Summary:Harry Potter disappears immediately following the Battle of Hogwarts. Where does he go? Someplace unfair, cruel, and seemingly inescapable. If he can escape, he will. But he's just tired...so tired...

Eventual HP/DM. Not even remotely epilogue compliant. Post-Battle of Hogwarts, 8th year.

Really kind of brutal. Sometimes graphic violence. Eventual smut. So be warned, I'm honestly terrible to the characters.

Updates Every Wednesday.

::Quiet Violence::

SandiBebop

Chapter One

"Just Breathe"

His eyes opened slowly to the sounds of the madness around him. Lifting his head slowly from where his chin had been resting down against his chest, Harry recognized the manic screams of torture.

"Experiments." Harry thought, correcting himself. They weren't being tortured; Doctor was experimenting on them…for the good of humanity. That's what they were told. That's what they needed to believe. Harry didn't believe, but he complied. It was easier that way – to just comply.

With his back to the wall and his knees still pulled up tight to himself, he gazed meanderingly around him.

Same four walls, three solid stone and one all bars with a sliding cell door controlled by a series of levers used by of the Assistants, a steel toilet to the right, and just enough floor space to sleep stretched out or pace in an endless circle. That last one was his favorite; just pacing. There was nothing else to do while he waited for his turn in the Room down the hall.

A slight thudding on the wall across from him brought the young man's attention to focus.

"9 is banging his head against the wall again." Harry thought, "…should tell him to stop. It only brings attention." But he wouldn't tell 9 anything. He wouldn't tell anyone anything. Talking was forbidden: to the other Numbers, to the Guards and Assistants, to yourself; unless you were speaking with Doctor, you best not speak. Making even a noise of anguish or self-defeat wasn't worth the consequence.

They all had Numbers, and that's how everyone referred to them. It was based off of when you arrived. Numbers came and went, assigned into the rooms and shuffled out into the afterlife.

Harry recalled when he arrived here…

The Battle was over. The War was over. The Dark Lord had been defeated and Harry was exhausted. Looking about the Great Hall at the bodies lined so clinically on the floor left him with such a deep dread he couldn't even express. He shook off hugs and condolences and resigned to a chair as far from the mass of mourners as possible.

When the crying and wailing and sobbing refused to decrease, Harry made his way outside.

Where he promptly retched. And retched. And retched. Until there was nothing left except coughing and hiccups.

He glanced around the once immaculate school grounds: where there should be life and light, there was a darkness so deep he could feel it in his soul. The Quidditch field had burned and Hagrid's small home had been demolished, the Whomping Willow was in broken pieces littered about the grass; the grass stained red with blood of friend and enemy.

The coppery smell that permeated the air had Harry doubled over to vomit out the nothing in his stomach… until he heard a scream.

From the Forbidden Forest, just at the edge.

"I'm coming!" Harry yelled, hurrying across the field with wand at the ready. "Lumos!" he said quietly as he reached the edge, in a desperate attempt to see around himself. He had gone a good few meters past the edge of the Forest and now couldn't see or hear anything; the screaming from just a few moments ago had been silenced.

"I am here to help you! Please, tell me where you are!" after a second of thought he continued, "It doesn't matter what side you're on! I can get you help!"

He continued forward with just enough light to see perhaps a foot in front of himself and, despite the urgency of the situation, Harry was steady. The Forest was quiet, the air was soft, and the smell of blood no longer overpowered his weakened stomach. And, if it weren't for the fact that just a moment later he tripped over a limp body, he would almost believe he was calm.

Harry squatted down to examine and possibly identify the lifeless form of a woman clad in Death Eater's robes laying sprawled out atop of fallen tree, skewed limbs and torso making it evident she had fallen onto the tangled log and broken her spine. But… her throat was slit, blood still bubbling out of the jagged opening.

Harry stood immediately and spun around at the sound of footsteps behind him. He had just enough time to register the fact that he was more than outnumber by a group of men in muggle clothing. One of them smiling calmingly at him and… "Is that a Taser?" Harry thought, moments before he was proven right as thousands of volts of electricity knocked him to the ground next to the dead woman. He stared into her lifeless eyes, the smell of her blood in his nose and in his mouth as everything turned black.

He thought, "I've survived this last year and finally killed Tom. And now I'm going to be tased to death. How outrageously Muggle."

When he awoke, he was lined up with other young people his age. Perhaps a year or two older or younger, depending. He was sat cross-legged on the floor, back to the wall, and hands bound behind him. The other were the same, and most were unconscious. They were in a long corridor with no windows and only a door at the end of the stretch of stone wall, and no discernable clue as to where they were. A girl a few spots down the line from him began the cry which immediately brought the attention of one of their sentries. They wore long white coats Harry recognized as medical uniform, pressed slacks, and simple shirts. "Are these doctors?" He thought and his mind began to wander through a post-electric haze. "Why were they here? Who were these men? Where is my wand?"

He was snapped from his thoughts as the guard slapped the crying girl across the face, drawing a thin line of blood to spill from her mouth.

"Stop!" Harry yelled with authority, though he had no power in this place.

Attention was turned to him, as the man two a few long strides to where he sat and grabbed the hair at the top of Harry's head, pulling him forward then slamming his skull back into the wall. He tasted blood.

"Alright." The one seemingly in charge spoke in an accent Harry couldn't quite place, "Let's wake up and get assigned."

The other men (four plus the leader that Harry could count through blurred eyes) grabbed a hose coiled up at the other end of the hall. Standing off to the side, the man in charge motioned to the others, and then to the captives against the wall. Suddenly, Harry was faced with the onslaught of ice cold water bombarding him with a force that knocked him again into the wall. The rest of his fellow companions where fallen over, screaming, or being slammed into one another.

"Good morning!" the man said jovially. Harry sight upright to get a better look of him. He wasn't old, perhaps in his 40's, hair just the smallest glint of gray at the ears, tall and slender with a white coat shorter than his cohorts'.

"I am Dr. Michael Santamour. You may call me Doctor Santamour, or Doctor." He smiled down at the cowering faces in front of him, "You" he continued, "have all been specially chosen to help me with my research!" He was beaming now and he looked at the other men with pride. "These are my Assistants. You do not need to know their names, just know that they are in charge when I am not present. So!" he clapped his hands together, smiling, "Let's start, shall we." He began walking down the line. "We're going to start at this end and you're going to count off for me." He pointed to a young man just slightly older than Harry, "One". To the next, a girl, he pointed at her and waited. She spat at him, and was rewarded with a kick to her chest. Harry winced for her sake. Doctor pointed at her again and she coughed weakly, "Two". He took a step and pointed to the next who said quickly, "Three!"

And so it went down the line. Harry said a soft "Twelve" when the hand of the Doctor became focused in his direction. He felt sick and ashamed. He should be finding a way out of here, fighting back, helping the others but...he was tired. And he was scared. And he was devastated that he could admit to himself that he was terrified of these people and their unknown motives in this unknown location.

The counting stopped at 22.

There were 22 of them in this place.

"There! Not so hard is it, counting?" laughed Doctor. "I know all your names, oh yes. But you needn't bother with them. You are assigned a number, and that's how you will be called when you are needed. You are all very lucky, oh my so very lucky! We will achieve great things here, believe me! Now," He clapped again, his smile becoming serious and stern, "Let's get going then."

The Numbers were forced to their feet, a few of them struggling against their captors to no avail. Harry, weak from the electric shock and possible concussion and soaking wet, clambered to his feet without so much as a sound. He was trying to take in his surrounding because, surely, there must be some clue as to where the hell he was.

There was not.

They were lead down the hall and through the door. Upon seeing the rows of what appeared to be cells lining each wall and a figure at the other end resembling some monstrously large creature, Harry thought:

"I'm going to die here."

It only took a few days for Harry, and the other Numbers he imagined, to wish he was dead.

Doctor wasted no time getting them acquainted with his "research". Screams could be heard from The Room at almost all hours. Harry would watch as one Number after another was dragged down the hall, kicking and screaming and struggling in a vain attempt to break free. He would watch silently through the bars, wondering when he would be called. It was never more than 3 days before your number was called again.

"Number Twelve!"

Oh, The Room.

Harry shuddered. Based on the cycles of numbers called, and that Doctor must sleep at some point, he knew it had been another two days since his last experiment.

He climbed to his feet. He would not struggle; he would not fight. He would not make this any harder on himself than necessary.

As he was pulled from his cell and into the hall, Harry saw Creature at the entrance to The Room. His feet stalled, then, and he was forcibly pushed by an Assistant. Gods he hated Creature: black fur that stuck out every which way, patches missing here and there, a face of a dog but so gnarled Harry doubted it had been a dog in the first place. And its legs. The legs made Harry shudder. Four of them, normal for a dog yes, but then stuck out from its body and were jointed like a spider's legs. Its walk was horrifying to watch and Harry knew with every fiber of his being that he despised this creature. And that was before it had gone into Number 4's cell and eaten her alive.

Harry shirked away from Creature and into The Room. Doctor was waiting.

"On the table, Twelve." Doctor spoke serenely, back to him. He motioned to the stainless steel operating table in the center of the room. The Assistants waited for Harry to climb up and position himself. Which he did. There was no use in fighting. He had no power or sway here. He was weak, unfed, and tired. The Assistants pulled the leather restraints over his wrists and legs and fed them through the table to be latched.

"This is okay," Harry thought, trying to calm and steady his breathing, "This is okay. I can do this. I just breathe and don't think. Don't think about anything. Don't think about this and just breathe." Harry simply stared at the ceiling, unblinking. "Ah, good. No more speaking, then? Seven had to be taught a more… direct lesson for that very specific rule of mine." He motioned to a shelf on the wall that held what couldn't have been mistaken for a human tongue. "I'm so very glad that you're working with me, Twelve, and not against me. It wastes time! Speaking of," he leaned over now and whispered in Harry's unwilling ear, "Let's get started."

Doctor had a theory. It was based entirely off pain. Pain, and human conditioning. Doctor believed that no one is limited on their pain tolerance; people who claim to have a higher pain tolerance than another was mistaken: anyone can endure extreme levels of pain…they just had to be taught.

And that's what Doctor was doing, he was teaching them. Diligently. And without remorse. Because, why would he feel guilt for his research? This was going to make the world better, he always told them. They were lucky to be included. The Numbers had been chosen after years of being carefully studied in terms of emotional and physical pain, and their thresholds thereof. They would be used to prove what Doctor already knew to be true: a human being can be taught to live with extreme amounts of stress put upon their psyche and physical nerves, and be made all the better for it.

He was mad. Harry knew this. But, Lord he was too tired to fight. He had stopped after the second session. He couldn't win. Doctor was by no means a wizard, perhaps a Squib? But he knew who Harry Potter was, knew his life in disconcerting detail, and had gone to great measures to ensure that the young man's magic (as well as any of the other Numbers who possessed magic) would be completely and thoroughly blocked.

Harry was trapped.

Doctor put on a record; it was some old, cold European sonnet on a record so worn that the notes and harmony would drag uneasily. Harry hated it; it made the experience all the more frightening somehow.

Humming along to the stumbling tempo, Doctor began arranging his tools: scalpels, gauze, surgical scissors of all sizes.

"Breath." Harry thought, closing his eyes and turning from Doctor's gaze. "Just breathe. It doesn't last forever. It'll be over and done with soon. Breath."

He felt the hem of his shirt (the same one he'd been wearing for four straight weeks) rolled up to his chest. His breathing hitched. Doctor was still humming. The clang and shuffle of instruments on the metal next to him caused his breath to stagger again.

"Just breathe." He willed himself.

A cold edge pressed against scarring flesh of previous Research forced Harry's eyes wide open. He stared at the ceiling, praying himself to calm.

"Just breathe."

A swift, familiar feeling of blade through skin brought a rapid inhale of stagnant air into his mouth. And again. And again. As Doctor moved through Harry's torso, pulling intestine and organs carefully around inside his Patient's belly, he continued to hum. With stomach open and Harry beginning to hyperventilate, Doctor grabbed just the smallest handful of something from the tray. Looking directly into Harry's eyes, he held his hand over the boy's open body and said, reminding, "This is the only room in which you are allowed to make a noise."

And then allowed salt to sift through his fingers and into Harry's exposed stomach.

"Just…just brea-" He thought.

And then began to scream.

It had been somewhere between seven and nine weeks since their group arrived, as far as Harry could tell. The time would blend together from one Experiment to the next, blacking out in between and losing who knew how much time.

Harry's last experiment had been just a day prior, so he knew he was safe for a little while. If it weren't for Creature staring at him, he would probably be fairly content.

However, it was. It had all four of its legs out and on the bars that made up the front of his cell. Just… staring at him. Every few minutes it would cock its head to the side, eyeing him down, and start its manic thrashing and wailing.

God, he hated that thing.

The Assistants eventually shooed it away and off the front of Harry's cell to leave him in reprieve.

Silent, save 9's constant thud of head-to-wall.

"He really needs to stop that." Harry thought, "There's no point. What are you even accomplishing over there? Slowly tunneling your way through the wall with your skull?"

That set Harry's imagination back into old dreams of escape. Fantastic, impossible schemes that he knew he could never achieve but it was either entertain his own mind or go back to sleep. Or wait for food.

A clang of his door opening signaled the time for a plate. They were given just enough to keep them alive, but never the energy to struggle. Today's selection of two slices of bread and a few bites of what could be considered stew were slid across the floor by Blonde Assistant, as Harry referred to him. In his mind, of course.

He turned his head from the offering.

"Twelve!" Blonde Assistant barked, "Twelve, we are not doing this. You starve yourself, we will hold you down and put the feeding tube in your throat again. Does that sound fun to you, Twelve? Because its more work for us, and we do not appreciate it."

"Twelve."

"Twelve."

Harry stayed turned from the door, facing the opposite wall and willing his mind elsewhere.

Until a sharp kick to the side of his head sent him sprawling across the floor and heaving on his side. Blonde Assistant was scowling as one does at a misbehaving child.

"Now Twelve," he said chidingly, "When I come back, I want that food gone. Do you understand me? I don't want to have to report your behavior to Doctor Santamour."

Harry sat up, eyes to the floor, and nodded silently.

"Good." Blonde Assistant said, and gave him a pat on the head.

"Die." Harry thought, watching the other man walk from the room, locking the door behind him and taking the next tray next door into 9's room. The banging against the wall stopped, and screaming ensued.

Looking at his tray and ignoring the sounds from his neighbor, Harry prodded the bread in quiet contemplation. Something was different today. What was it? The food was the same, the tray was the same, the plate was the sa… No. It wasn't. The normal metal plate had been replaced by a simple porcelain one. Had the other trays had white plates? He was sure the one taken to 9 was the same as his. Why were they changing? Nothing changes here, everything consists of…consistence. But as Blonde Assistant came out of 9's cell and began pushing the cart of trays the opposite way down the hall, Harry saw that all the plates were porcelain.

"Twelve!"

Harry snapped his head to the front of his cell.

"I want all of that food gone. NOW." And then he was stomping away again.

Harry didn't care. His mind was running in circles. This was different. Different was good. Different was an opportunity. If he could just find what it was.

Sitting in front of the plate on his knees, he grabbed a piece of bread and shoved it whole into his mouth. It was dry and tasteless, but he hardly noticed. He grabbed the plate by the edge, and tapped it against the stone floor of his cell. The soft lilt of porcelain to rock sent Harry's heart speeding. He ate the rest of his meager meal, using the bread to sop up the supposed stew. He got up and shuffled over to the bars to spy where Assistant had gone, and saw he was still a few stalls down but would be making his way back soon.

Harry scrambled back to the plate and took off his weeks-old shirt. In his haste it got caught on his neck and he began to panic.

"It takes less than 10 minutes to deliver all the meals, then allows 5 minutes for consumption before retrieving them. I'm running out of time."

He slowed his breathing and successfully removed his shirt. He wrapped the tattered clothing around the plate once, twice, then laid it on the ground. He inhaled through his nose, exhaled from his mouth, and prayed this would work. Then Harry brought his unclad foot down on the plate.

Nothing.

"No."

He slammed the heel of his foot harder, and then harder still, under he felt an unmistakable crack. Dropping to his knees, he slowly unwrapped the shirt to see the plate had shattered into three pieces: almost completely down the center, and jagged triangular piece jutting off from the middle.

"Perfect!"

He put the two halves together, knowing the center had a very noticeable missing piece, and pulled his shirt over his head as quickly as he could. Then, scurrying over to his normal spot at the opposite wall with knees up and head down, Harry began dragging the porcelain piece in his hand back and forth against the stone ground, sharpening it.

"Just breathe."

Footsteps were coming closer. He shifted the piece in his hand to begin on the other side. Stopping every other second to test his would-be blade.

"Breath."

18 was getting disciplined. Harry's twin in self-starvation.

"Just breathe, just breathe just breathe just—"

"Ah!" Assistant was back. "You ate it all! I'm sure Doctor Santamour will be very pleased with- what happened to your plate?!" His face changed from approval to dangerous anger in a split second. He took the few strides over to where Harry sat, pulled up into himself, and grabbed him by his hair. "What did you do?!"

In a flash, Harry was on his feet.

And the makeshift dagger was in Assistant's throat.

There was no sound, Assistant couldn't muster anything past a small gurgle and a gasp. His back hit the wall on the other side of the cell, grasping at his now over-pouring throat and sliding down the wall.

Harry stumbled towards him and, kneeling down, pushed the dagger further. He placed his hand over Assistant's mouth, that no sound would escape and alert the other Assistants or Creature. He watched as the brown eyes in front of him watered and slowly closed. He waited until the pulse bursting beneath the hand he had place on his neck slowed, weakened, and then stopped.

Standing now, Harry quickly reconciled with what he had done. He did not enjoy it, and he wished there had been another way, but there wasn't. This was survival. And he wasn't fucking dying here. Breath ragged and hands shaking with adrenaline instead of exhaustion for a change, he pulled the dagger from Assistant's neck. While it had gone in smoothly, it was giving trouble to remove and Harry felt sick from the noise the other man's skin made as it was ripped open.

He was beginning to plan what to do next, how to make it down the corridor to the Door instead of the Room, if he would have time to open the other cells, how he would make it past the other Assistants….when the smell of wet fur made his blood run cold.

Turning slowly, he was faced with Creature standing on hind legs and back arched. The smell of blood had instantly drawn it in. Harry moved to the side slowly, and shifted the dagger into his other hand. Creature paid him no mind, its jaw was slack and saliva was dripping onto the ground; it had eyes only for the corpse in the corner.

And the it sprang forward, and began devouring Assistant.

Harry retched.

And then he ran.

An Assistant saw him as he slammed him cell door shut, effectively trapping Creature with its snack.

"Just breathe."

"TWELVE! STOP!"

But he wouldn't. He ran down the hall to a series of levers that opened various doors: the cells, the Room, and (most importantly) The Door. The Door they had originally be lead in from. The Door was the only discernable way out. He began throwing switches every way. Cells on both sides opened and Assistants ran to force them closed. The Room sprang into view and a startled Doctor slammed the door shut, more concerned with keeping his current operation sanitary than escaping patients.

Number 9 and Number 16 staggered from their cells on the right; 1, 5 and 18 on the left. Every one of them in varying states of torment and starvation, but quickly registered what was happening. And they pounced. The Assistants didn't stand a chance against the 6 of them, perhaps one on one they held the upper hand, but when you push men and women so far into their own heads with 24/7 captive torture, it's not all that surprising when they take their chance to destroy everything around them; focusing on those who had a hand in their torment, of course.

Harry was still throwing switches in the chaos of the corridor, glancing behind him every time to see if the Door had opened. Nothing. He pulled three more simultaneously in a desperate attempt at freedom. Then he heard a sound that made his stomach lunch.

A low, guttural growl.

He had opened his own cell.

"Oh god…"

Creature now stood in the opening to the cell, shaking its head slightly to disperse the blood and flesh hanging from its fur. It looked once to the left where Harry stood at the levers, 9 only having just come to his side to make the same attempts. It looked then to the right, where 5 knelt over an Assistant and was slamming a food tray repeatedly into his skull and an Assistant had 18 against a wall. 1 wasn't moving anymore, and the last Assistant was sprawled across the corridor floor. Creature chose the food to the right, and descended upon them.

Harry and 9 began pulling every combination of the dozens of levers before them as screams filled the stale air. Harry dropped to his knees and covered his ear, he couldn't take it, it was the Battle at Hogwarts again. The screaming, the blood, the running, the blood…..the blood…

Suddenly a hand was pulling him up. 9 was looking at him, eyes wide with fear and adrenaline. He pulled him to his feet, and placed one of Harry's hands on a lever to pull.

"We aren't giving up" His eyes seemed to say.

Harry nodded, and they continued their frantic attempts.

After what seemed an eternity, though was probably less than 10 since the riot began, The Door opened.

They could see down the corridor to a door with a large window. And through that window: outside. Harry's heart felt as though it would explode, and 9 let out a sob. Harry turned towards the other Number and finally looked at him. Pale as the rest, brown hair, hazel eyes, and a series of just-healing skin across the various scars on his neck and chest. They shared the gaze for a moment, before 9 smiled a smile that almost broke his face, and grabbed Harry's arm to begin running for the Door.

Only four or five steps in and 9 dropped.

Creature had him by the leg and was dragging him quickly back through the Door. 9 let out a strangled scream as he struggled against the horrid thing and it snapped his leg clear off below the knee. Harry ran to him and grabbed him under the arms to lift him, but Creature had 9 again and pulled him from Harry's arms. He was dragged swiftly down the hall, but latched onto the frame of the Door as Creature began ripping him to shreds.

"RUN!" 9 screamed.

Harry registered in that moment how he had never heard him speak before.

"RUN TWELVE! GO!"

And the he was gone. Pulled into darkness. And there was no sound. No screams. No crying. Just the sickening sound of Creature going about its business.

Harry ran.

There was no lock on the exit. Perhaps they had thought that, surely, no patients would make it this far.

He hurled himself out of the door, falling flat on his back and slamming it shut with his foot. God help him if Creature pursued him now. He would never make it. Harry looked above him and could have cried.

The sky.

The night sky lay spread out above him. Black and blue and stars upon stars and…a plane. The sight of the plane brought him back into himself. Pulling up onto his feet, he began to run. "RUN TWELVE, GO!" echoing in his head with every heart beat that pulsed and pounded against his head.

"RUN!"

Every breath shaking him. He didn't look back, would never be able to identify the building that had been his prison for two months. All he saw was the woods in front of him and the thought of finally being free filling him with the determination to just run, to just keep going to just-

"TWELVE!"

A voice behind him, far behind, but still close enough to make him stumble and fall.

Doctor.

Doctor was at the exit door. Covered in blood and his face pulled in… despair? Disappointment? Betrayal? He couldn't identify it, he didn't want to. He wanted to run. So he clambered to his feet, backing away from where Doctor was, and turned back to the woods.

"Twelve! You need to come back! We aren't done yet!" Doctor yelled pleadingly. Then, "WE AREN'T DONE YET!" he roared.

Harry didn't wait. He ran faster than he could every remember having run in his life. His oh so short life, that yet he had managed to live so much already. "If I make it" Harry thought, "I'll live better. I'll enjoy things. I'll be a better person. A better friend. I'll just… I'll live. I promise. Please, let me live."

He didn't know how long he had run for. Hours? Maybe. It was dark when he'd escaped, and now the morning stars were beginning to fade and a soft silver light was showering the tree tops. Birds were waking to start screaming their songs to the arriving sun. Harry was slowing, and he knew it; the adrenaline was seeping from him and exhaustion was taking over. Two bits of bread and some bites of stew weren't enough to keep him going. In a clearing no bigger than the Gryffindor common room, he finally fell.

His face in the grass and morning dew soaking through to his skin, Harry finally had a moment of clarity: He was out. He was out of his cell, and the Room was far behind him. Air filled with the scent of a nearby stream was carried over him by a soft breeze. He was out.

And 9 was dead.

And 1 and 16 and 18 and 5.

They were all dead.

Twenty-two of them had arrived in that place. Twenty-two men and women who did not deserve the hell they had endured had come there at the same time, and slowly dwindled down until only the 6 of them remained. The strongest; the ones with the will to survive it.

And now they were dead.

"Just breathe."

Harry rolled onto his back and placed him palms on the grass and soft moss around him. Birds flew from a nearby tree, startled by a gust of wind. All around him was quiet for a moment and Harry took that moment to try and forgive himself; for killing Assistant, for not saving the others, for not saving 9.

The sound of metal hitting dirt near his head nearly caused Harry to choke. In a second, he was off his back and onto his feet, looking for the source. There was no one there. He began staring frantically at the tree line at the edge of the clearing, thinking he was finally after all this time losing his mind, when the rising sun got caught on something in the grass. Harry dropped to his knees and reached for it.

"A galleon?" He thought.

Oh, he could feel the magic pulsing from it. It had been so long since he felt magic. He almost sobbed at the feeling. And it seemed so familiar, the kind coming off the coin he was shifting back and forth between his hands. It almost felt like…

"Oh."

"I know this."

Harry dropped the coin into the grass and began to back away for a moment.

"No." he reasoned to himself, "What else do I have to lose?" and snatched it back up again.

"Breath."

The magic seemed to strengthen in that little insignificant coin.

"Just breathe."

It began to pulse, and warmed.

"Just breathe…."

The familiar pull around his navel as the Portkey whisked him from the clearing was nauseating and somehow altogether comforting. "This is magic" Harry thought. "Oh how I've missed magic."

A split second later he was thrown to the ground. Stone floor had crashed into his face and hit a sore spot on his knee he hadn't been aware was injured until now.

As his breathing slowed, he was able to recognize a chorus of voices around him. In a panic, he jumped to his feet. No shoes, jeans torn, shirt and hair drenched in sweat and blood, he covered his eyes from the light that assaulted him.

"Harry Potter?!"

Harry blinked a moment before unshielded his face.

"H…holy shit" even his mind stuttered.

He was standing in the middle of dinner the Great Hall. At Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Being addressed by Minerva McGonagall who was staring wide-eyed at him while simultaneously trying to quell the frantic conversations bubbling through the assembled students who had arrived back just two weeks previous to start their term.

"…Mister Potter?" McGonagall asked again.

Harry turned towards her. Having nothing to say, he held out his hand with the used portkey still in his palm for her to see.

As the entire staff table rose in surprise, Harry saw the edges of his vision blurring and darkening. And his face was numb. And he was falling for what felt like forever.

And that was how Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, The Man Who Defeated the Dark Lord, blacked out at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, covered in blood, scaring the living hell out of everyone and making a first year cry, after disappearing 3 months ago.