Harry Potter and the Year He Broke Free
Chapter Eighteen: Sunflowers
Harry snapped the book shut, and surveyed the havoc he had wrought in his room. He sighed, and began to sort through the wreckage. Could he get angry without destroying his room? And why did he do that? Even when the Dursleys' made him feel like blowing them up he stayed quiet and meek, too afraid of Vernon's explosive temper and Petunia's snappiness to do anything. Damn it, it wasn't even the first time he'd done that. If he was being honest with himself Harry probably tore apart his room every other week back at the shack; his stuff had been repaired by magic more times than he could count. Like that book - probably more magic than paper at this point.
Turning to the dresser, he plucked his wand out from under a collapsed shelf to try and right everything again. Harry aimed it at one of the drawers, then said-
"Reparo!"
The wooden boards and planks trembled and shook, before clicking back into place. Although it was still standing, there were very obvious cracks spanning over the base and sides of it, like a giant cobweb. Oops. Better not kick that again, thought Harry. Better not kick anything again, really. He needed to keep control over his emotions, but that was getting harder by the day. Nausea and exhaustion made him weak, angry and worried. It would anyone though, right?
It was then Harry noticed the great smears of dried blood flecked across his robes and shirt. Oh shit, that would not come out. All of the feathers swirling around the room had settled, making it look like a snowstorm had struck his room. Or several birds had been attacked. Neither were a good look. Again, Harry raised his wand, and accio'd all the feathers, which was a big mistake. They all flew at him in an ecstatic flurry, surrounding him like a hurricane. The pointy part at the end scratched at his face, tearing through his skin. He yelped in pain. Harry could only imagine how deranged he looked - where was the mirror?
Ah, yes. It was currently in shards, all across the room. Brushing the feathers from his tangled hair, he repaired it, and looked about as fantastic as he hoped. His hair now truly embodied a bird's nest, looking as though a family of birds had just malted all over his head. There were small scratches on his face, marring his cheeks, forehead, nose, everywhere. His robes were bloody, as was his arm and fist (which had turned a nasty purple colour) and his eyes were rimmed with red. He looked even more weary than before, eyes sunken and purple and his skin pale with a slightly transparent look to it. Smashing. It looked like he would have to wear a permanent glamour now.
Returning his room - and himself - to its usual standard took around an hour, and by the time he was done it was time for fourth lesson. Everything looked ten times as fragile, and Harry almost tiptoed round his room to prevent breaking anything. Next he had to tackle the bathroom but hopefully things weren't too bad in there. He opened the door, and almost screamed.
There was a pool of scarlet in one corner, the blade lying bloody and tarnished in the centre of it. Vomit was splattered up the wall, and Harry thanked Merlin his walls were tiled. Fuck, and he thought he'd been pretty tidy. There was also a dent in the wall, probably from where he leant his head back too hard. Whenever he had one of his 'turns', his magic assisted him by supplying him with even more power. Harry seriously wondered how the Burrow was still standing with so many hormonal, emotional teenagers inside. Unless that was just more of his freakishness. Harry was weird and different from everyone else, as he was frequently reminded.
A few sponging spells later, and his dorm was now satisfactory. Harry had changed into some cleaner robes (opting to throw away the stained and ruined clothes) dealt with his injuries as best as he could, combed his hair and was now ready to go. He swung his satchel onto his shoulder, and just before he left glanced at the potion rack, now full of bottles again. Not too many had been smashed, luckily.
In order to get through the day, he'd definitely need some pepper-up for later. Harry had already downed a blood-replenishing potion, pepper-up, stomach strengthener (so he could get down some dinner, hopefully) and something to deal with the various scratches on his face. They were much fainter, but still quite distinct. Harry was just counting on nobody noticing, or caring enough to ask.
There wasn't much he could do for the cuts on his arms, since it was harder to heal something you'd done to yourself using magic. But they should heal in a few days or so, maybe a week. The scars would remain, however. Harry was using glamours for his arms too - he didn't want to always be conscious of rolling up his sleeves. Glamours were pretty dependable, unless the caster got too distressed or too injured for their magic to keep it up any longer. Harry wasn't planning on either ruining his life, but had to admit he was worried what would happen if he had one of his 'turns' around other people and they saw what state he was in.
Impatiently brushing those thoughts away, Harry strode out of his dorm (after tucking some potions in his pocket) and made his way to Transfiguration. He turned the handle, knowing full well he was 15 minutes late. Sure enough when he opened the door he found around twenty pairs of eyes all on him, McGonagall in the middle of a lecture. Harry threw his bored gaze around the room, made a noncommittal noise in his throat and claimed his seat. Chucking his bag to the side, Harry flopped into the seat and rested his head on his hand, propped up by an elbow thrown lazily on the table.
He let out a breath, and was about to begin daydreaming again when he noticed McGonagall and the rest of the class were still waiting, all turned in his direction. The professor had her arms crossed, nostrils flaring angrily.
Harry rolled his eyes. "Don't stop on my account. Go on."
She huffed. "Do I get any excuse as to why you have turned up fifteen minutes after the lesson has started?"
"Sorry. Must've fallen asleep." he said, shrugging. Technically it was the truth.
"Oh, stop it, Potter. I know full well you stormed out of Potions and skipped Charms. Stay behind after class, and 10 points for disrupting the class."
McGonagall sniffed, then resumed her lecture, and Harry resumed to his thoughts. He guessed Ron or Hermione had been giving her information as to where he was all day, or maybe someone else. Neville? Harry didn't have a clue. He just hoped it wasn't McGonagall herself stalking him. Or Dumbledore, or Snape. There were many people who could be spying on him, and Harry didn't really care enough to find out. So what if they found his secret hideout? It was unplottable, and only Harry could get in there, something he'd made sure of. And if it all went south, he'd just disappear again.
The clunk of a potted plant landing on his desk averted his attention. It was Seamus handing them out; he barely spared Harry a glance as he thunked the least attractive sunflower on his desk. It's vibrant yellow had faded to a murky brown with flecks of its original colour only just visible, and the stalk was bent. Damaged. Bit like him, really.
Then Harry wondered whether he should join the poetry club, or play a tiny violin to drown out his sorrows. Actually, he did have one in his pocket. Music had been another good distraction, plus it was nice to have the chance. The Dursleys' had put Dudley forward for every instrument that the primary they went to allowed, and whilst it did prove to be pointless as Dudley was incapable of learning anything slightly creative, Harry found himself yearning to give it a go. It would be cool, and prove he could do well at something. But despite Harry begging his uncle, promising he would practise all the time and pass every examination, he was just thrown in the cupboard again.
He could remember a seven-year-old him sobbing his eyes out from all of the unfair treatment thrust on him in the darkness of the cupboard. Why don't I get to prove myself? Was all he could think. Vernon just said it was a waste of money, and Harry would find a way to screw it up with his freakishness. So when Harry got money of his own, he went and bought several musical instruments and their accompanying guidebooks. So far he could play violin fairly well, piano, and was just starting guitar.
It wasn't exactly useful in getting rid of Voldemort, but it was just something fun to do, something to pass the time. Besides, maybe Voldie would be so impressed with his epic violin skills he would decide not to do him in.
Judging by the diagrams on the board, Harry was supposed to be turning his sunflower into a bowl of soup. Bit weird really, but magic, y'know?
Tomato? Onion? Pumpkin? Who knows. Harry had the entire universe of soups at his fingertips, and was pretty hungry from skipping lunch and upchucking his breakfast, so decided on some lentil soup to fill his stomach. Soup was one of the only things he was more adept at keeping down, and Harry had an army of potions to help him not puke everywhere. Blowing chunks across the classroom would not be pretty.
A swish of his wand later, and Harry had a steaming bowl of soup sat in front of him. To honour the sunflower's sacrifice, he had kept a flowery pattern on the bottom, displaying what the sunflower would have looked like in its prime. He transfigured a pen into a spoon, and tasted it. Pretty good, other than an aftertaste of sunflower seeds. He tucked in, oblivious to the odd stares he was getting.
Not more than a minute later, he could almost sense McGonagall behind him. "P-Potter? Just what do you think you're doing?"
Harry rolled his eyes, and replied. "Missed lunch, and it was a pretty good looking bowl of soup."
And then it dawned on him. He was eating soup. Soup transfigured from a sunflower. He- he had made... food. But that's not possible...
Harry jumped up, looking at the small bowl in terror. What had he done? Sure, you can 'make' food, but it'll turn back into whatever it was originally when you put it in your mouth. He had overheard it was a popular technique amongst wizard parents - ask your kid to eat some cake, and it turns into broccoli in their mouth. Getting your kids to eat veggies became a lot easier, unless they spat it out. Actually, that was the reason many wizards and witches checked their food, in case it had been turned into poison.
But- but that actually tasted like soup, and had filled him up too. Harry would've noticed if he suddenly starting choking on petals and leaves. However, that soup was... soup. It was one of five of Gamp's laws of magic: food could not be transfigured, or summoned from the void. It cannot be artificially made. But he had made food. Out of a sunflower. Harry looked back at McGonagall, whose confused expression mirrored his.
That soup didn't feel so secure in his stomach anymore.
"What- what the fuck?" whispered Harry. The rest of the class were staring at him and McGonagall, and the soup.
McGonagall let out a slow breath. "Were you just eating that? How?" now she was peering at him, searching his frightened face. Her eyes bored into him, making him shift back into the wall defensively. Oh, he did not like this one bit. Everyone else was staring at him. And that incessant buzzing in his ears was getting louder and louder, unbearably deafening. It was like knives stabbing into his eardrums.
Until... there was a sort of snapping sensation, and the pain loosened. He almost sighed in relief, that was until he noticed the warmth trickling out of his ears and nose. And his eyes. Oh god, was he crying in the middle of Transfiguration? He couldn't be... he lifted a hand to his cheek, dipping a finger in the weird stuff trickling from his eyes. His finger came back red.
Blood?! He was bleeding out of his eyes? That was not good... he turned to the Professor, who was still gaping at him.
"Hospital wing?" he slurred, feeling himself grow drowsier. There was darkness blossoming at the corner of his vision, and without waiting for an answer began stumbling towards the door, his knees threatening to give out any second. His senses were becoming foggier and foggier, the classroom swimming around him. So weird...
But if he could just get to his room, have a lie-down, everything would sort itself out... he was sure of it. Madame Pomfrey would fuss when he was clearly just tired. Maybe a little under the weather? Yes, yes... that was it. Flu?
Harry was close to the door when he felt himself beginning to fall. His eyes wouldn't work - they kept wanting to close. His ears were hearing distorted mumbles of something, and he felt himself being lifted by someone...
They were pretty strong, he had to give them that. Harry was about to fall on top of them... But wait, what if they were attacking him? What if he had a death-eater round his shoulders, and they were delivering him straight to Voldemort? No way! Harry wrenched himself out of their grasp, blood still oozing from his ears, eyes and nose and forced his legs to steady. He stumbled and slipped away, wondering how much longer he could stay upright before he finally gave into the darkness that was beckoning to him...
He had his answer pretty quickly. Less than a moment later, Harry slumped to the floor, falling right into the shadows and feeling it swallow him whole.
Blinding light. It was the first thing he saw when he came to, the harsh white hurting his eyes. Harry sat up, vision clearing with every blink. He groaned, fumbling around for his glasses, but they weren't there. In fact, nothing was there. Only empty space.
He huffed, trying to sort out where the hell he was. The hospital wing? A lot of quidditch-related incidents ended up with him waking up here. A few feet away there was a familiar figure hunched over in a chair, talking with... Dumbledore? Ew, what was he doing here?
"Sirius?" said Harry blearily, squinting at who he thought that was.
Everyone turned round at that, and his godfather crashed over and swept him into a tight hug.
"Harry!" he said excitedly. "Are you alright?"
He sniffed. "It's too bloody bright in here. And I can't fucking see."
Sirius gave a barking laugh, and then turned back to the others. "I think he's alright."
"Did I mention my head is killing me?"
But they had stopped listening, now discussing something in hushed tones. Probably him. Harry was getting a bit fed up, and decided to summon his glasses. Trouble is, he didn't have his wand. Never mind, he still had his magic.
"Accio glasses!" he said clearly, a whooshing noise emanating from a desk on the other side of the room. His trusty specs landed in his hand, and he thrust them onto his nose, the room suddenly becoming a lot more sharp. Yes, that was Dumbledore, with Snape and McGonagall too. And... Hermione? What in the fuck were they all doing here?
And why was he still in bed? What if he needed to defend himself? He quickly summoned his wand, and then attempted to stand up, only managing a few steps before stumbling down again. This finally got the attention of the adults.
"Harry! Stay down - we'll get you back to bed. Wait, how did you get your wand?" asked Sirius, all while pulling him up and back over to the bed.
He paused, still leaning heavily on his arm. "Don't- don't want to," he said breathlessly, chest heaving. What in the fuck was going on? All he remembered was turning that sunflower into soup (still a mystery) and the bleeding... from his eyes... then collapsing.
Sirius stopped, staring at him. Was he serious? Harry looked like he was on death's door, and he still refused to rest? He searched his godson's eyes, which were darting everywhere and unfocused. Harry still looked a mess, from the deep purple shadows under his eyes, his pale clammy skin, and the way he was quite literally being held-up by him. Was this kid serious?
"No way, kid. Get back in bed, now. And no quidditch for you, I'm afraid."
At this Harry started. "Why? I'm fine."
Fucking hell. Did he have to be so difficult? Sirius stepped away from him, watching Harry wobble for a few seconds before crashing to the floor.
"You're not fine. You can hardly stand!" he clasped Harry's arm, and pulled him up again, depositing him onto the bed. This time he didn't protest, but groaned as he settled back down into the bed, closing his eyes.
Dumbledore came over to Harry, who grimaced as soon as he saw him. Oh Merlin. This guy again? Harry sat up again, wincing as he pulled himself up on the pillows. Why was he so weak? When he tried to get up, he had to be helped back to bed again. Harry hated being weak.
"Harry, don't try and sit up - you must get your strength back!" Dumbledore placed a wizened hand on his shoulder, and Harry jumped about half a foot.
"Get off me!" he hissed in disgust, shifting out of his grasp. Dumbledore looked surprised, as did Snape, McGonagall and Sirius. Madame Pomfrey came out of her office, bustling round at a desk. She approached Harry with a frothing green potion, which was spitting and bubbling.
"Mr Potter! So, you're awake. Take this, please." Either she was completely oblivious to the awkwardness in the room, or chose to ignore it. Whatever it was, it didn't stop her from thrusting the potion forward.
He picked it up, feeling the surprising cold shock his fingers. "What is it?"
"Instillistrum. helps blood clot faster."
"Why? Are my- are my eyes still bleeding?" he asked tentatively, using the other hand to feel at his face. No blood. That was good.
Snape leered at him. "No, Mr Potter. We all know about your dirty little secret."
Then Harry noticed his sleeves were dripping in blood, the river of crimson flooding down onto the bed until the whole bed was stained a sickening red. Harry started to scream- it was flowing thick and fast, making the hospital wing look like a murder scene-
"Harry! Harry! Wake up, you're alright! You're alright..." yelled Sirius, shaking him by the shoulders. Harry gasped for breath, shooting upwards like he'd been jolted by a bolt of electricity. His heart was still beating wildly, almost like it was about to jump out of his chest.
"Okay, definitely no quidditch," remarked Sirius, looking worriedly at Harry.
He tried to get his breathing under control. "What- what happened?"
Sirius looked confused. "Since when? In the past few hours, or the last ten minutes you were asleep?"
Harry blanched. "I was asleep?"
"Yeah. Then you started shaking and screaming... I thought- so did you think you were awake?" Sirius' frown deepened, darkening his features.
"No. I mean- yes. I don't know." he sighed. "Wait, where's Snape?" He peered around the room, trying to crane his neck round the other figures in the room.
Sirius looked even more worried. "He wasn't here in the first place."
Hermione strode over to him. "And it's Professor Snape. Also, before you ask, I'm here to tell Dumbledore what happened. Plus... you looked pretty out of it." she added.
Trying desperately to gather his thoughts, Harry blew out his breath slowly. So- so he'd been dreaming that before, when Snape... said that stuff. Also, the potions professor had never been here in the first place? This was all too much.
"What time is it?" he asked the two.
"Just gone six." replied Hermione curtly.
"Shit, can someone tell Angelina I can't meet her?" the two peered at him suspiciously. He clarified. "I was supposed to be there for extra training."
Sirius laughed, and clapped Harry on the back. "Yes! You're back on the team!"
"Not for much longer if I stand her up with no explanation," Harry grumbled.
Hermione sighed. "I'll go and find her; not much for me to do here anyway. And get well soon, Harry." she nodded at them, then strode out of the infirmary.
All of the adults' attention in the room snapped onto Harry, and McGonagall, Sirius and Dumbledore were all staring at him.
"Harry, could you tell us what events took place today to end up with you in the hospital wing?" asked Dumbledore in a sombre tone. He looked very serious, his eyes usually kind and gentle were now blazing with questions.
Harry gulped.
No, he couldn't.
*I do not own any characters, all rights to J.K. Rowling.
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