Mental Health issue:/b Autophobia, anxiety, depression, possible psychosis. Originally written for LJ's "Mental Health Fic Fest", with a prompt by chuffed4angst. Thank you!
Warnings: dark fic. contemplating loss of self, descriptions of blood (though not graphic), and similar to canon- violence.
Autophobia
Something's wrong with my head. Harry almost said. The words teetered on the tips of his teeth, rocking him back into the wall. I don't feel like myself, he wanted to tell them. He had told them, repeatedly over the past several years.
It was a familiar pattern, but not a comforting one. He sat in the waiting room of St. Mungo's for the umpteenth time, watching the Harassed-Healers stare at him when they thought he wasn't looking. It was the fourth time in as many weeks, and this, too, worried him. He closed his eyes. All those times, all those years were starting to blur together. What else could he say? What'll it take for you to believe me?
"Mr. Potter? We're ready to see you now." One matronly witch said. Her professionalism was remarkable considering that she was the one who'd told him last time; 'You need to give yourself more time, my dear. You ought to consider talking with a friend or colleague you trust.'
Away from prying eyes, she waved her wand check Harry's vitals. She scribbled busily on a parchment, summoned a file with a wave of her hand, and sighed at him. "Mr. Potter," she said severely, "perhaps it is not my place to tell you this, but as your Mediwitch, I must inform you that you are grossly underweight. The Auror department—"
Harry's head swam. "That's not why I'm here. It isn't—it's not important. Madam Waylace, I—I'm possessed." He blinked several times, trying to catch his rising emotions. Tried to look past the rims of black at the corner of his eyes. "Something is in my head." He said fiercely, willing her to understand.
Madam Waylace stared at him. "Mr. Potter." She said firmly. "We had you in just last week checking for curse damage. The week before was Magical Maladies, and the month before you reported a history with Artifact Accidents of a Dark nature. None of our specialists could find any sign of an outward presence, be it accident induced, parasitical, or fever-dreams. What would you like us to check for this time?" She asked crisply.
Harry held her gaze stubbornly. "I know what it feels like to be possessed." Convincing her was hardly any different than working with the Auror department, like filling out a report concerning a crime he'd discovered on a hunch. And trying to explain how he got there to his supervisor. In spite of differences in opinions with the rule-bound higher ups, Harry Potter was known for his keen senses in the field. He'd turned in a fair number of Dark Wizards even as a junior Auror which just proved to Harry how his insticts were still right. He was right about this too, he knew it.
"I have proof." He insisted. "Last night—" the panic welled in his stomach, spiraling up his throat and into his mouth, choking him.
"Yes?" the Healer asked, softly this time.
"I lost control." He said just as quietly. He shut his eyes, pushing the terror down. Harry was going to kill him. The wizard, who moments before had been staring him down, spitting filthy insults, stared up at Harry blankly. He'd done just as Harry had asked; dropped his wand and stepped right into the stunning spell. It was as though Harry'd cast the Imperius. "I apprehended a wizard with more force than necessary, and I—I didn't care at all."
Madam Waylace put the parchment down. "I think we would have heard about something like that. If you're concerned now, I think it shows a remarkable amount of empathy, especially for—"
"I musthavecasttheImperiusCurse. Without meaning to, I mean. Wordlessly, too. It was just—I would never have done that."
Madam Waylace's lips thinned. She held out her hand. "My Oaths of Confidentiality only go so far, you do realize." She said dryly. "Present your wand, and I shall cast Priori Incantatem. In the unlikely event that you have indeed done this thing, well…you know the procedure better than I, surely."
Harry nodded wordlessly. He gave her the Holly-and-Phoenix wand, thinking of how Voldemort had cast just that curse on countless people… He watched in numbed silence.
His wand did not betray its secrets though. He supposed that like young Tom Riddle, it had been sheer act of will—not a spell then. But still, what he had done was not forgivable.
Madam Waylace started to talk about how Harry 'musn't be so hard on yourself,' and, 'you must have been mistaken.'
"Aside from your weight," Waylace said, "I see nothing wrong with you. But I shall have Healer Lancelot look at you. Please wait."
Harry watched her go, shaken and unsatisfied.
Healer Lancelot walked in, his expression placid. "Hello again Harry. How are you feeling?"
Harry shot a glare at him. "Not bloody well, except you lot are determined to say there's nothing wrong with me."
"And what appears to be the problem?"
"I've been possessed." Harry barely managed to avoid shouting. "What else do you want me to say?"
Lancelot nodded, unperturbed. "How long have you felt this way? When did your symptoms first appear?"
Every day since the Battle. Every time I look in the empty darkness of the woods, and in the quiet of my mind. Ever since I knew about the Horcrux.
Aloud, he said, "I don't know."
"Well, I'm sure you're aware that the Wizarding World has seen some major advancements in the Healing field. With many of your classmates having gone off to medi-school, seeking outside treatment for various war-related traumas, psychosis, and—"
Harry, fighting to stay calm, interrupted him with a hallow laugh. "Are you telling me I'm crazy? Well, isn't that a laugh…we're right back to where we started in the middle of the war. But I wasn't crazy then, and I'm not crazy now. Just because you can't see the danger, doesn't mean it's—"
"We have done extensive tests. You remain unhappy because of all of these unfounded fears, and quite frankly, I think you have some psychological issues to sort through. I did not say you're crazy." He said firmly. "Having problems and being mentally crippled are two decisively different things, don't you agree? Now, the Healers and I have been discussing your case, and we'd like to put forward a diagnosis."
Harry leaned forward, heart racing. "Yes?"
"Autophobia." Lancelot said softly, his professional expression breaking into a compassionate frown. "It's become rather apparent that your anxiety has spiraled out of control. You react badly to unexpected or unexplained noises, the detached sensation you describe yourself in when alone, as well as physical symptoms. Madam Waylace reports that you have been suffering heart palpitations which have not decreased in the past weeks. You hyperventilate, and you react very badly indeed to being left alone in the exam room. You do not trust yourself, either. Does this sound accurate to you, Mister Potter?"
Harry hesitated. "Auto…alone. You think this is fear of being alone?" He asked incredulously. He shook his head. "Absolutely not. I don't think that's right at all. I—I can handle being alone. It's just—" the room swam in front of him, threatening to plunge into darkness.
"In the literal sense of the term," the Healer said carefully, "you have an irrational fear of yourself. You understand that we have Confidentiality Oaths," Lancelot continued gently, "but your role as an Auror means that we are required to report any illness, etc, that might affect your position. It hasn't gotten to that point yet," he said quickly, "but your supervisor has begun to question us about paranoia."
"They said Moody was paranoid." Harry replied stubbornly. "They did. And he was the best Auror—"
"Please read this pamphlet." Lancelot interrupted again. "And consider seeing a specialist."
All at once, Harry's conviction drained away. He was shocked into numbness, and barely remembered any of what the Healers said on his way out.
o0o0o0o0o
"A package for you, Harry." Dawlish called from his desk. "Just came in. Were you expecting anything?"
Harry looked up from his report. "What? No, no, I—"
Across the room, something cracked against the walls. There was a shrill shriek and a burst of laughter as a shower of golden sparks sprinkled over a house-plant, and Harry shot a shield spell in that direction. The blue glow was so sudden and strong that it knocked the secretary, Miss Anson, into her desk. She stopped laughing immediately.
Harry had managed to freeze the sparks, but that seemed rather beside the point. Hillam, the only other junior-Auror in the vicinity, winced. Dawlish was in full-lecture mode, but none of the words registered with Harry. It was all noise.
His hands twitched. Finally, he muttered a, "Yes sir," when it was expected, and sank into the nearest chair. He couldn't think.
Someone walked forward, footsteps echoed across his senses. He was hyper-aware of everyone's position.
"Are you ok?" Miss Anson breathed, her face pink with embarrassment. "Sorry, I shouldn't have—I mean, well, I thought you knew it was my birthday. It was…a card. Just a message, you know…err, Harry?" She fussed with something in her hands. "Um. It's all right, by the way. I'm fine."
Harry shrugged. "Yes." He gestured at the house-plant. "That was what the shield spell was for."
She beamed at him. "I'm glad you thought I was worth protecting, but, errr, I doubt it'll be necessary in the future. Cheer up! Why don't you have your package now?" She pushed the brown parcel into his hands and winked. "Maybe it's from your sweetheart."
Harry ducked his head and looked at the package. Pathetic. He thought acidly. Can't even tell a celebration charm from a curse now, can we? How far the Golden Boy has fallen… He ran a hand through his hair.
"Wonder what it is." He said aloud. Everyone in the Auror Department thought he was off-his-rocker, did they? Well, he could open a package. Even if it didn't have a return address.
His fingers shook as he opened it, remembering other unmarked packages in his life. The cloak. Sirius's present. Draco Malfoy's attempt to Curse Dumbledore… He flicked his wand and the brown-paper fell away. It was a book, leather-bound and with dull-ivory paper. Facing your demons/u, the title read.
Harry resisted the urge to cast a Curse-Revealing charm on it. He didn't put up a shield, and he didn't remind anyone that he wasn't expecting a gift. Slowly, very slowly, he waved his hand over the cover as though testing the heat.
"I'm not paranoid." He said under his breath.
She slipped. The package fell out of its paper, touching her gloved hands by the slightest margin. There was an eerie lift of the wind, a hollow, voiceless scream that trembled on her lips, and she began to rise. Gracefully, beautifully. Her hair spread out like a soft halo, and her face relaxed. Her mouth opened in a silent scream
Spinning
round,round,round, and-/i
The book screamed. Harry shouted, his hands ghosting over the cover with another powerful charm on his lips. He wordlessly transfigured the brown paper, trying to encompass it again, but in his haste, he touched it. Just one little finger, the same as Katie.
it hurt. just as badly as his scar ever had.
He didn't know where he was. He watched the world drop away, and saw the blue-fire that raced up his hand and under his robes. It curled in his blood, and he thought he knew then what Dumbledore must have felt with his blackened arm. Then Harry opened his mouth, and he cast the spell that burned through his mind.
A piercing, white sound filled his ears, obliterating all other senses while Fiendfyre erupted from his wand. In seconds, the book was incinerated, the desk a pillar of smoke. Snakes spiraled thin and long, licking, tasting, reaching out for the next victim—
And he pulled it in. Harry Potter, who couldn't remember the words he'd said to call the fire to life, who didn't even know the incantation for Fiendfyre, controlled the flames. He screamed, remembering Crabbe before he died. The whole Room of Requirement was reduced to cinders in minutes, and he'd—
(it hurt.)
Dawlish wrapped his arms around Harry's chest, lifting him up and over the smoking rubble, only to slam him down and put up a shield charm that could have rivaled Harry's. He was shouting orders as he tore the sleeve away.
Harry couldn't breathe. He couldn't think.
"Harry? Harry can you hear us?"
After an age, icy relief washed over him as someone applied a cooling charm, and some kind of salve? What—
"What was in the package? Miss Anson reported a book, but your Incendio Charm seems to have done away with the evidence." Dawlish said rather too loudly.
Harry's head was swimming. Incendio? But Harry couldn't speak, couldn't move. Harry gasped silently, and began to say 'I shouldn't have touched it... Incendio? I thought—' but no words came out.
Around him, his colleagues stared and tried to reach for him. 'Don't touch me! It might have had a subtle curse- what if I'm cursed to kill whoever touches me?'/i Harry snatched his hand away.
But they didn't hear him. Two of the Aurors bent down together, putting their arms under Harry's. The Aurors lifted Harry to his feet, and Harry thought at once that he would die from the pain.
He jerked wildly, his mouth opening to scream. It was like the thinnest, sharpest of blades were being thrust into his body through his soles. Harry tried not to put any weight on his feet, unconsciously leaning into the two men who supported him. Blood pooled around his feet, making strange designs on the ground. There was something wet and shiny on the back of his hand- the hand that had touched the book. But the pain was too much, and Harry blacked out.
tbc...
This one was a challenge to write...there is surprisingly little information on Autophobia on the internet, so my main sources were actually for borderline-personality-disorder, and drawing on panic-attack experiences. Actually, it was really, really helpful to sit down and write what that feels like. What a surprise.
Thank you for reading! I hope you, er, 'enjoyed' the read.