For the hundredth (second) time, thanks toeveryone at DLP, my supermegafoxyawesomehot beta, IdSayWhyNot, and everyone who has reviewed, will review, and is reviewing right now. And even to everyone who doesn't review, but favourite or alert-lists this story or myself. Although no words are exchanged, that's still a thumbs-up of approval, and I'm glad to see that you liked this enough to want to read more.
...I talk too much. I'll stop doing that now with just one quick warning: as the end of the last chapter suggested, we're now moving into Harry telling the story. As such, it's in first person, narrated by Harry. I hope this chapter lives up to expectations!
Flames roared around the edge of the chamber, filling the room with a stifling heat. While I had no idea where this was within the castle, it felt as if it was more an underground cavern than a hidden corner of a school. My nostrils stung and water gathered in my eyes as arid blasts of air billowed outwards from the tongues of flame dancing between bare stone walls and my very flammable self. I was not alone, but the other person in the room was far less vulnerable than I felt.
The inhuman face of Voldemort studied me from the back of Quirrell's head. Grey, scaly skin ran across Quirrell's bald head and Voldemort's face as if he was afflicted by a particularly horrific disease that was slowly inching its way out from Voldemort to consume Quirrell. This alone caused the hairs on the nape of my neck to stand on end, and my stomach to roil.
I stared at my own reflection in the mirror behind Voldemort. I couldn't look at him. I couldn't stand the sight of his grotesquely twisted visage, or the way his – Quirrell's – arms hung limply, pointing in the wrong direction for his head.
He bared his teeth in an insidious smile, eyes glistening yellow and red with the reflection of firelight and magic. I didn't dare look away, towards the only way out of this death trap; an exit I knew to be blocked by a raging wall of Quirrell's making. As much as I hoped for a way out, there was no denying that I was caught fast in a flaming web, where Voldemort was the spider. The only way out was death. As I stared death in the face, I resolved to find a different way.
With nothing more than a face to carry his presence, he carried more cold menace than anything else I had ever encountered. I knew that I wouldn't be able to escape even if the walls of flame subsided. Voldemort's mere presence – the utter fear that it inspired – was intoxicating.
"Tell me, Harry," he whispered in a low voice that carried across the chamber as if he stood beside me, causing me to jerk involuntarily, and grasp my wand in a white-knuckled grip. "Would you like to see your mother and father again?"
I froze.
This was not what I had expected. I don't know what I had expected, but whenever I had thought of Voldemort in the past, my nightmares, waking or otherwise, were filled with harsh, manic laughter, fear, and hate.
"It was never my wish for any harm to come to your family – your real family," Voldemort continued. "Your father came from one of the oldest and most respected wizarding families, and your mother was a close friend to a man who fought faithfully beside me to fulfil my dreams of a better world. When I came to your house that night, all I wanted was their aid. I wanted them to join me, Harry, not to stand against me with raised wands."
Voldemort sounded sincere, but I could find no good in his lie. Whether he came looking for slaves or enemies to destroy, he had still murdered them in cold blood. I refused to believe a word that he said, no matter how easy he made it sound.
"You're lying," I said, still clutching onto my wand. I shifted my weight slightly, onto my back foot, getting ready to run. There was nowhere to run to, but I couldn't just stand there, waiting to die. I would fight until the end, even if I had to club him raw and bloody with the Philosopher's Stone itself. "My parents would never join you. That's why you killed them."
"I had no choice, Harry," he said, a tone of regret creeping into his words. I stiffened at the sound of it, hating him for sounding so real. "Believe me when I say that I deeply regret what came to pass that night."
I found myself inexplicably studying the gruesome nature of Voldemort's face. He truly did look like the victim of an awful disease, rather than the type of person who would create it with foul magic.
Sympathy for his plight trickled out of me. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to live as he had, less than a ghost for almost as long as I had lived.
His presence was still intimidating, but it seemed different; human.
I didn't like the change. It felt deliberate.
This sympathy couldn't be real. I took a step backwards, away from his damning influence, as if it would help.
"What are you doing to me?" I snapped, hating Voldemort for making himself human, and making himself harder to hate. I tried to force away the magic I imagined twisting my thoughts, but the effort did nothing but make me dizzy. I didn't know if it succeeded. I didn't really know if it had been needed at all.
"I, Harry? I am only speaking the truth. You can feel it, can't you? The way that everything I say seems so right, so perfectly logical? You are an extraordinary young wizard, just as I once was. I can see much of myself in you. There is greatness waiting to emerge, if only you choose to let it. Will you let your parents' sacrifice be a price paid in vain, or will you continue to fight for a better world, as they did?
A strange expression ghosted across Voldemort's face. If he had been anyone else, I would have called it regretful.
"They were not bad people, but simply misguided. It was not their fault that they chose the wrong man's dreams to believe in."
I pulled out my wand, pointing it as steadily as I could at Voldemort.
"Stop it," I demanded; urgently, angrily.
"I would still have them with me – with you, if I could. It's not possible, not now, but together we can eventually bring them back. All I need is to have a body once more – I need to live, before I can help others do the same. You can help me there, Harry."
My hand crept down to my pocket, seemingly of its own accord, and I took out the glistening ruby stone; a misshapen gem of incredible power. It was heavier than its size would suggest, and as cold to touch as glass. Heavier still was the burden of carrying it – a burden that Voldemort was all too happy to relieve me of. I turned it over in my hands, and looked up to see Voldemort staring at it hungrily. A flash of white-hot anger burned at the sight of his desire for the Stone. I hated the idea of it in his possession. It wasn't just from a wish to keep its incredible magic out of his grasp, but more a petty urge to stop somebody that I hated from getting his hands on something that he so desperately craved.
"That is it," he whispered. I gave a start at the awe in his voice. "Do you know what lies within your hands? Wars have been fought at the merest hint of that stone's existence, wars the likes of which the world has not seen in hundreds of years. There were more, once, but they were all hunted down and destroyed until only the alchemist's master copy remained."
Voldemort broke off in a wistful sigh. Intrigued, I tore my gaze away from the Stone, and looked up at him. He was staring at it with a distant, longing expression. In the mirror, Quirrell caught me watching Voldemort, and raised an eyebrow.
"Flamel was a jealous man," he said at last, before turning to me. A commanding tone crept into his voice, the same I'd heard him use with Quirrel. "Give me the stone."
I opened my mouth to tell him where I'd like to shove the Stone, thrown off track by the sudden demand. Something stopped me. I had a nasty suspicion that it was whatever he'd been doing to me moments ago, with honeyed words and a poisonous charisma.
No. I couldn't ever side with him, ever give him the stone. He had killed my parents, and everyone that I had ever trusted told me that he was the embodiment of all evil.
But he'd offered to put right the only bad thing he'd done to me.
He offered to bring them back.
And I wanted to see them again. It pained me to admit it, but I knew that there was only one answer I could give. I gave the wrong one.
"Okay," I whispered, my mouth as dry as the air. Quirrell stiffened, and let out an excited hiss behind Voldemort's hideous face. Voldemort's eyes widened for a split second in surprise, so quickly that I almost missed it.
"You have made the right decision; chosen to stand by a prophet of magic as we chase the shadows out of a weary world. You will be loyal, child. I reward those who show great loyalty. Anything you wish can be yours in my new world, Harry," he said, speaking in a slow, almost hypnotic voice, laden with promises so unimaginable that I feared they were lies. "You will stand by my side, your power surpassed only by my own, and your parents will live again. All this, and more, if only you give me the stone."
It was too late to take back my choice. My decision could never be undone.
Before I knew it, I was standing so close to Voldemort and his host that I could have reached out and touched the misshaped, unnatural skin that separated master and puppet. The sight of it this close made bile rise in my throat. I stifled the urge to gag at the bitter taste that touched and teased at my tongue, trying to let my uneasy stomach settle itself. I didn't dare show such obvious weakness in front of Voldemort, of all people.
Quirrell turned. I could see Voldemort's face in the mirror, watching my reflection as a cat watches a mouse. I shivered.
Quirrell held out his hand and stared down at me. With a heavy heart, I placed the stone in his palm. He let out a long sigh, and wrapped his fingers around it tightly. A shadow seemed to lift from his face.
"Thank you," he whispered. Voldemort's laughter muffled part of Quirrell's words as he lifted the stone up behind his back, for his master to see.
"Yes, Harry!" Voldemort hissed ecstatically. "Thank you so very much indeed."
I expected to feel terrible, but there was only an awful emptiness inside me. The abyss had opened its maw and swallowed what little remained of my pride. I had failed. Nobody could call me the saviour of the wizarding world again, not after this. I felt my lips quirk in a bitter smile. At least that idiocy would be gone from my life.
"My parents," I said, managing to force the words out from my treacherous throat. "You said that you'd bring them back. Do it."
I clamped my mouth shut just in time to stop a hungry please from running loose. Voldemort laughed again, and I felt something inside me flare up in anger. He wouldn't go back on his words – he couldn't! He may have been a treacherous snake, but he had to want me for something, or he'd have just killed me, and taken it from my dead hands.
"Harry, Harry, you are so very young and foolish. Greatness is earned, not given, and to turn back the cold touch of death is among the greatest feats of magic – greater by far than an eleven year old boy."
"I gave you the stone!" I exclaimed, my voice rising almost to a shout.
To my surprise, it was Quirrell who came to my defence.
"Master – the boy will have many uses, if loyal," he said. Voldemort hissed in wordless agreement.
"Will you be loyal, boy? Or will you betray me to Dumbledore? Will you die a martyr, never to see your mother and father again?"
I closed my eyes to stop the hot prickling that had erupted beneath their lids.
"Yes," I whispered. Please forgive me, Mum, Dad. "I won't tell Dumbledore anything."
Something pressed against my forehead suddenly. I snapped my eyes open to see Quirrell holding his wand against me.
"I will give you a false memory. When Dumbledore asks you what happened, you will speak of this, and not mention any hint of true events. Are we clear?"
I nodded, causing the wand to push a little harder into my skin. It hurt, not much, but an apt reminder of the danger that stood before me – not that I could ever forget, especially with a wand pointed right at me. Quirrell twisted the wand sharply and a wave of dizziness overcame me. I stumbled, and almost fell. Quirrell reached out an arm to steady me, but Voldemort hissed at him to stop.
"Let the boy learn to stand on his own two feet, or I have no use for him."
"As you wish, my master," said Quirrell, stepping away from me. I looked up at him, confused. This was the man who had tried to kill me so many times over the year, or so he claimed, and he appeared to want to help me. It didn't matter, not much. I had something more important on my mind – Voldemort.
"Now, Potter," said Voldemort, watching me through the mirror. "If you manage to make your way back up to the school intact, you may yet be reacquainted with the ones you seek. For now, I must unlock the secrets of this relic, and recover my strength. Quirrell! Let us leave this castle...for now."
Quirrell turned away from me, to face himself in the mirror as he slowly rewrapped his turban around Voldemort's wide, inhuman eyes.
The flames wreathing across the walls of the chamber slowly began to recede, dimming into dark shadows flickering in corners, and black sparks deeper than the dark. Quirrell snapped his fingers, and the shadows, the sparks, the remnants of his magic rushed towards him. A cold breeze tickled my skin, and I gave an involuntary shudder. The exhilarating, intoxicating, unfamiliar magic surrounded Quirrell in a threatening nimbus, seeming to suck the light from the chamber. Standing so close to him, I felt the very edges of it caress my skin like a brush of addictive static.
A sharp crack tore through the air. Behind him, the mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, each tumbling to the floor, and reflecting the firelight to look like tiny pieces of the Philosopher's Stone, a thousand drops of frozen blood for the thousand lives that I feared my actions this day would extinguish.
I watched in morbid fascination as Quirrell clenched his fists, causing the magic to seep into his body. Only moments later, it had disappeared completely from view, although I could still feel a lingering wisp of power in the air.
"Potter," said Quirrell, striding past me. "My master has set you a test. Survive it, and you will be given that which you crave."
A rush of anger and frustration welled up inside, nowhere and everywhere at the same time. I had betrayed everything I had learned this year since discovering what it was to be a wizard, and that was not price enough for even a glimpse of my parents. In that moment, I felt utterly useless. I knew that there was little else I could have done, and that had I not, he would simply have taken the Stone from me by force, but cold logic did little in the face of white-hot guilt.
"Potter!" snapped Quirrell, standing at the entrance to the chamber, still facing away from me. "I dislike leaving my debts unpaid. You will survive." He half-turned his head and levelled me with a meaningful look. "Fire will help you do so."
He had left before I had time to ask what he meant. I was terrified, alone, in the dark, and faced with an unknown challenge that would very likely kill me. I did the only thing I could: survive.
All my life, I had survived. I had survived a killing curse as a baby, and life in a cupboard at the Dursleys. I had survived awe and ridicule at Hogwarts, and I would damn well survive this. I wasn't a little boy, coddled by his daddy's purse-strings like Draco Malfoy or Dudley Dursley. I was the Boy-Who-Lived, and nothing, not even the Dark Lord himself would stop me. In giving him the Stone, I had hit rock bottom, but I had survived an encounter with him for the second time. There was nowhere lower to go but death, and I would not die. Not here. Not now.
I gritted my teeth, and set with the determination that had led me down here in the first place, I took my first step upwards, out of the chamber. The next step was easier. I soon stood at the grate of black flame that blocked the entrance – only the flames were no longer there.
As soon as I stepped past the archway, however, the flames roared back into life, hungrily tonguing the air. I glanced back over my shoulder at them. Dumbledore had gone to a lot of wasted effort in building this gauntlet of defences. Either he'd meant for them to be overcome, or maybe, just maybe, I was that damn good. I couldn't help it. I laughed aloud from the sheer incredulity of the situation. After my confusion and fear in the mirror chamber, the simple satisfaction of having beaten Dumbledore's defences seemed like an incredible rush of victorious joy.
I was Harry Potter. At one year old, I had defeated both Voldemort and death. An obstacle course couldn't stop me, no matter who made it.
My laugh soon drew attention that I didn't want.
There was a troll in the next chamber.
A dead troll.
Standing.
Lumbering towards me, it looked as dead as I would be if it came too close. Blood had poured thickly out of a nasty gash on its head, lending it a pale, sickly pallor in comparison to the heavy colouring of the troll I had rescued Hermione from at Halloween, and building a mottled clot of congealed gore on the side of its head. The troll's slow, unnatural movements shook the large clot out of place, and thick clumps of it broke loose. Thin streams of blood trickled out from where the clot had broken, providing bright red highlights against the dried brown of older blood.
It was a fresh corpse, but couldn't pass for living. The shambling gait as it dragged its legs, the dull, lifeless eyes, and the silence when there should have been breath all screamed out a sense of utter wrongness.
Adrenaline spiked. My mind raced. My heart raced faster. I remembered the first troll I'd fought. I'd had help, but I'd done it. I could do it again. I could beat it. I could survive!
I pointed my wand at the club held loosely in the troll's lifeless hand.
"Wingardium leviosa!" I shouted, making two swift movements with my wrist; first a swish, to gather the magic, and then a flick, to send the thickly-hewn wood hurtling upwards in my grasp.
The club followed the motion of my wand perfectly. I sucked in a quick breath through teeth bared in a vicious grin, and released the spell. The club tumbled down, turning once, and collided roughly with the side of the troll's head. The troll lurched backwards from the force of the blow, but kept on coming.
"Wingardium leviosa!"
I stabbed my wand furiously at the club, and drove it through the air in a practiced, rushed, simple motion. The troll was getting closer. Once the club was firmly in my magical grasp, I spun my arm in a wide arc, sending it flying across the chamber, and smashing into the side of the troll's head. It stumbled, but kept coming. I flicked my wand again, in the opposite direction, and gave the troll a thicker blow from the other side.
Thick meaty sounds accompanied each blow. I kept on darting my wand around from side to side, beating the troll as hard as I could. I knocked the troll from one side to the other, and a patina of gore began to develop on the surface of the club. Despite the viscous stains on the club, flung across the room by my frantic swings, and slowly running down the length of the wood, the troll seemed more or less unfazed.
Its head was beginning to fall out of shape, collapsing in on itself like a deflated ball. I swung my wand again, forcing all the will I could muster onto the club and a violent crunch resonated beyond the spongy thump of wood on flesh.
The sound made my stomach heave. A cold sweat broke out on my arms and back, and I touched a nervous tongue to dry lips.
Even this did no good. Blood on the club slowly replaced itself with flecks of white, and a horrible unfamiliar substance that I guessed was part of its brain. As the gory mixture got crushed together under the force of another swing, and another, and another, more and more chips of bone mixed with thick liquids and chunks of bloody flesh torn loose from the troll to form a pink dripping coat on my stolen weapon.
I backed away until I could feel the hard press of cold stone against my back, icy to the touch even through my thick robes, and with the doorway of fire burning so close.
"Verdimillious," I muttered, desperately. A bolt of green light shot out the end of my wand, colliding harmlessly with the troll's chest. I cursed. The troll was almost upon me.
I knew so little magic that it was infuriating. The most complex spell I knew would turn the club into a three-legged stool, but that would do even less good than the club, no matter how pointy I made the legs.
Quirrell's words came to mind, and I remembered Hermione freeing us from the Devil's Snare.
"Incendio!"
A jet of flame shot out the tip of my wand, straight at the troll. It stopped moving closer. My spell didn't even reach it, but petered out inches from its grotesque, bloody corpse. I took a step closer, and my spell touched the troll, just barely. At last! Sparks danced across the troll's thick, magic-resistant skin, stubbornly at first, but then my spell caught onto the thick animal-hide attempt at clothing that was all either troll I'd seen had worn.
Foul-smelling black smoke rose from the burning hide, and the troll staggered backwards, faster than I'd seen it come at me. The smell of singed hair caused my eyes to water, and reminded my nostrils that the awful stench of the troll hadn't caused them to shut down, after all.
It was useless. The troll lurched away from me for the few precious seconds that it took to reduce its rough clothing into a heap of ash, but only the sparse hairs covering the troll's body would burn under the force of my spell. I couldn't get it to catch alight as I had hoped. I cursed again, wishing I knew another fire spell.
I didn't. There was no time left. My arsenal of spells was abysmal. I had to make do with what I had.
All I had was a lump of gory wood and the room I stood in, trapped between black flame, stone walls, and a shambling nightmare. As the brief fire that had consumed its clothes dwindled into nothing more than a stinging in my nostrils as I breathed in smoke, the troll began its lumbering advance once more.
I had nowhere left to run; no secret spells, or magical aces hidden up a sleeve. I stood there numbly, frozen, afraid. My heart pounded so quickly, so furiously, that I could feel the blood thrumming in my ears, hear it pulsing in a rapid thumping as loud and chaotic as each crushing blow that I had made with the club. I opened my eyes wide in terror as it drew ever closer, faster than the first time, as if my incendio had jolted it closer to life.
The dead beast before me threw up an arm thick and strong enough to crush me into the same gory pulp that decorated the club. I saw nothing in its eyes.
I saw death in its fist.
And then I saw fire.
The final defence before the mirror room, flame as black as the troll's lifeless eyes, still reared and flickered in the archway. I knew, in that moment, that I was going to die.
"Wingardium leviosa," I murmured, no longer caring to shout my incantations. My mouth was dry from heat, desperation, anger, frustration, and a dozen emotions that I could scarcely name. But I was still alive.
Faster than I'd ever moved a wand before, I whipped the slender stick towards the archway, pulling on every instinct, every lightning-quick reflex honed from Quidditch and dodging Muggle fists.
I flicked my wand in a neat circle, spinning the club within the archway, dousing it in the black flames guarding the entrance to the mirror's chamber. It worked! Black fire wreathed the club, a halo of burning destruction. I had to move fast. I spun, tearing the club through the air with every remnant of determination that I could muster. The flames clung to it from the archway, as if reluctant to release their prey. On impulse, I expanded the levitation charm to include a hefty chunk of the flame, and thrust it forwards with every ounce of my power and focus.
A monstrous wave of flame wrapped around a solid core rushed past me, biting and crushing at the troll. I threw up a hand to protect my eyes from the sudden burst of roaring heat. My heart raced.
I pulled back my wand, and the club with it. Most of the flame remained with the troll, ripping and gouging with vehemence as if it were alive, and I hesitated, awed by the vicious enchantments that Dumbledore had laid upon the fire.
My hesitation didn't last long.
I thrust my wand out like a rapier, and tore the burning club through where I imagined the troll's heart to be. The damned creature still refused to die. But I refused to let it live.
Three sharp blows of the club and a particularly well-aimed jab at its kneecaps later, the troll stumbled and fell. The ground shook ominously under its weight. I stood, panting, a few feet away from it with my wand still raised. It was the first thing that I'd ever killed, and it felt good; better than I could have possibly imagined.
I wanted to fall myself, to sit, to lie down, to rest, but I couldn't. Not here. My heart still thundered, but it was a fading beat. My knees quivered, once, and I nearly fell. The need to fight was all that had kept me going. Exhaustion washed over me.
The fallen corpse lay on the ground, unmoving. It seemed dead – really dead, this time – but still I skirted the edge of the chamber, doing my best to avoid coming anywhere near it.
An oversized hand grabbed at my leg.
"Incendio!" I shouted frantically. My robe caught on fire, and the fingers loosened enough for me to pull it free. I ignored the agonizing burning across my leg, and ran.
The fire seared at my skin until I had reached the chamber filled with flying keys, where I tripped, and landed face first on the cold stone floor. The harsh contrast of cold stone against hot, burnt skin shook me out of my terror. I ripped off my robes, and tossed them to one side. My glasses had struck the ground hard, and one of the lenses had fallen out. I couldn't find it. I didn't look. I needed out far more than I needed to see.
I left my glasses and robes where they had fallen, and limped over to a broom, wincing every time my foot touched the ground, or brushed against the ragged jeans that I had been wearing beneath my robes.
Flying had always come easily to me, but now, I couldn't muster the energy to throw a leg over the broom. I leaned against it for a moment, and tried to remember how to breathe properly. It wasn't easy. Something was caught in my throat. I swallowed, in an attempt to clear my throat, and fell into a helpless coughing fit.
Inhaling that much smoke couldn't be healthy. Especially not with the little lumps of burnt troll floating around in it.
When the coughing fit subsided, I wiped a hand across my mouth to remove the small flecks of spittle that dotted my lips. My hand came away smeared in red. I tried not to think about what the red stain was, and hoped that there wasn't too much of it on me.
I decided not to look in a mirror until after I'd had a shower. And a bath. And a swim in the lake. With the realization that I was spattered in gore had come a disgusting feeling that I was unclean. It felt like a layer of grime had suddenly appeared beneath my clothes, fitting me like a second skin.
The need to get out of here and get the stains off helped give me enough energy to slip one leg over the broom, and push off. I only used my uninjured leg, and the broom spun to one side dangerously, threatening to careen out of my control.
I managed to steady it after a few moments.
As I flew out of the chamber, the stench of death and smoke followed me.
The pungent aroma lingered past the Devil's Snare, and through the trapdoor. I tossed the broom to one side, not looking to see where it landed; not caring enough to want to.
A three headed dog growled, feet away. I couldn't be bothered dealing with it. I pointed my wand without looking in its general direction.
"Incendio."
I laughed at the sound of three identical yelps, and a sudden hefty thud as Fluffy bounded away from the fire.
But I still didn't look. I just walked out of the door, and kept walking.
I could still smell death.
I could still smell smoke.
I wondered if the smells would never fade.
Students flinched and stared as I walked past, ogling my ragged, bloodstained state. I kept walking, one step after another. Somebody shouted my name, but I didn't recognize the voice, or even notice that they had spoken until I'd walked past them. It was too late to reply when I noticed, so I simply didn't bother.
Something tugged at my robes. For one heartrending moment I thought it was the troll, and whipped my wand behind me. The tugging stopped, and I realized what a foolish idea that was. My heart didn't stop racing. My thoughts were as slow and sluggish as my heartbeat was fast.
A hand covered my own and gently guided my wand to point at the floor. I stared at the point that my wand was trained on, before looking up.
"Harry?"
Dumbledore.
The one person I most needed to see and most needed to avoid. He sounded concerned; I told myself that he wouldn't if he knew what I'd done. I had Voldemort's lie to protect me. With Dumbledore so close, I could feel it writhing at the forefront of my mind. False images of Voldemort, Quirrell, and myself flashed before my eyes, and I heard the three of us all speak at once, a dozen words from each mouth in a deafening cacophony to match the kaleidoscope of lies filling my vision.
"Harry?" he repeated. I couldn't see him beyond the pictures planted into my mind, could hardly hear him over the sound of my own voice, of Quirrell's, of Voldemort's.
"Voldemort," I muttered, exhausted guilt lacing my words. It was all the explanation I could give, right then. For Dumbledore, it was enough. Dizziness overcame me before he could speak again.
"Harry!" exclaimed Dumbledore as I stumbled and my vision swam. He grasped my arms and held me upright until my footing was steady again. "I'm taking you to the Hospital Wing. Can you walk?"
I nodded, not trusting my tongue. The cold weight of guilt dug deeper.