Obliviate
Fading To Black
It was on the tip of his tongue, he knew. He was certain that it was there, that it was something, but he had no idea what it was or where to start looking. It was immensely frustrating. At least, it was frustrating when he wasn't flying into blind panic attacks. It was worrisome.
Of course it was. But he was okay, he told himself. He was okay.
Snape, ironically, is the first one to notice that something is wrong with him. Not McGonagall or Dumbledore, who were stuck in their fantasy worlds in which he was taped up with bubble wrap and a helmet stronger than diamond. But it's not Snape's place to step in. He watches from the shadows, a puzzled countenance, as he drifted through the school like a ghost.
He noticed Snape's eyes, of course. It was the first time that they were pointed at him and not contemptuous. He wondered why. Did Snape know? But how could Snape know if he didn't even have an inkling of what it was?
Did he know anything, really?
Perhaps. There were a few signs that hadn't been cleaned up. But he ignored it. He wasstrong, stronger than this. It couldn't be anything like that. He would know if it was, right?
He was weak. He had gotten a little flash of something the other day. He'd been cautious in identifying it, but there was no denying that he had seen that room. The Defense classroom. He frowned. Why there? He loved that classroom; Defense was his best subject. It was safe. So why...
He wasn't an idiot. He knew there was something off. Something in his mind. It twisted gruesomely, grotesquely, ugly as his cupboard was small. He was still strong, but he started to feel a flicker of fear.
The first time he collapsed was in Potions. Thankfully, the potion he'd fallen into had only been a Stomach-Calming Draught. Snape had sneered at him from above his bed in the Hospital Wing. He was told that he had been there for six days, unresponsive, but the student Madam Pomfrey had in the bed next to him wouldn't meet his eyes. Madam Pomfrey had cleared him after another three days and several tests from the resident Potions Master.
Since he'd left the Hospital Wing, he'd taken to avoiding Snape. Skipping Potions, sneaking into the kitchens or asking Dobby instead of going to the Great Hall. Some instinct didn't want to meet up with that obviously worried figure.
It worried him greatly. What could be so wrong with him as to worry Snape? But he didn't have an answer, except for the disgusting, whirling mass in his head.
Next came avoiding his friends when they had asked too many questions he couldn't answer. He didn't know why he felt so defensive, but he had and there was no going back. Hermione was hurt, then wasn't talking to him. Ron was resentful, but he followed Hermione. He felt like crying, though his tears had long since dried up for his friends. Why did he feel like crying?
It was obvious that something was more seriously wrong with him. Why was it always him? Why didn't he get a break, just this once? He didn't meet anyone's eyes. If he had, he might have noticed the worry his Head of House had worn ever since he fainted in Transfiguration last week, and that Dumbledore's had lost their omnipresent twinkle when his eyes swept over his head. He would have noticed that Snape no longer tried to disparage him, only to provoke a reaction. Any reaction.
He had been in almost a daze. The roil in his head was getting worse, twining in all shades of colors, stealing over him like a fatal illness, anguish. Like always, he noticed nothing when it happened, only that it got worse every so often.
Any more and he would break. And then he heard the word that had haunted him. That spell. It was on his tongue, bitter as black coffee. Obliviate.
An image of Gilderoy Lockhart flashed behind his eyes, noticeable to him even in his current stupor. Revulsion. What had Lockhart done? What could he have done? Why...why did it feel so cold? Angular? Why did it hurt? What hurt? Was he in detention again? Was it going to hurt again?
He fell to his knees and ended up in a fetal position. He wasn't aware enough to know that Hermione and Ron weren't mad at him any longer, just so very worried. That was worse, perhaps. He didn't recognize concern for him. They were strangers in familiar skins, then not so familiar. He didn't see them. But he felt their hands on his shoulders, wrapped around his back. Later, they picked him up and he. couldn't. move. So he lashed out at them.
He would apologize later, perhaps, but for now he had no clue, he'd had no idea...he was lost...what had Lockhart done?
No, that wasn't his question. Not at all. Why? A sob racked his frame, and another, and he. couldn't. breathe.
He'd known something was wrong, seriously wrong, but he shied away from this in his head. It wasn't that. It couldn't have been that. But there was nothing else it could be. And it was seared into the backs of his eyelids. It was real. It was real. Harry screamed, but silently. no. one. would. ever. know.
Just like no one had any idea that Harry Potter did anything but address envelopes for Professor Lockhart's fan mail during detentions. Except for Professor Lockhart, of course, and his giggling, perverted, pedophilic self-portraits. And that was just the way it was.
This is a response to the Magical Objects Challenge : Pensieve.
It is also a response to the Wand Woods Challenge : Black Walnut.