Harry Potter and the Year he Broke Free
Chapter Nineteen: One Night
The walls were pretty nice, thought Harry. Spotless. Strange considering the amount of weird injuries and incidents that happen in here. You'd think there would be massive splotches of blood all up the wall, chunks taken out from explosions...
"Harry? Harry, did you just hear what I said?" said Sirius concernedly, shaking him gently.
Harry's attention snapped back to his godfather. He smiled, and brushed it off. "Sorry, Sirius mate. Zoned out for a second," he replied.
Sirius sighed, and shook his head, dark curls bouncing everywhere. "Well, I was just saying... you can't keep pretending like nothing's going on."
Harry froze. "What do you mean?"
"I mean the nightmares, passing out in the middle of class, bleeding from your... eyes. That's not normal."
"I've just been feeling a little under the weather lately. Although... that thing where I kinda, you know, passed out and everything," Sirius nodded. "I'm just as clueless about that as you are."
The scary thing was, it was true. Harry didn't have a fucking clue how on earth he managed to break the laws of magic, and then promptly collapse in the middle of Transfiguration, blood streaming from his nose, eyes and ears. Maybe he screwed up the spell so badly that he changed the proposition of the sunflower entirely... but no, that wouldn't fit. Wizards and witches had been attempting for centuries to prove Gamp's laws wrong, but had failed. Every variation of transfiguring objects to food had been tried and tested, none of them succeeding.
So how had Harry done it?
Sirius growled, and settled his head in his hands before snapping it up again. "Don't give me that bullshit, Harry! I can tell when something's not right. There's something you're not telling me. Quite a lot you're keeping secret, actually. I won't be fobbed off with another rubbish excuse." His silvery eyes were unusually dark, and staring at Harry with sadness and a hint of anger.
Harry glared back. "I told you, I don't know. Now when can I go back to my room? I do have a match tomorrow, you know."
It was now nearing seven, and Angelina had sent back a note (delivered by some second year hoping to get on the team) saying she already knew about him staying in the hospital. Apparently rumours were already flurrying round the school about the Boy-Who-Lived doing some wack shit, passing out then bleeding everywhere. However, that certain story had been warped passing from person. All that anyone knew for certain was that Harry had definitely ended up in the infirmary.
The adults had been very nosy indeed, insisting they tell him what had happened, but Harry hadn't told them much. Not enough for their liking anyway. He had flat-out refused to speak to Dumbledore at all. He was decently civil with McGonagall, and struggling with Sirius. His godfather obviously cared about him which complicated matters. How much should Harry reveal?
Everyone else was pretty easy to sort. They all wanted him for personal gain, not giving a damn about Harry himself. Only of how much of an advantage he was to them. There were a few exempt to that, but Harry didn't care enough to extend any niceties.
One part that was really pissing him off was them insisting that he stay there. Oh Harry, we only want to monitor your condition. There's no need to be so difficult, was what Pomfrey said. He was also refusing to take any potions that hadn't been checked thoroughly first, mostly opting to get his own from his bag. There had been more than a few raised eyebrows when Harry began producing potion after potion from beneath his books.
Pomfrey drew the line when he asked to see her qualifications, shutting herself in her office and saying she'd only treat him again if he was about to die. Harry smirked. He didn't really care about that shit, as he knew she was a capable healer - he only wanted to push her away, and make her desperate to get rid of him. It seemed he had succeeded, to the annoyance of Sirius, Dumbledore and McGonagall.
Harry had been slowly gaining more strength as time passed. His complexion seemed a little lighter, eyes brighter. But still far from 'normal' which was the others' main argument for keeping him there - what they didn't know was he hadn't looked right for weeks. At the Shrieking Shack, it'd been easier to ignore him slowly fading, but now he'd been slipping faster than ever, quicker than he thought possible. Unable to sleep, unable to eat, unable to function. Using potions and magic as crutches wouldn't keep him afloat him forever. That was Harry's biggest fear; him suddenly collapsing meant his body couldn't keep it up any more.
He had pushed that to the back of his mind, and kept going with the assumption it was something to do with whatever he just did. Not that they needed to know, but Harry fully intended to explore this concept, pushing the barriers of magic. If that rule was void for him, what else could he do? Pursuing other kinds and brands of magic, despite whether they were branded 'dark' or 'light'. That was one thing that irked him - some branches of magic were blocked off since some idiot decided to use it unwisely. In Harry's opinion, it wasn't the spells that were the problem, but the intent behind them.
Of course, there were some boundaries, like that de-organing curse he found in book in the corner of Flourish and Blotts. It made the victim regurgitate their organs, the heart being last so they were alive through all of it to some extent. In no case Harry could think of that spell would be used for good, unless it was cast on Voldemort maybe. But who'd want to see Voldie chucking up his intestines? Gross. Harry would rather it be quick and clean, over in a heartbeat. Not that he deserved a virtually painless death, after all of the distress he caused and all of the people he murdered cruelly. He just wanted him gone as fast as possible.
According to his dreams, though, Harry took pleasure in seeing other people writhe in agony. He had murdered all of his friends, family, even strangers. Then watched Voldemort murder him and his friends and family. The graveyard was where most of it happened, where all the blood was spilt. Harry dreamt of massacre every night. There was some differentiation, but always back to death.
He almost didn't catch his eyelids beginning to droop until they were almost closed. He jumped, pulling his eyes open. Falling asleep here would not be wise - the screams, for one, and all of the raging emotions after. Before he'd managed to brush it off, but twice would be much harder to deny anything was going on. But he was so tired...
No! Snap out of it, Harry! He shook his head, clearing the fogginess of oncoming sleep. Sirius had left his bedside, probably to get something to eat, and Dumbledore and McGonagall were still discussing his situation in hushed tones. They were all the way on the other side of the ward and pretty much leaving him alone. This would be a good chance to see if he could walk again. If he could, they might let him go back to his room and go to the match tomorrow. He had things to take care of.
Harry shifted his weight, placing his feet on the cold floor beneath him. Someone must have changed him, since he didn't go to Transfiguration wearing a hospital gown. He lifted himself off the bed, knees screaming in protest but holding, and tried to take a few steps.
After stretching his unbearably stiff limbs, it was considerably easier to walk. He took a short stroll with one hand still on the wall; he didn't know if he could lean entirely on his knees still. Although his body seemed to be mostly okay, there was a swaying, pounding sensation between his temples that only worsened when he tried to stop and make sense of things. Harry groaned, massaging his head with his hands.
"Potter, what are you doing out of bed? You must be resting!" said a familiar voice in a Scottish accent. He was having trouble placing where he knew it from... oh yeah! McGonagall. He turned his head slightly, seeing a wobbling image of the Transfiguration professor shuffling over to him. A jolt of pain surged through his head again, and he gasped.
"Ouch!"
"I should very well think so. You should get back to bed right this instant."
Harry glowered at her, or tried to. Everything was still spinning uncomfortably. "M'kay." He shook his head again. "I'm okay. Look, I can walk, so can I go back to my room now?"
She glared at him ferociously. "Certainly not! Potter, can you take your hand off the wall?"
He gave her a pained look, then stopped leaning on the wall so heavily. His muscles protested in exhaustion, but thankfully kept him upright. Smirking, Harry replied, "See?"
McGonagall frowned, and shook her head. "Alright. But that's still not good enough to let you out. Also, where would you go? I have noticed you didn't touch the room I organised for you."
Harry started, then quickly tried to recover his composure. "I found... a better place."
"I would ask where, but I think that's a stretch considering the other things you refuse to tell us." she cocked her head, analysing his determined expression. Just like Lily's, she thought to herself.
The teenager steadied himself again. "Good. Anyway, what do I have to do to get out of here?"
"When you are well again. Missing lessons aren't an issue seen as you rarely go to them anyway."
Just then, Sirius came through the doors of the infirmary.
"Harry? What are you doing out of bed? Professor, did you allow this?" said Sirius loudly from the other side of the room. Oh no, thought Harry.
Now it was McGonagall's turn to smirk. "Sirius, Harry seems adamant that he is 'fine' and should be let back to his room. What do you say?"
Harry's godfather took one look at his pale, shivering form, and shook his head. "No way."
Harry groaned. "But I am fine! Look, I'm up and about, aren't I?"
"Barely," scoffed Sirius.
"Well, if you are in optimal health can you explain that fainting spell?" asked Professor McGonagall in amusement.
"I um, er... ate something funny for lunch." offered Harry.
"Nonsense. You said you skipped it during the lesson right before you-"
"Yes, yes, I know. Truth is I don't have a clue what happened. I've never bled out of my eyes before."
Sirius gripped Harry's shoulder firmly. "But what if it happens when nobody's around to whisk you up to the hospital wing? What do you plan to do then? Bleed out everywhere?"
"Another good reason for telling us where your room is. In case of an emergency."
Harry laughed harshly. "I can take care of myself just fine, thanks. Besides, you'd just spy on me all the time."
"But you can't, Harry! You're fifteen for Merlin's sake! And don't even suggest that last one. What, d'you reckon we're a load of creepy fu-"
McGonagall cleared her throat. "Sirius," she warned him. "Language."
He looked uncomfortable, and turned to face her. "Sorry."
Harry sighed in frustration. "As I was saying, I will be perfectly fine-"
"But how do you know?" interrupted Sirius angrily.
"Because I do! This was just a one-off-"
"How do you know?"
"THIS WON'T HAPPEN AGAIN, BECAUSE I AM FINE-"
FOR FUCK'S SAKE, HARRY! STOP BEING SO STUBBORN AND LET US HELP YOU!"
"FAT LOT OF GOOD THAT'S DONE ME BEFORE, HUH?!" Harry glared at him fiercely. "WHERE WERE YOU ALL THOSE YEARS AGO? YOU ARE MY GODFATHER, AND YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO TAKE CARE OF ME! I'M JUST TELLING YOU THAT YOU DON'T HAVE TO BOTHER ANY-"
"THAT WASN'T MY FAULT! I WAS STUCK IN BLOODY AZKABAN, AND IT WASN'T ALL RAINBOWS AND SUNSHINE, YOU KNOW. AT LEAST YOU WERE FREE!"
"AND WHOSE FAULT WAS THAT, SIRIUS? STOP! JUST STOP TRYING TO CONTROL ME! YOU LOST THAT RIGHT YEARS AGO!"
Sirius growled angrily. "I KNOW, HARRY! AND I REGRET IT MORE THAN YOU WILL EVER KNOW!"
Harry sighed, and looked at his godfather. "Look, Sirius, I realise that. You can't change the past. But- I just-" he let out a slow breath, then faced him. "Why did you wait until you saw Pettigrew in the papers to escape? Wasn't I reason enough to leave, so you could come check on me? Hell, why did you have to run off on some dodgy revenge plan in the first place?"
He was quiet for a moment, before saying, "You don't know what it was like. The betrayal, seeing Lily and James dead and knowing it was all my fault-" he gulped hard. "It was just too much. Hagrid had you before long, so I knew you'd be in safe hands. I wasn't thinking."
"That's pretty obvious. And I do know what it's like. But it wasn't your fault - you didn't cast the killing curse on them, nor did you sell them out to Voldemort" (McGonagall flinched, and Sirius jumped) "so stop blaming yourself. Just... you don't have to be concerned all the time with my safety. I have learnt to take care of myself."
"But that's my job, the responsibility your parents gave me. You don't have to do it all alone, Harry. You can talk to me."
This time Harry was the one who was quiet. He stared at the floor, a million thoughts buzzing around inside his head, not one of them he wanted to share. It seemed like Sirius already had enough on his mind, and didn't deserve to have all of Harry's issues dumped on top. He couldn't burden him like that.
"I think... I think I'm gonna go back to my room now." said Harry quietly. He kept his eyes firmly on the floor, unable to look at his godfather's eyes anymore. He knew they would be filled with sadness, and anger that Harry still refused to open up to him. He knew he was running away, but just couldn't bear to look at them any more. Not now they had gotten a look at his true self. Maybe they could all see how unhinged and closed-off he'd become.
He wasn't oblivious to his faults and issues, but just chose to block them out most of the time. Harry knew that pushing everyone away was for his (and their) own good, but it still hurt. Sometimes he wished that he could just play a game of Exploding Snap with Ron, or Wizard's Chess, or ask Hermione about the latest homework. Scratch that, actually. Harry didn't do homework.
He wished he could be normal above all; not having to worry about Voldemort, or terrifying nightmares, exhausting mood swings, and their effects. Of course he knew everyone felt most of that, but all at once was just too much. It was hard for Harry to admit - he was completely and utterly overwhelmed. That didn't fit with the Boy-Who-lived, though. Nothing ever got him down. He'd faced dragons, Voldemort, dementors, trolls, and a whole host of other freaky stuff. Despite it all he came out on top. He was a mascot for the Wizarding World, well, up until last year.
In some ways everyone hating him was easier to deal with than people pointing and whispering excitedly about him in the corridors. They all thought he was a lunatic, so avoided him like the plague. He was rarely bothered anymore. But it also added to the (slightly) crushing loneliness he'd felt since he was a child. It made him relieve the painful memories of days spent in the cupboard, crying out for someone to come and save him from the Dursleys' and their torture. They starved him, beat the living daylights out of him, and Dumbledore still had the audacity to send him back there every summer.
It had take him far too long to realise the old man had been manipulating him. Anything he told Sirius, Hermione or Ron was more often than not fed right back to him.
Harry was extremely glad the corridors were empty as he strode back to his room. For one, people would wonder why the hell he was still wearing his hospital gown, and secondly, why there were tears streaming down his face. Harry just couldn't hold it back anymore. All that had happened with Sirius, and his confusion and irritation at collapsing all came flooding out. When he reached his dorm, he slumped against the door on the other side and just sobbed until he couldn't feel anything anymore.
The next morning, Harry walked with a purpose down to the Great Hall. His scarlet quidditch robes flowed out behind him, 'Potter' emblazoned on the back in gold lettering. Some spoke to him, but whether it was words of good luck or nasty mutterings that insane people shouldn't play quidditch he didn't know. The words didn't reach his ears; he swept by so fast they didn't get the chance. He was feeling stronger today, probably from the abundance of potions he'd gulped down, but also from the pre-match nervous excitement keeping him going. Oh dear god, he really hoped he didn't collapse on the field today. That would just make his day, and ensure they never let him out of the hospital wing again.
He had tried not to think about his fight with Sirius, but of course his subconscious was extra active that night. His dreams were filled with thoughts of Sirius storming into his room, and turning his wand on him, or Harry doing the same to him. Voldemort cropped up often in these dreams, saying that he clearly didn't care about his godfather, so why should he save him? Harry could still remember his hollow pleas of mercy to the Dark Lord, before he delivered the final blow. Blood splattered up the stone walls, but whether his was his, Sirius', or someone else's entirely he didn't know.
After pushing a few mouthfuls of scrambled eggs down his sore throat, he finally gave up and made his way over to the rest of the team who were gathered at the edge of the hall. Ron, Fred, George, Angelina, Alicia and Katie were muttering amongst themselves, and paused abruptly when they heard approaching footsteps.
Katie eyed him warily. "You all right, Harry? We heard you were pretty sick yesterday?"
"Yeah. Never better. Pomfrey fixed me up with a few potions," Harry said to the team with a slight grin. They seemed convinced, and went back to discussing tactics for the match. Well, that was one less thing he had to worry about. Ron gave him an odd look, ceasing to take part in the conversation.
"You sure you're alright? I mean, you were bleeding out of your eyes, and then collapsed. What was wrong with you?" Oh shit. Well done, Ron - now the rest of the team were looking at him concernedly again.
Harry sighed. "Don't worry, it won't happen again. I just practised some spells beforehand, and got a little too carried away. My magic was completely drained. I was just tired." Thank god he'd used a glamour today, so looked well-rested.
The team still didn't seem completely reassured, but enough so perhaps to turn back to their conversation. Not a moment later, Angelina clapped her hands.
"Okay, team - I booked the pitch for an hour beforehand, so we have this time to get in some extra training, and give Harry some more time to practise." Everyone else nodded, and they all headed out to the grounds. People cheered them on the way down, clapping the rest of the team on the back. Not many people gave them any hassle though, which Harry was glad for. If they were picking on the rest of the team, they definitely would him. Nobody cheered him on, only giving him curious looks, or suspicious glares. Harry was used to it at this point, and it didn't bother him anymore.
Fred and George fell into step either side of him. "So, you got your broom?" asked the former.
"Yup. In here," said Harry, patting his robes.
The twins exchanged odd looks. "You got a broomstick up there?" said George in disbelief.
"What- c'mon, guys..." said Harry, starting to laugh. Fred cracked a grin at them, and soon they were all wheezing. Ron turned around to see what the fuss was about, and was surprised to see all three of them giggling uncontrollably. He shook his head, mumbling something like "bloody idiots..." and turned back to the front.
Fred tapped Harry on the shoulder. "Hey, Harry, we have to talk to you after the match... can you meet us in the common room later?"
"Do we have to meet there? I don't reckon I'm too welcome in that place, plus it's not my favourite spot in the world.
George frowned, eyebrows knitted together in thought. "Do you know any other place that's secure? Don't really want the prefects sticking their noses in our business again."
Harry nodded. Oh, he was going to regret this later, but what the hell. "Actually, yeah..."
*I don't own any characters, all rights to J.K. Rowling.
**Hey guys! I meant to get the quidditch match all wrapped up in this chapter, but uh... I tend to write way too much. Still really enjoying it though, and I hope you did too. Thanks, Tea33.
***Thank you all so much for the reviews, favourites and follows!
