Chapter 2
I'm dreaming, I know. Or hallucinating; there's not really much difference between the two.
Images flash in front of my eyes, showing my hopes, my dreams, and the moments they were all destroyed. The heartbreak is gone, but the bitterness will stay forevermore.
I see never-ending legions of Death Eaters all standing around a circle, wherein lie all the people I could have saved. Not surprisingly, the numbers seem to be in the millions, and most of the people I've never even met. They're screaming at me, screaming that I killed them, that their lives would have been so much better had I got something right for once.
There stands my legacy to the world. Innumerable people dead and a killer ruling a continent.
The Death Eaters grin, and are morphed into dementors. Immediately a barrage of memories assault me.
I am running, running and screaming through a burning castle. I've just watched the deaths of my two best friends, and been able to do nothing.
I am witnessing a building blowing up, thought to be a Death Eater base. Draco Malfoy is still inside.
I cast the crucio curse on Rudolphus Lestrange, and laugh as he screams. "Now you know how Neville's parents felt," I say.
I am bound and gagged to a chair, looking on as the new Death Eater Keleria cuts up pieces of Remus for his initiation ritual.
I stand, emptily staring at the vast wasteland, little wooden crosses dotted all around. In front of me is a cross with a scratched out name on it. "Hagrid," it says.
I lie stretched out on a cement block, writhing and screaming as Voldemort's two favorite Death Eaters torture me. They whisper how I kill everything that I love, how I've failed at everything I ever tried, how I will ever lie in torment thinking about lost hope.
One memory in particular stands out.
I'm standing on the ruins of what once was Hogwarts. It's not safe to be here, really, but I feel like I have to see my home just one more time before I move on.
Nearly Headless Nick floats over to me, and I turn, dully astonished that even ghosts could survive the siege.
"Nick," I say when he is next to me.
He looks at me blankly. "Who are you?" he asks. I'm not surprised he doesn't know me; I've changed a lot in the last few years.
I grin self-mockingly. "I'm sure you've heard if me, Nick. I'm the ever illustrious savior of the wizarding world, Harry James Potter."
"Harry... Potter?" Nick seems slightly confused. "I... don't know who..."
Surely his memory hasn't deteriorated that much? "Are you okay, Nick?" I ask.
"I... I remember screams," he says softly. "And death. And... blood. So much blood."
Ahh. It seems that Nick didn't get out unscathed after all.
"Everything's destroyed," he whispers. "There's nothing left, except for ghosts. It all went wrong, and I can't even leave this plain because nothing has been laid to rest. I... can't move on." His voice turns bitter. "I live even when I am dead."
His feelings are very similar to my own, I realise. We're both the ultimate survivors, watching while everything perishes around us.
Who'd have thought I'd have more in common with a ghost than a human?
The dementors are leaving now, and their memories with them. I am once again lost in a world of colour and sound, darkness surrounding the edges.
At one point I remember I'm supposed to be dead. I vaguely wonder why I don't feel at peace.
Strange creatures battle in a cracked and broken Colosseum, claws slashing and teeth gnashing. A little creature comes between them, and the monsters stop their battle for a moment and gang up on the smaller one. He is ripped to shreds immediately, and all that is left of him is a spot of blood, not even noticeable amongst all the other reddish-brown patches.
I swim through the subconscious of my mind, meeting apparitions and spectres along the way. People I'd only ever met once, or maybe only seen for a second, come up in front of me. Along with these are people I've known for all my life.
I come to a door, plain and unadorned. I watch it suspiciously for a moment, in case it suddenly decides to morph into a dementor. It doesn't immediately express a wish to become an animagus, so I come closer.
I hear the gentle murmur of words being said, but they're indistinct. I put my hand on the faded wood, and the talking becomes slightly clearer.
"–ong with him?" I gasp slightly; it's Snape! He's not dead! At least, I hope not.
"Oh Severus, Commander, it's horrible! I've never seen someone so messed up and yet still alive. I don't even want to talk about it, let alone try and fix him." That's Mme. Pomfrey, I realise. She sounds quite a bit different from when I last heard her. Then again, the last time I heard her she was screaming as she was crucio'ed, so there's not much to compare with.
"Just tell us his injuries, Poppy. I take it you've already started work on making him better?" My eyes widen – it's Albus!
"Yes, but it will need more than just me to make him heal completely. We'll need a whole squadron from St. Mungo's." She takes a deep breath, then, "Well, he's malnourished, to start with. It looks like he's been like that on and off throughout his life, but just recently it's got worse.
"There's bruises all over his body, and minor cuts. Some are recent, some older. There's many old scars on him. He's also got some first and second degree burns, and even one third.
"Both arms are dislocated, seriously, too. One leg is broken in... nine places, and the other is..."
"What?" Snape asks. He seems strangely agitated.
"The other is... cut into with a dagger, made into patterns. They're quite strange, too. Almost like someone was trying to carve a painting..."
Snape hisses inwardly, but doesn't offer information. Pomfrey continues. "Five of his ribs were cracked, but I've managed to fix all but two of them. It's a miracle that a lung wasn't ruptured, really.
"Many of his brain-cells had been destroyed, but Severus invented a cell replacer potion a few years ago, and I fixed that up. He also had a hairline fracture, but that's mostly gone now.
There's also the remnants of curses on his body; pain curses mostly. Almost all are Dark, but there are a few of the shadier Light one's, too. Oh, and he has a fever, which we should be able to get rid of fairly quickly. But honestly, he'll probably deal with the pain better when he's not fully coherent." Her voice turns amazed. "It's astonishing that he's survived, really. I don't know anyone who's been through all that and lived to tell the tale."
The door suddenly distorts, folding in on itself. I try to touch it again, wanting to once more hear familiar voices, but every time I come closer it gets further away. Then it is gone, and I am alone in endless blackness.
I should be used to being alone, I know. My last six months were spent in a prison, where no one was exactly kind and helpful. But at least then there were people around, letting me know that even though I was an absolute failure, I at least had an existence. Around here, I can almost believe that I am nothing, and mean nothing.
But I remind myself. I do mean things, just all the wrong things.
Then the nightmares come, and I think no more.
August 13th, 1997
Poppy Pomfrey looked up from her paperwork to see two boys standing at the door of her office.
The first was tall and gangly, still not properly grown into his body. His face was speckled with freckles, and his hair a bright red colour that marked him instantly out as a Weasley. The other was shorter – but still quite tall, with a slightly aristocratic look about him. He had designer clothes, black hair that was artistically messed up, and silver-rimmed rectangular glasses. His bright green eyes shone underneath.
Poppy sighed, and spoke impatiently. "Potter, Weasley. Who's stuck in a tree this time?" She was still getting over last time, when Miss Brown had climbed a giant oak tree before remembering that she was terrified of heights. She had then refused to climb down, or let anyone float her down, thinking that they would drop her. It was found out a week later that the two boys standing in front of her had dared the girl to do it.
Honestly, when would everyone realise that a war was going on? The two were about to start their last year, and they weren't even thinking about anything outside Hogwarts. Didn't they notice the peeling walls, the bordered up windows, the increasing defenses? Didn't they see that all the knights of armor were now stationed at the hogwarts gates, ready to use as a first defense to any unpleasant people trying to get into the school? Didn't they even fully realise that the decision to keep students over summer hadn't been used since the bubonic plague broke out in the middle ages?
She supposed she shouldn't be surprised. She'd learnt a long time ago that people only saw what they wanted to see.
Weasley looked slightly guilt, but Potter just brushed it off. "No one at the moment," he said, grinning. "But there is a bit of a problem. You see, Dennis and Colin Creevey were arguing over a rare photo of me, and the fight escalated into curses. They both need your assistance now."
Poppy sighed again, this time with irritation. Those brothers had been hopelessly in awe of Harry Potter ever since he saved Colin from Draco Malfoy in the boy's first year. Potter didn't discourage them either; he soaked up the attention like a sponge.
"I suppose I'd better check on them," she said, getting up. "But if I find that you two were involved in this, Filch's ancient torture instruments will seem pleasant compared to what I will do to you." It wasn't implausible; Potter and Weasley's penchant for mischief almost outdid that of the infamous Marauders. Not surprising, really, considering who Potter's father was.
Harry and Ron watched Mme. Pomfrey go out of the room, then turned and grinned at each other.
"That was almost too easy," Ron said.
Harry nodded. "Yeah. But Pomfrey thinks of her patients first, and stopping people from getting in her rooms second. And anyway, we're Gryffindors. We're trustworthy."
Ron stepped forward. "Hmm. Yeah. Hey, do you think there really is some secret patient somewhere around here? It could have just been a ghost that Seamus heard."
"No," said Harry decisively. "He didn't actually hear the person. He heard Dumbledore and Snape talking about him today, saying that he was 'mostly fixed up' or something like that. Dumbledore doesn't lie." He pointed to a door behind Mme. Pomfrey's desk. "The guy will be in there, if anywhere."
They walked to the door, and Ron tried to open it. Not surprisingly, it didn't budge.
Harry got his wand out. "Alohomora," he said, pointing it at the door. But there was no click as the lock unlocked, and when they tried to open it it stayed immovable.
"Damn," Harry said, and kicked the door.
"There's probably a key around here somewhere," Ron ventured. "Pomfrey didn't pick up anything as she left."
"Good idea," Harry approved. "Okay, then. Let's look for a key."
They searched around the office, lightly rifling through Mme. Pomfrey's things. Harry checked the desk while Ron went through the filing cabinets.
"Hey, mate!" Ron exclaimed. "There's a history of all the students' medical problems here, and all the times they've come to the Hospital Wing." He leafed through the files. "Hah. Yours is, like, twice the size of everyone else's. All that Quidditch, I suppose. Oooh, here's Ginny's." He looked in it. "Bloody – she got turned into a plank of wood and couldn't get changed back for a week! She never told any of us about that." He put the file back in the cabinet and randomly flicked through them all.
"Here's know-it-all Granger's. Wow, she got rabies once! Where the hell has she been? And," he gave a gasp of laughter, "oh Harry, come look! Malfoy's come here at least twenty times for acne problems! Doesn't help the bloody git any, though." There was no forthcoming answer, so Ron looked up. There was no sign of Harry, but the extra door in Poppy's office was slightly ajar.
Ron rolled his eyes; Harry would go inside a potentially dangerous room by himself. As much as he loved attention, he seemed to be forever needing to prove that he was brave, that he was courageous, that he was the ultimate Gryffindor.
Or maybe it was just that he wanted all the rewards.
Ron crept up to the room, and put his hand on the door. He gently pushed it open.
It was quite plain, considering it housed a secret patient. But then, it was Madam Pomfrey's room, so it shouldn't really be surprising that the room just looked like an extension of the hospital wing.
There was only one bed though, off to the right of the room. The blinds were drawn, but Ron could see Harry's legs poking out underneath. He walked towards the bed.
Harry was standing with his back to him, staring at the body on the bed. Ron's eyes were drawn to the man, and he sized him up.
He was quite scrawny really; he couldn't be any more that 5'8. A sheet was covering him to mid-waist, so his lower half was invisible. But Ron could see enough.
He was riddled with scars, cris-crossing all over his body. He was frightfully thin, and his veins stuck out prominently. There was one particular scar that was highly noticeable, as it was one of the deepest, and on his face. It started on the side of his forehead, in the shape of a lightning bolt. It kept going, though, through the side of his eye and down to the edge of his cheek.
He was clean, at least. His shoulder-length black hair was shiny, and his teeth were practically sparkling. But that couldn't hide the frown lines on his face, or the other signs of his torment.
He didn't even look old. Thirty at most.
"And Professor Dumbledore said he was mostly fixed up," Harry said, stunned.
With a bang, the outside door slammed shut. Footsteps could be heard, softly coming closer. Ron and Harry looked at each other in horror. Over the years at Hogwarts they'd catalogued the sounds of all the staff members, so they knew who was about to come up next to them without turning around. It also helped when sneaking around the castle after curfew, because they could tell if the person coming closer to them was likely to send them back to bed, give them a detention, or try and get them expelled.
There was no doubt about it. It was definitely Snape who was crossing Pomfrey's office, and closing in on the "secret" room.
Harry pulled Ron down next to him, and gestured. "Under the bed," he whispered furiously. Wasting no time, Ron complied, squeezing into the cramped space and shifting over to the far end so Harry could come in after.
The footsteps stopped at the doorway, and Ron realised he had forgotten to close the door behind him. He cursed under his breath.
"Poppy?" Snape called softly. Unsurprisingly, no one answered.
The door closed, and Snape walked forward. "Getting senile in her old age," he muttered.
He stopped at the curtain, and his black boots were visible. "That's strange," he murmured. Ron saw Harry tense, and remembered that the curtain hadn't been fully pulled back into it's position.
There was a slight jingle, and Ron recalled the keys still on the bedside table.
"Where–" Snape said, paused for a second, then "Oh..." Then all sounds of him completely vanished. If it weren't for the shoes still showing, Ron would have thought he'd vanished.
Ron was uncomfortably aware of the sound of his and Harry's breathing, and the sounds of their hearts. So, apparently, was Snape, because a few seconds later he was talking. "Come out, you two," he said.
Harry and Ron didn't move.
"I assure you, making me bend down and pull you out from beneath the bed would make your punishment one-thousand times worse than it will already be. Come. Out."
Slowly, Harry crawled out, Ron following. Snape stood silently, arms crossed, watching them stand up.
"Well, well, well," he said softly. "Potter and Weasley. I should have guessed." His face was even paler than usual, which Ron didn't take to be a good sign.
"Only you two," he said, "would have enough dumb luck to find such a closely kept secret that not even all Professors know about it. Only you two would be stupid enough to attempt to find out more about said secret. Only you two–"
"Sir, don't blame Ron," Harry cut in. "He didn't do anything; this was all my idea."
"Hey, that's not right!" Ron exclaimed. "I did just as many things wrong as you."
"Don't worry, Potter," Snape said nastily. "I know you thought up this little stunt; it reeks of arrogance and disregard of the rules. I can see you're taking after your father–"
"DON'T YOU TALK ABOUT DAD LIKE THAT!" Harry shouted immediately.
"My, my, Potter, what a big temper you have there. That will be thirty points for shouting at a Professor. We'll go up to the Commander now, shall we?"
Ron felt suddenly sick. In front of Dumbledore...
"– And fifty for going through a Professor's possessions, and forty for stealing a Professor's keys, and forty for entering a forbidden room, and twenty for hiding from a Professor. Oh, and ten for eavesdropping." Snape sounded positively gleeful. "Detentions until Christmas, rotating between Filch and I. That is if you don't get expel–"
A voice came from the bed, cracked and croaky. "Excuse me, but can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?"
