday.
He couldn't believe he was thinking of doing this – after all, it was research. There were probably tons of side-effects that nobody'd found yet. What if he was disabled? What if it put him in a coma? Jill hadn't even said what they planned exactly to do. Yet, going to Imperial College wasn't a commitment. He could walk away if it sounded too risky.
But, where would he go? He was expelled. They would snap his wand as soon as they could find him. If he wasn't going to do this, he needed a place to live, to hide out. He needed food – his stomach grumbled again - and a shower, and a place to sleep without being caught. So, he needed muggle money.
Fifteen thousand pounds. That would be enough for him to rent a place on his own. Assuming he found anyone willing to let to a kid. And he didn't have any health conditions – unless you included being the Boy-Who-Lived. So, the sticking point – he would need to appear over 18.
Well, he'd done magic twice tonight – three times if you included the cupboard door. If he was expelled – and he was certainly, the owl probably just couldn't get into the library – then there was no harm in a little more. But, it would have to wait until the library was quiet.
He walked back to his carrel in the physics section, picking up a colorful textbook that was probably right for his age. The book was full of little cartoons with bowling balls, rockets, and monkeys falling out of trees.
In short time, a voice announced that the library would be closing in fifteen minutes. He hid the book on the shelf next to the desk, and walked calmly, slowly, hopefully-unremarkably to the lavatory.
He went to the bathroom, and washed his hands. When he was absolutely sure that no-one else was in the restroom with him, he went into a stall, pulled the door closed without locking it, and climbed onto the toilet seat. There he waited until the door opened and a hand reached in to turn off the light. He waited again. Ten more minutes just to be sure that he was safe, then he climbed off the toilet seat. He opened the lavatory door just a crack, and saw that the lights were out in the main library.
"Lumos" he breathed.
His walk to the physics carrel was slow, and painful. He steered himself along by holding the nearest shelves. His footsteps were awkward – not just because of the strange shadows cast by the lighting spell in the bookcases, but because his feet must have fallen asleep while he was fixed above the toilet.
He arrived at the desk where he had hidden his trunk. Inside he grabbed his charms textbook. Under the index entry for appearance spells were glamours.
"Glamour - Incantation: Gl aa m oo r ay'. Allows variable – as desired – changes to appearance of specified surface (wave-poke initiation) from original. Duration: unspecified/until reversal (see Finite Incantatem)"
That, then, was his first task.
Harry brought his charms textbook to the bathroom, following the same shadowed path as he had just taken. Then, standing before the mirror he incanted "Glamore" with a wave at himself. The wave was a bit awkward – he almost hit his elbow on the counter. But, a hazy field appeared before his face and the left side of his neck. He poked at his chin – and the hazy field gained a bit of a browning tint. He poked again – now the brown spot extended to his ear on the right, and into his nose on the left. He groaned, and rubbed his cheek. Soft, hairless, and spotted. Glamours wouldn't work to hide himself. "Finite Incantatem." But, maybe he could use them to forge himself an identity card.
Maybe a potion? But, how was he going to build a fire in a library? With smoke detectors? He went back for his potions textbook, and yes – again the appendix - "Aging Potions." And, again some luck – a footnote under the comment "brew above a small flame" says that this should be the lowest flame setting on a fire, or a candle flame. That might be possible. It even looked like he still had enough stinging nettle, oatstraw, red clover, rotten apricot and comfrey leaf for one trial. He'd just have to be careful.
He lit a candle, and stuck it to the bottom of the sink. The cauldron, he perched precariously on the edges of the sink basin. Then, he muddled the herbs in an 8:1 mixture of squid ink and cinammon extract for exactly 20 seconds. Half of this, he poured into the heated cauldron. It was stirred six times clockwise. Then he spat into the purple mixture, and lifted the cauldron quickly off the sink. Slowly, the potion turned fuchsia as it cooled. Success! Relieved, he decanted the completed aging potion into a vial.
He scrubbed the cauldron clean in the second sink, before placing it back above the candle. When it was heated, he added in the remaining herb mixture, spat, stirred six times counter-clockwise, and lifted the cauldron off the sink. The counter to the aging potion was less of a success than the aging potion itself. It was more turquoise than robins-egg. But, he still counted it as more success than not.
He poured the counter into a second own vial, then cleaned up the mess as best as paper towels and hand soup allowed.
The potions text suggested that every drop of the aging potion would age the brewer by three months. So, five years – or maybe six for security - at four drops per year: twenty-four drops. He pulled out his droplet straw, and counted as he dripped aging potion into his mouth. Suddenly, he felt a fierce pain in his knees, hips, and back. The pain spread along his bones, before vanishing entirely.
The counter seemed low. Or his head was high. And, the mirror showed a man – young still, but definitely no longer a boy. He pressed his fingertips against his adam's apple. "Woah" and the voice came out strange – lower, and rumbly in a curious way. His clothes – Dudley's clothes – were still loose around the stomach, but they were almost too short. His socks were visible above the bottom of his hems. He wasn't presentable – it was probably going to be obvious tomorrow that he didn't have a secondary school education or a job. But he did look 18.
He scribbled a note into his potions text next to the aging potion index entry: "24." It might be bad if he couldn't remember how many drops he would need to counter and mis-dosed himself.
He brought his things back to his trunk, and put them away – folding the two potions into his school robes. After a short dinner of leftover Weasley cake, he curled himself up and fell asleep.
He awoke with a start. Remnants of his dreams – Quirrel's burning eyes and Tom Riddle's sneer – were tossing around in his stomach. He sat up, and hit his head on the library carrel. His hands (his big hands!) pushed himself up off the ground. The desk's chair looked finally to be the right size. He sat down in the chair, and laughed when his feet fully rested on the ground.
The pink of sunrise spilled through the windows over the stacks. He wasn't sure when the library opened, but it was probably soon.
Harry pulled another shirt, his invisibility cloak, and his toothbrush out of his trunk. The slept-in shirt was put away, and the crisp new one pulled over his head. Ah, but it was cold. His Weasley sweater was tight, but the wool felt nice against his skin. He tugged at the collar a bit to ease the choking sensation. Then, he packed up his trunk, and pushed it back into its hiding spot under the desk.
He walked slowly to the lavatory. His feet wanted to trip him, and his leg muscles felt heavy from the extra weight. He stared at his reflection, as he waited for steam to rise from the trap. Stubble was growing from his chin. It looked much better – much more real – than his glamor attempt. It even itched a bit, and it scratched his fingers when he rubbed at his chin.
Somehow, his face seemed more narrow, with sharper corners, and his eyes seemed bigger. He was glad the potion hadn't changed the prescription of his specs. How would he have fixed them? It was rash, really, to have taken the potion without considering what all would change. But, it seemed to have worked.
He stared until the mirror fogged, then washed his face and brushed his teeth.
The invisibility cloak covered him without any spare fabric. There was no way that he, Ron and Hermione would fit under it in their seventh year – even if Harry ever became a seventh year. The cloak wouldn't cover his trunk.
He took out his wand. A shrinking charm, and the trunk fit easily into his trouser pocket.
He unlocked the door, and slipped out of the library. It was chilly outside for an August morning, but the sky was clear and the sun was warm on his face.
He walked briskly along the sidewalk towards the train station, worried about joggers and newspaper deliverers. He crossed the street to avoid a postman, but was otherwise undisturbed. He waited half an hour, then hopped on a commuter train to London. And, though he sweated, the conductor passed right by him without noticing.
The thirty minute train to Waterloo was pleasant enough. He watched the morning warm up, and wished he could have bought a tea from the kiosk. A man seated ahead of him was dressed in a rumpled suit. Maybe the passenger was going home from his lover's place?
Off the train at Waterloo, and onto the metro at Wimbledon. The turnstiles didn't register him as he hopped over the barrier. And, wasn't it an easy hop with his longer legs? The underground wasn't as deserted as the commuter rail had been, so Harry remained standing and avoided all of the passengers. He arrived in South Kensington a bit before 8:30.
From the metro station, he scouted out the Imperial College bioengineering building. It was an impressive white stone building. Lots of arched windows, and decorative railings. Two of the upper windows had lights on. He wasn't sure who was working behind those windows. But, presumably, Jill at least would be here working today.
He walked a bit further away from the metro stop, to Kensington Gardens. He found himself a tower-like memorial, where he could hide from from eyes. Crouching, he removed the invisibility cloak, and shoved it into his pocket.
Harry wandered the garden until shortly before 10 – according to his wristwatch. Then, he returned to the large white building. He couldn't help but prefer Hogwarts. Even ignoring the size, Hogwarts had character – built from time and love, and this building seemed somehow impersonal.
He opened the door into an empty lobby. On a board to the right of the stairs, the directory pointed him to the first floor for the Artificial Intelligence Bioengineering Laboratory. He climbed the stairs, and turned to the right. The hallway was plain, but brightly lit. Personality came from small comic-strips taped to the doors, and glossy posters along the wall between the doors. The posters seemed to be summaries of recent discoveries, with many formulas and graphs.
Looking down the long hallway, he realized that he didn't have a room number. He was about to start knocking on all of the doors whose name tags showed the first initial of "J," when he came to a room with an open door.
Inside were two desks in the center of the room, pushed against each other. The far wall held a window, on whose sill were little office plants. There were bookshelfs on both of the walls between the door and the window. Both were cluttered. The desks each had a computer, and what looked to be an unmanageable mess of papers, dirty teacups, open books, and scattered miscellanea. Sitting at the right desk was a tall, thin redhead.
Harry knocked gently on the doorframe. "Hello?"
The woman jumped. "Hi! You must be Harry! I'm Jill. Come on in..." She stood, and dragged the left desk's chair around to her side of the room. Then, she reached out to shake Harry's hand.
Somehow, this one gesture felt alien to him. He realized that he didn't know if he had ever seen an adult witch shake anyone's hand. And he couldn't imagine any of his year-mates – besides, say Malfoy – shaking hands. But, the gesture suited Jill. He felt young, like an impostor dressed up in an adult's clothes. Which in a skin-deep sense, he was.
She offered him the second chair, and he realized that he was still standing in the doorway.
"Can I bring you some tea?"
"No, thanks. I'm good right now."
"Alright. So, straight to work, then?"
She laughed. If a woman's laughter was like bells – like he'd once heard someone say – then this laugh was like the deep, rich ringing of a large cathedral bell. Somehow, Harry got the feeling that Jill liked to laugh, and that she did it whenever someone gave her the slightest reason to.
He smiled back at her. "Sure."
"Well, we're studying AI-brain interaction. We're implanting small AI chips into our volunteers' brains, and watching how brain patterns and body behavior adapt to the AI's influence. For our previous subjects about 80 percent of this adaptation occurs within the first three weeks after surgery, which is why we'd be keeping you for observation here for the three weeks after the chip's been implanted. We'd also like it if you came in for a meeting every week for about a year after the observation period. There are a number of possible long-term side-effects – there's a thorough list on the consent form – but the important ones include permanently faster mental processing speed and decreased physical reaction time. There are some short-term side-effects during adaptation, like dis-coordination (which, in the interest of disclosure, many of our subjects say is very frustrating), increased adrenal response (and all of the symptoms usually associated, like increased anxiety and susceptibility to stimulants, immune system depression – which is why its incredibly important that you not have any current medical problems: immune problems, depression, so-on)… and well, all the normal reactions to brain surgery like headache."
"Huh. So, you'd be putting an electric chip into my brain? Isn't that a bit dangerous? How do you know it won't electrocute me?"
"Right, we're not putting in a battery or any other power source. The chip is powered by the same sort of chemical potential difference that normally drives your neurons. It's extremely unlikely that it could electrocute you – our simulations show a probability of about one in three trillion."
"It's just that I was reading a newspaper article yesterday about a guy who ran into an electric fence, and I want to be sure that even if I do something like -"
" - That you don't get electrocuted or damaged. Yes, that would be bad. But, we've designed the AI so that electrically, it's isolated from the rest of the body. First, the contact with the body occurs through chemical potential differences – no wires or conductors, so if something does happen to the AI, it shouldn't pass back into the brain, and if you're exposed to outside current, it shouldn't pass back into the AI. And second, we've surrounded the AI with a Faraday cage – you know what that is?"
"something that protects electronics?"
"Yeah, a good summary. So, it's unlikely that anything you'll be doing physically will have an effect on the AI. In theory, it should protect the AI (and your brain, by contact) from magnetic field changes, say airport security, or even an EMP in extreme case..."
"Sorry, what's an EMP?"
"Electromagnetic Pulse? It's kindof a sci-fi staple, It's associated with atomic weapons explosion, but its a pulse that makes electronics behave unpredictably, or stop functioning, by overwhelming the circuitry with induced current."
He knew he'd forgotten something. That sounded like the effects on the muggle radio that Dean Thomas had brought with him his first year.
"So: if something does go wrong with the chip, it won't do any damage to my brain? It'll be like I never got the chip implanted?"
"Well, yes. Except that you would still have the effects of the brain surgery. And, you'd keep the money. But, we'd still like you to come by and discuss what happened with us."
"Say, hypothetically I knew whether I wanted to do this. When would I have to come back to start?"
"Well, if were sure that it was a go, we could start today. We'd need to start with some tests – find a baseline, you know – but we could probably have you in surgery by tonight, if you wanted. Or you can wait. It's completely up to you."
So, a yes meant that he would be clumsy, anxious, headachy, and more likely to get sick, but smarter and faster – and 15000 pounds richer. A no meant no risk.
"You said that 80 percent of the short-term side-effects would be gone in three weeks. How long until the clumsiness, nervousness, immune system problems, and uhhh, the rest of the short-term problems go away completely?"
"Our data so far suggests that it'll be about a year, which is consistent with what our animal tests and simulations suggest."
So, a year of problems to be faster and smarter. His dream about Quirrel and Tom Riddle came back to him. Was it chance, or something repeatable, that made Voldemort attack him twice? It seemed like the trade was definitely worth it, if he'd have to face Voldemort again. And, if not, would still probably be worth it.
Especially if he was expelled. He needed something to live on. And maybe being smarter would keep him away from the Ministry. Being clumsy and sick might make it easier for them to find him – but being broke would force him to go to Gringotts. That would be the end. Maybe if he were smarter, he could even teach himself a bit.
So, he knew his choice, then.
"I'll do it."
"Alright. Read over this release form, and sign it if you're still set."
He picked up the paper she handed to him. It was a long document that seemed to say that he was aware of the risks, and wouldn't hold the university, the department, the researchers, or the surgeon and technicians responsible unless there was gross incompetence. Most of it was a longer, more technical description of Jill's previous description. He didn't change his decision while reading it, so he scrawled his signature – remembering to use the last name Oswald at the last moment – at the bottom of the last page.
"Should we start now, then?"
Jill smiled. "All right. Let me tell another grad student to mind the phone, and warn the doctor that we'll need him later, then we can start." She picked up the phone on her desk. "Hi Mike. It's Jill... Yeah, can you come in, and pick up?… I'll put you in my acknowledgements... And I'll buy you dinner on Tuesday?... Yes, thanks. See you." She hung up. Dialing again: "Hi Dr. Strom, this is Jill Boerens from AIBL... I've got a volunteer here, who was hoping for the surgery this afternoon. Is that possible?... Great! We'll be by around noon... Thanks and soon."
"Ok. So, we need to get a quick baseline on your mental and physical reaction speeds. So, we're going to start with a small random arithmetic test. Thirty-five basic questions, you'll be timed. Sound good?"
"Sure, I guess."
"Then, here you go." She pulled a piece of paper, a stopwatch, and a pen out of one of her desk's drawers. "Clock set, and start."
The questions were additions, subtractions, multiplications, and divisions of large numbers. He knew he was pretty slow, but he hadn't done much maths for two years. When he was done, he passed Jill back the form. Jill got up, and pulled her office chair into the corner of the office. Then she set up a long-telescoping tripod with a funny little arm in the opposite corner.
"Thank you. Now, I want you to stand on that chair, and the TEAK is going to throw beanbags at you. Catch as many of them as you can without falling off the chair. Ready? Ok, go!"
The tripod's arm rolled back, and a bean-bag flew towards Harry. He had to lean a bit to catch the bag, but he supposed this task wasn't so difficult. Then, the box on top of the tripod rotated, and the arm threw a bag far to his right. He had to reach. If it hadn't been for his quick eyes and his longer arms, he would certainly have fallen off the chair. The tripod box and arm rotated again, and he missed the next bag. There must have been at least 30 bags thrown, and he caught many, but certainly not all of them.
Jill had been tallying the number of his catches on a corner of his maths test. "Next we need to do some preparatory medical exams before your surgery. Shall we head over to the hospital?"
They walked to the Gloucester Road metro stop, then took the Piccadilly Line to Barons Court. Charing Cross Hospital was a pleasant 10 minute walk from the metro.
In the hospital, they were met by Nurse Sanders. Sanders was a broad, blond man, who looked like he would probably be good at rugby. He seemed to get on well with Jill. At least, she laughed frequently at his jokes.
Sanders gave Harry a hospital gown, and told him he should only wear his pants underneath. Then, he took his pulse and blood pressure, hit Harry's knees with a reflex hammer, and asked Harry to do a number strange things which included listening for a tuning fork with both ears, reading an eye chart with one or the other eye closed, clenching his teeth together, making funny faces, walking in strange gaits. Sanders also asked Harry whether he had any piercings, or had any metal or electronics previously put into his body.
"Of course not!" Harry replied, before a small blush crept up his neck. He was never going to be able to answer the obvious question with such ease again. Sanders just smiled.
"You may want to close your eyes during the MRI. Oh, and it can be a bit loud." He handed Harry some foam earplugs.
Sanders directed Harry into a room with a large round piece of equipment above a motorized bed. The machine had a circular hole in it, a little less than a meter wide. Harry laid down on the bed, and the bed began to move slowly towards the circular hole. Even with the earplugs in, the noise was loud. With his eyes closed, and his poor sleep the night before though, he fell asleep.
Sanders tapped him awake. "You can get up if you're all set."
"Ok..." Harry swung his legs off the bed, and sat up. He slid off the bed gently.
"This is Dr. Strom" Sanders said, gesturing to a blond and bearded man. "He's the neurosurgeon that's going to insert the AI chip into your brain. And this is Dr. Plum, the anesthesiologist," with a reference to a plump, dark haired woman.
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Oswald,"
"The same, Dr. Strom, Dr. Green."
"Any questions for either of us, before we get started?" asked Dr. Strom.
"Not that I can think of?"
"Alright then. We've brought you a stretcher. If you lie down and give us one of your arms, Nurse Sanders will insert an IV line for the anesthetics, and we can start."
Harry laid down on the new stretcher, and held out his left arm. Sanders poked a bit the inside of his elbow, then brought over a needle. Harry looked away. He felt a bit of a sting as the needle slid into his arm, and a slight pinch as Sanders put tape over the needle. Then, everything went dark.
He woke up to a blaze of white light. His eyes didn't focus, and his head hurt. He fell back asleep.
The next time he awoke, he was in a small, sunny room. The walls and sheets were white, and the floor was a pale green. There was a clock on the wall, but the batteries must have been old, because the second hand was ticking slowly.
He wondered how long he'd been asleep, and whether the surgery had worked. Leaves fluttered gently against the window.
He felt warm in bed. Comfortable and lazy. He realized that he didn't feel hungry, either, which was a large change from the typical summer feeling. There was a small plant on a bedside table. He wondered if plants came standard in hospital rooms, or whether Jill had left it for him.
Almost as if summoned, the door opened, and Jill stuck her head in. She smiled when she saw that Harry was awake. It must be a relaxed day for everyone, because Jill was moving very slowly. Harry worried that she was feeling sick.
"Hello! Brain-surgery wasn't so bad, then?" She asked. And even that came out slowly.
"Iiimghkd," he tried to answer. His tongue tied up and tripped over his teeth, and his lips tried to stop both of them.
"Hmm. Muscle Dis-coordination. As much as that would normally be a bad sign after neurosurgery, we'll write that down as a positive. I'm also going to make a bet that you feel like everything is going very slowly around you?"
"Yexchs."
"Right. Will you try to say that very slowly, for me please?"
"Y-y-e-i-s-s."
"Much better. Try it again?"
"Yeis... yiiss... yyis... yyes... yes. Yes!"
"Good! How about no?"
"N-o... no."
"Very good. What is your name?"
"H-e-a-r-r-r-r-i-i-y-A-o-s-s-w-a-o-l-l-d. H-a-r-r-r-y-O-s-w-a-l-d. Harry Oswald."
"Well done. That was much better than when you started! We're going to repeat the neurological exam that Sanders did with you pre-surgery. You ready?"
Harry almost wished that she would stop talking, the drawl was annoying. But he obliged by listening for voices, and letting Jill point lights into his eyes.
When she was done, she said "Well, I can imagine you might be bored, lying here waiting for us to come in. I've brought you a book. You could read out-loud to train your voice and mouth to coordinate with the faster brain signals, if you felt like it. But, don't worry, I'll be back soon. You'll probably be bothered about every hour by Nurse Sanders, who'll do another neurological exam, and change your IV. Also a heads up, we're going to want to do a CAT scan sometime in the next 24 hours. Take care, then, Harry."
"B-y-i-e J-g-i-l-l-l."
So, he followed her advice. The book was Moby-Dick. From "Call me Ishmael" to the sixth chapter, his tongue really did not want to cooperate. There were parts when he was afraid that he would choke – and not from fear. By the thirtieth chapter, he had taught his mouth how to say those words he'd seen once before. By the fiftieth chapter, he decided that there was really no point reading out loud anymore, as his eyes could flit across the page much faster than his toungue was ever going to e able to follow. By the hundreth chapter, he'd decided that Melville had a really strange sense of humor – one that the pubescent boy wasn't sure whether to snicker or blush for. And by the end, he knew far more about whaling terms than he'd every really wanted to know.
But, the clock only said it was noon. Had he really read that book in a few hours? And part reading out-loud, too, which would have to be slower than reading silently. And, Sanders had come by, like Jill had warned him, every hour, to ask him to make faces and listen to the tuning fork. How strange.
He wasn't hungry yet. They must have been pumping some sort of nutrient formula into his blood through the IV. He wasn't sure how he would be able to get up, so he decided to kill time by improving his hand coordination.
He made himself a game, where he had to clap, snap, or pat the bedsheets along a count. When he could manage that reliably, he added touching his head, putting his arms to the side, or balling up his fists. And when all of those movements flowed fairly steadily, he tried to make them faster. Then he decided to determine which movement to make not by pattern, but by the (too-slow!) second hand of the clock. He would divide the second-time by six, and choose the motion according to the remainder. It was about ten minutes into this game variation that Jill and Sanders came in.
After another neurological exam, Sanders and Jill helped Harry get up, and move to a wheelchair for his CAT scan. Harry was glad that he hadn't tried to get up on his own, because each of his limbs was as uncooperative as his mouth had been previously. The muscles were slow to fire, and his brain – trying to speed them up to a normal pace – forced them to trip over each other. His toes tensed before feet were even fully on the floor, and he would have fallen over if he'd been carrying his own weight. In fact, Harry more tripped into the wheelchair, guided by Sanders, than actually stepped over. In the meantime, Jill was arranging the IV onto a mobile stand.
After the CAT scan – which was very similar to the MRI, Sanders brought Harry a glass of water, and a bowl of broth. Harry thanked Sanders, and the nurse left.
"Thanks for the book, Jill."
"My pleasure. Anything else I can bring you?"
"Say, I was wondering if I could ask you a favor. Uhhh. So I pretty much dropped out of school after primary. And, I was thinking that it might be good to try for my GCSEs. And I was wondering whether you might have some maths textbooks?"
"Oh Harry, of course I can bring you some! But, I'll need to run over to the library to get some, and it may be an hour or so. I can bring you another book from the hospital lending library in the meantime?"
"Thanks, Jill. That would be amazing."
"Sure. I'll be quick. By the way Harry, you're speaking much better now, although it's a bit fast. Any chance you'd practice slowing down?"
Jill gave her laugh, then ran out the door of the hospital room. In what the clock said was five minutes, but felt to Harry to have been much longer, Jill returned with a tall stack of paperback books.
He occupied himself with the spy thrillers and murder mysteries until the sunlight became a bit paler, and Jill returned to the room.
"I wasn't sure what you wanted, so I've brought you the ones I remember being good in secondary." She dumped a stack of books onto the covers next to him. Hard backs clattered against one-another: Algebra, Geometry, Trigonometry, Calculus... A yellow block of paper fell on top. Jill pulled some biros out of her pocket, and tossed them onto the bed to complete the heap.
"Thanks..." said Harry, as he pushed himself up with his hands to keep from falling into the depressed mattress.
"Oh, I caught Sanders in the hall. He said that if you're interested, he'd bring you broth for dinner."
"That does sound nice. Thanks Jill."
"No problem. Have at it!" A short laugh, and she was gone.
So, he did. About halfway through the third chapter of the Algebra book (simple plotting), Sanders brought him a dark brown broth, a spoon, and many napkins. Harry was suddenly very glad for his practice moving his arms and holding a pen. He moved his books and working over to the night table, and accepted the offered tray.
"Thanks." He ate a spoonful of broth. None spilled, so he attacked the broth with a bit more speed. When he was done, Sanders took the tray back and walked it out of his room. Then Sanders reappeared.
"It might be a good time to practice walking, if you'd like?"
Harry nodded, and uncovered his legs from the blanket. Sanders stood in front of him, holding his arms ready. Harry lifted each leg one-at-a-time over the edge of the bed. When he was sitting with his legs dangling, he took a breath, and slid off the bed. Almost immediately he was falling. His right leg tried to come forwards to stabilize himself, and kicked Sanders. Somehow his feet were trying to correct the fall. Sanders grabbed his waist and steadied him.
"You all right?"
Harry nodded. "Sorry to kick you."
"No worries. Ready to take a step?"
The patient nodded, lifted his left leg, and took another half-falling step. Again Sanders was there to catch him. Then another slow step. The IV stand rolled along behind him like a metal duck. And another. And by the time he'd crossed to the windows, he only fell into the nurse once every three steps. He crossed the room five times more, then maneuvered himself gratefully back into bed.
Sanders praised his progress, told him he was probably safe to practice on his own now, and left him to sleep.
Harry finished the textbook chapter, and fell asleep.
When he woke, the sun was already shining. The clock said it was about 8. His mouth tasted like he'd been chewing on tree bark, and he badly needed to go to the lavatory. He bit his jaws together, and
stood up from the bed. He swayed a bit, but didn't fall. Slowly, he stepped towards the door – keeping a hand stretched out towards the wall for last-minute stability. His toothbrush was on a table next to the door. He grabbed it with the hand furthest from the wall.
He reached the door and stepped into the hallway. It was a bit embarrassing to know that anyone walking behind him could see his pants. But everyone here must have already seen everything, so he shrugged and pushed on.
There was a sign for a lavatory a few doors down. The IV followed him loyally down the hall, and into the washroom. Luckily, there was space to keep the IV inside. He took care of business, brushed his teeth, and washed his face. It was his older face again, with the beginning of a beard, and his stronger jaw. He might have admired himself, if it weren't for the fact that his head had been shaved and covered with a gauze patch.
Then he made a small grimace, and pulled the gown off his IV-free arm. Using hand-towels, soap and warm water, he washed himself as best as he could. There was standing water on the floor. His scalp scratched, so he filled the sink basin, and moved to dunk his head into the water. The motion made him dizzy, and he swayed. Ok, head-washing would have to come later.
He made his way back to his room, and into his bed. Some more algebra, then Sanders arrived, bringing applesauce, decaffeinated tea and a glass of orange juice. He wished the nurse a good morning. Incredible how slowly everyone speaks and moves, he thought, then asked about a shower. Sanders walked him to the door, and pointed down the hallway.
"The door after the lav is the shower. There's soap in there, and I'll bring you a towel and a shower cap. Try to keep your head dry for a week or so. And, it may not be a good idea to lock the door, in case you slip or feel dizzy."
"Thanks," said the patient, and waited while the nurse changed the gauze on the stitches.
After breakfast, he finished the algebra book. He practiced walking and coordination. When that grew tedious, he flipped through another maths text. Somehow, it didn't really appeal to him at the moment, so he poked his head into the hall and asked an unfamiliar nurse if she knew where he could borrow books. She pointed him towards a desk at the end of the hall. He thanked her, then walked towards his goal.
The assistant behind the counter smiled at him, and asked whether he wouldn't rather watch tv. He didn't think he could stand to sit and watch drama in slow motion, so he replied: "Somehow, I'm just feeling more like reading right now."
"Suit yourself," she shrugged before passing him another stack of paperbacks. Carrying the books back to his room was a trick and he felt well pleased with himself upon arriving back at his bed.
The day passed slowly: with maths, basic exercises, and pulp fiction. Jill came by around tea-time to give him an arithmetic test, and ask how he was feeling. Sanders brought him steak and vegetables for dinner than night, after which he showered. He slept what the clock called 10 hours, but felt that the might have still been awake for 24 hours. The world outside moved slowly.
The next day was the same, with minor differences. He was given eggs and fried tomatoes for breakfast, and the gauze bandage was taken off his head. When he looked at his strange face in the mirror, the stitches contrasted strongly with his pale, shaved scalp. He looked like a skin-head, he thought. A skin-head with a weird tattoo on the back of his head.
By the fourth day, he could again stand on one foot. On the sixth day, he could put his hands on his toes without any swaying.
From the next Sunday on, Jill brought every day not only the arithmetic test, but also a swivel chair and the tripod that threw beanbags. Harry didn't make as many catches as he had the first time he'd taken the exam, but he managed not to fall off the chair. Jill also replaced those maths books he'd finished with physics and chemistry textbooks.
The following Saturday, the stitches were removed. Washing his hair in the shower that evening gave him a vague feeling of triumph, that he wasn't entirely sure was inappropriate.
On Monday, he was introduced to a physical therapist. The therapist congratulated him for walking after his surgery, and recommended some core, leg, and upper-body exercises to help him become stronger in general. Harry wasn't sure he liked doing squat-hops, but he could feel his physical speed increasing. He'd found a negative to his faster processing time: both boredom and pain felt like they lasted forever.
On Thursday, he managed to catch all of the beanbags – and asked Jill whether he couldn't repeat the test to see if it was a fluke. It wasn't. She cheered and congratulated him.
It was Sunday the 29th of July when Jill reminded him that his three weeks of observation were over.
"I can't be in tomorrow morning, so I wanted to come and wish you luck now." She pressed a folded piece of paper into his hands. "Remember, you'll need to come by for a check-in every week. What day do you think would be good for you?"
"Is Saturday morning ok?"
"That's perfect. Take care of yourself, Harry. And good luck with the GCSEs!"
"Thanks, Jill. Until Saturday, then. "
When she had left, he unfolded the paper in his hands – it was a check for fifteen thousand pounds, made out to Harry Oswald. The paper buckled under his knuckles, then he laid it down on his night-table.
Tomorrow, he'd have to find something to do with himself. The bank, first. Then some new clothes, maybe. And, an apartment.
When he woke the next day, he put on his cousin's old clothes for the first time in three weeks. He tucked the check into his trouser pocket, next to his shrunken trunk. Sanders came by with breakfast for the last time, and to say goodbye. Harry wished him the best, then got up, and left.
It felt like he hadn't been outside in forever, and the weather was beautiful. He lifted his arms out into the sun, and basked – like a bird – in the warmth. He suddenly realized that he hadn't seen Hedwig in three weeks. He hoped she was ok – but she was a smart bird, she would be able to take care of herself.
The reminder of Hedwig, and by association the Ministry owls, made him hurry his step. He walked the 20 minutes to King Street, past the Hammersmith Underground station. One of the nurses had told him that he would be able to find a bank.
It was a simple thing to set up a bank account for Harry Oswald, using his glamoured birth certificate. The banker was more than happy to deposit the check from the AIBL. He was given a debit card, and withdrew some money from his new account. Then, the new account holder left the bank.
He made his way towards the Marks and Spencers down from the bank. Inside he bought some clothes that fit his older body, and some that he estimated would fit his younger body. He asked the cashier whether he couldn't change into some of his new clothes in the changing room, and the cashier cut off the tags. The shopping felt like it had taken hours, though his new watch said it had only been half an hour.
As he was leaving the store, he felt a chill run up his spine. Against the door of the M&S was a poster bearing the words: "Have you seen this child?" And below the letters, his face looked up at him. "Please call 020-7911 7128 with information."
He backtracked to the cashier. "Sorry to bother you again, but about that poster?"
"The kid on the door?"
"Yeah, he looks familiar. Any chance I could borrow your phone?"
"Why not? Here you go."
It was with a dry throat that Harry dialed the number.
"Hello, Harry Potter Search Hotline. Do you have any information for us?"
"Umm. Maybe. This Potter kid... his face looked familiar when I saw the poster. When'd he go missing?"
"He was last seen at his aunt and uncle's house three weeks ago last-friday."
"That's tough. He ran away?"
"Maybe. We're not sure. We have reason to believe that the escapee Black may have kidnapped him. But we're hoping that he might have given Black the slip."
"Black?"
"Well, yes. The family was found dead about 10 days ago now, in the Alice Holt Forest. And the murderer followed the same SOP as some of Black's associates were caught using."
"Poor kid. What happens when you find the boy?"
"Foster care, probably. But since his school starts on the 1st, if we find him soon, we can just bring him back to school – and sort the permanent arrangements out slowly."
"Do you think he could go back to school after all this?"
"Well, it'd be up to the boy. It depends how he's doing. So, where do you say you saw him?"
"I'm not sure. Just, his face is familiar. I've been staying near Hammersmith in London for the past few weeks. So, if I've seen him recently, that's where it must have been."
"Right. Thanks for the tip. If you see him again, tell him that we'll help him."
"Is there someplace I should tell him to go?"
"To Charing Cross Road. Thanks."
"Well, good luck. Bye."
He wasn't expelled. It was possible that the hotline had been lying, but... If they were lying, then the posters here – and presumably everywhere – would be a lot of effort for a run-away who was going to be expelled. On the other hand, the posters made sense if they were really worried about him having been killed.
Killed. His aunt and uncle. And Dudley. Was Marge also dead? And, was she dead because he'd exploded her, or because Black had gotten her? Had Harry killed someone? Was Harry also a murderer? No. She was fine when I left – bigger and more balloon-like – but still alive and fine. It must have been Black.
But he could go back to Hogwarts! He wouldn't have to spend the rest of his life like a muggle, away from his friends, and his first real home.
Because, the Dursely's hadn't really been family, had they? Families love; like the Weasleys. They don't starve and belittle and threaten with frying pans. And was it terrible that he was almost glad that he could never go back to the Dursely's? They were dead. And he didn't feel bad. They were his relatives by blood (but not his family!) and he didn't mourn them. He must be a monster.
He felt confused, and wanted to sort his thoughts out. But he wanted to go to the Leaky Cauldron. Wanted to be back in a familiar place. He walked to the underground station, and took the subway to Cockfosters.
He ducked into the bathroom of a McDonald's not far from the subway exit, and measured himself 24 drops of his de-aging potion. That fierce pain seemed to last forever, as he shortened. He changed into the clothes that he'd bought for his regular size, and went to go check in the mirror under the guise of washing his hands. He still had a shaved head, the curse scar on his forehead, and the surgical scar on the back of his head. He looked slightly differently than he remembered – but then again, he'd been laying in bed reading rather than doing chores for the last bit of summer, and he'd been fed well.
He packed his older form's clothes into his M&S bag, then left the lavatory and the McDonalds. He walked quickly to the Leaky Cauldron.
Harry pushed open the door and walked in quietly. The pub was empty, but for a hag at the bar, and a middle-aged couple sitting in the far corner. Tom glanced up from where he was polishing the bar, "How can we help - Harry Potter?
"That's me," the boy responded.
"I'm so glad you're back safely. Sit here, please." the barman said, steering the boy into a quiet corner and bringing him a butterbeer, and a sandwich with crisps. "On the house, on the house."
"Thanks, Tom."
The barman ducked behind the bar, and the green flash of floo powder shone briefly. Shortly – even by Harry's subjective reckoning – another green flash and a cloud of ash arrived. Out of the fireplace stepped Minister Fudge, who Harry'd last seen when he was under his invisibility cloak. The minister was short and pudgy, and wearing a green suit.
Tom directed the Minister towards Harry, and offered them both a tray of tea and crumpets.
"My dear boy!" The minister exclaimed, "I am so pleased that you're safe. I'm Cornelius Fudge, Harry. The Minister of Magic."
"Nice to meet you, sir." Harry replied. Somehow, he missed his adult form. No one had ever dear-boy'd the 18 year old – but maybe that was just because no one dear-boy'd men who looked like skinheads.
"Well, Harry," said Fudge, "you've had us all in a right flap, I don't mind telling you. Running away from your aunt and uncle's house like that! When we didn't hear from you we were very worried that you might have been caught by Black..."
"Black? I thought he was a muggle?"
"No... dear boy, Black escaped from Akzaban, and..." Fudge shifted in his seat, then buttered himself a crumpet and pushed the plate towards Harry.
"I'm glad to see that Tom has already brought you some food. Now then... My condolences for the loss of your family. I imagine you've already thought about it quite some – but do you have any preferences for foster family? We could send you to Miss Marjorie Dursely? She's fine – we dealt with the unfortunate blowing-up only hours after you left your family's home."
"No! Sir. Sorry, but no, I do not want to live with Aunt Marge. Couldn't I just go to Hogwarts?"
"I suppose that is possible, my dear boy. If you think of anything at all, here is my floo address." The Minister passed Harry a card. "Now, I suggest you take a room here at the Leaky Cauldron and -"
"Hang on, " blurted Harry. "What about my punishment?"
Fudge blinked. "Punishment?"
"I broke the law!" Harry said. "The Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry!"
"Oh, my dear boy, we're not going to punish you for a little thing like that!" cried Fudge, waving his crumpet impatiently. "It was an accident! We don't send people to Azkaban just for blowing up their aunts!"
So he wasn't expelled! If the Minister said he wasn't expelled, then it was certain. But, just to make sure that he hadn't misunderstood: "Last year, I got an official warning just because a house-elf smashed a pudding in my uncle's house!"he told Fudge, frowning. "The Ministry of Magic said I'd be expelled from Hogwarts if there was anymore magic there!"
Unless Harry's eyes were deceiving him, Fudge was suddenly looking awkward. "Circumstances change, Harry... We have to take into account... In the present climate... Well, you stay under Tom's eyes while you're here, understand? Don't want to lose you again, do we? No, no... best we know we know where you are... I mean..."
Fudge cleared his throat loudly, "well, I'll be off, plenty to do, you know..."
"Goodbye, Minister." And with a last smile and shake of Harry's hand, Fudge left the room.
Tom showed Harry to room 11. It was a comfortable room, about the same size as his hospital room, but with darker colors, wooden furniture, a cheerfully crackling fire and, perched on top of the wardrobe...
"Hedwig!" Harry gasped.
The snowy owl clicked her beak and fluttered down onto Harry's arm.
"Very smart owl you've got there," chuckled Tom. "Arrived about five minutes after you did. If there's anything you need, Mr. Potter, don't hesitate to ask."
The boy asked the bartender whether he would mind un-shrinking the trunk. Tom gave Harry a crooked smile, and performed the spell. Then the bartender bowed and left.
The boy laid flat out onto the bed, arms spread out, and laughed. Yet, a sobering thought cracked up into his mind: What right did he have to laugh, when the Durselys are dead?
But his mind answered him back – he would think about the Durselys later, now he was just glad to be back, and glad that he would be able to go to Hogwarts in two days. He would be able to see his friends soon.
So, he stood. He pulled a piece of parchment, a quill, and some ink from his trunk – and set about asking Ron and Hermione whether they wouldn't like to meet in Diagon Alley the next day? He passed the notes to Hedwig, and after stroking her lightly, sent her off.
Now, he could get up, find his books, do his summer homework. His summer homework! Well, he had a day and a half – even if he saw his friends the next day.
The boy waved to Tom as he left the pub, refilled his money bag with gold Galleons, silver Sickles, and bronze Knuts from his vault at Gringotts, and passed to Flourish and Blotts where he bought his new classbooks (with the exception of that nasty book, the Monster Book of Monsters).
Then, he sat happily in the sun at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, scanned his textbooks for relevant information and wrote essays about shrinking potions and Wendelin the Weird.
It was odd writing with a quill again after the biro he'd used to solving maths problems. And, it felt a bit odd to have his hand slightly smaller than the almost-adult hand that he'd re-learned to write with.
Yet, the sun on his pale head, the freedom of being back, the relief at not worrying about Hogwarts or life as a Muggle, over-wrote the slight oddness of his younger body and the scratchy feeling that he should be upset about the Durselys.
He was glad that the world moved slower than he did, and that his eyes moved quickly across the pages.
When the sun set, the boy returned to his room at the Leaky Cauldron with a content smile and rolls of finished homework under his arm.
–
[1] Adapted from an Atlanta News AP article from March 28, 2011.