Harry Potter and the Year he Broke Free

Chapter Twenty-Four: Broken Glass

He was furious. So absolutely fuming that he could barely think straight. Harry's head was pounding, mixing in with his heavy footfalls as he stalked around the castle... round the next corridor, down the next hallway; almost like he had a destination. But he didn't. Harry didn't have a fucking clue what was going on with him, or where he was going.

Thrusting open yet another door, he found himself standing in the trophy room. The various awards collected over the years glittered in their glass cases, the dim sunlight flooding in from a nearby dancing across the surface and bursting into a million colours. In muggle primary school, they had learnt about colour prisms and whatnot. Harry remembered receiving a sharp slap across the face from Aunt Petunia because he scored higher in the science test than Dudley.

Unable to contain his rage anymore, Harry drew back his fist for the third time that day, and plunged it into the sparkling glass surface. It shattered, shards flying everywhere. For one heart-stopping moment, he thought they had hung in mid-air again, pointed edges aimed right at his heart. But they crumbled to the floor in a cascading waterfall of glass, the screams as it was torn apart echoing round the room horribly.

It wasn't enough. This time, he booted a lower case as hard as he could, succeeding in obliterating the shiny reflectiveness. Glass was a funny thing; so transparent and vulnerable. Harry could glimpse his reflection in a nearby case, his lips drawn and tight, contrasting uncomfortably with his pale demeanour and blazing eyes. His eyebrows were drawn in knots and tangles of anger and disappointment, and his face hurt from scowling. Crying out, he destroyed that one too.

By the time Harry had released all of his anger, the room was nothing but mountains of shards and sprinkles of glass. Attempting to walk through it had become an impossible task, so he just decided to huddle up into one corner, observing his knuckles. They were an ill shad of purple, and streaming blood that caught in the light because of the glittering shards of glass poking out of his hand.

Most of the trophies were still intact (unfortunately, the same could not be said for the rest of the room) but the tapestry on the wall was torn in more than a few places. Sighing, Harry heaved himself off the carpet. He swayed slightly, feeling drained as the domination of anger slowly filtered away. Harry just felt a bit... hollow now. He cringed as he delved around in his pocket to grab out his wand and the material of his jeans caught on the wounds.

"Need a little help?"

Surprised, Harry spun round, wild-eyed and wand trained on the speaker. It was that weird Ravenclaw... loony something? Her waist-length dirty blonde hair was hung over one shoulder, laying on her purple cardigan. A bright orange summer dress clung to her tightly, and Harry could make out clover-patterned tights peeking over the top of her charcoal wellies. Blue eyes blinking placidly, she turned her head, waiting for an answer.

"Erm... sure." Harry wasn't really in any state to be performing strong magic. Emotionally and physically exhausted, all he wanted to do was curl up in a corner and sleep. If he actually could for once.

They both pulled out their wands and began to repair the room. The work was slow and tedious, what with Harry's injured hand, and they worked in complete silence. Whilst he found it a little uncomfortable, she looked completely unbothered by the awkward silence. After around half an hour, the room was (mostly) resumed back to its usual calm.

"Alright. It think we're done here." she said lightly, like they were mopping up a puddle of water that someone had spilt. "Oh, nearly." A small splatter of blood caught her eye, and she whipped out her wand to soak it up. She took a few steps out of the room, and Harry hastened to follow her, head spinning from the fast movement.

"Do you need to go and see Madame Pomfrey? You're looking a little green, Harry. But that could just be the wrackspurts."

He stopped, leaning his head against a doorframe to try and tame the dizziness and ferocious headache threatening to knock him out cold. Harry took a deep breath. "No, I'm fine."

"I imagine you say that rather a lot."

He thought for a moment. "I suppose I do."

Loony nodded deeply. "Definitely wrackspurts, then." she marched off, wheeling around to go down the east corridor.

"Wait! Stop!" Loony turned, hair swinging down her back. Oh, shit. What was he supposed to bloody say to someone who'd just watched him destroy the trophy room and helped him restore without a question? "Erm... don't you- don't you have questions?"

"I gathered you weren't too fond of them."

"Well, that's no reason not to ask them." he huffed impatiently. Harry wasn't too sure what to make of this girl - on one hand, she was pissing him off with her vagueness and general spacy feel, but at the same time it was refreshing. She had just seen him at his very worst, and hadn't questioned it at all.

"Okay. Why did you do that?" she asked, eyes wide and protuberant.

"Be more specific."

"Why did you run away?" Oh wow, she was weird. A sane person probably would've asked him why he smashed up the trophy room like some sort of angsty psychopath.

"Because I felt like it. Next question."

"Why won't you go to Madame Pomfrey?"

What the fuck? Just ask the obvious question, already. Harry winced, and went nearer to her, knee giving out halfway there. He grunted and pulled himself back up and finished his journey. "Because she fusses too much. Final question."

"What's your favourite colour?"

"Huh?" Harry stared at her in disbelief. Was this girl serious? "Green. Why?"

She shrugged. "Why not? Goodbye, Harry."

With that, she glided dreamily down the hallway, leaving Harry standing there in utter confusion. That was possibly the strangest conversation he's ever had. Whatever - he needed to get to somewhere before he passed out completely. His room was the most preferable option. Seeing as his knee was still refusing to cooperate, Harry basically had to drag himself up the corridor, leaning heavily on nearby tables, benches or just the wall.

Whereas his knuckles were previously stinging, they had now gone entirely numb. Not a great sign. That glass needed to be removed as quickly as possible before it... he didn't know... fucking severed all his nerves or some shit. You don't have to be a medical genius to realise that glass in your bloody hand is not a great thing. Spots of darkness were blossoming in his vision, and Harry knew he didn't have long left.

As to why he was passing out, he didn't know. Over-exertion? Sleep had deserted once again last night, as it had done many times before. Whatever magic he used to enchant all of the shards of glass wasn't any charm he'd heard of, and accidental magic was quite rare at fifteen. As the witch or wizard got older, and the more control they got over their magic, the easier it was to manage, therefore neutralising most accidents. It did often present itself in stressful situations. Harry laughed to himself. You could probably count that as a stressful situation for sure.

Maybe his hands? He had lost a lot of blood. Yeah, that was it, not any wack magic he may or may not have performed. Harry hobbled past the hospital wing, just at the moment Hermione, Mrs Weasley, McGonagall and Madame Pomfrey were exiting the infirmary. They all looked at each other, Harry doing his best to hide his hands behind his back.

Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Mr Potter? Could we speak to you for a moment, in regards to Mr Weasley?"

Harry's vision swam, distorting Hermione and Mrs Weasley's equally pinched and stormy expressions. "N-now's not a great time. Can we do this later?" his words came out thickly, and a little slurred.

McGonagall gasped. "Potter, are you drunk again?" At that, all of the other women tittered and tutted at him.

"No! I just- not feeling so good..." Harry wobbled dangerously, clasping onto a table to keep himself up. If he could just get to his room...

"...not looking well, really," he came to just in time to catch the last few snippets of whatever Madame Pomfrey was saying. "Potter, go into the ward. We can find you somewhere to sit for a while."

He shook his head, placing one hand on a temple to rub it. "No, I can make it to my room." Harry groaned internally as he thought of the other three floors he'd have to climb to reach the Room of Requirement. Really, would it have killed them to put it somewhere nice and accessible?

"Harry!" Mrs Weasley gaped at his hand, and then bustled over to examine it. She held out her own palm, and when he didn't comply glared at him sternly. Harry (who had stuck his hand out of view behind his back again) sighed softly and extended it again, shuddering when her fingers grazed the wounds.

"OW!" he screamed when she pressed down harder, right onto a shard. Harry winced, wrenching his hand out from her reach again and swearing quietly.

"What... what happened, Harry dear?" Mrs Weasley asked suspiciously. "I thought Ron didn't do anything."

He pulled a face. "He uh... he didn't."

"Then what happened?" she pressed on, Hermione, McGonagall and Madame Pomfrey all peering over her shoulder and gasping at the wound. It really did look awful; his knuckles were swelled and a deep violet, and still determinedly spurting out small streams of blood. You could hardly even make out the jagged edges of the glass wedged in his hand anymore.

"Come in, I know some spells and potions that will help," Madame Pomfrey demanded. Harry frowned, and she sighed impatiently. "I know you think you can 'do it all yourself,'" she gestured wildly. "But you are in no state to perform any healing magics at the time being. They require the caster to be in moderate health, and you can barely stand straight."

Seeing as Harry could barely keep his eyes open, he nodded tersely and took one stumbling step forwards. McGonagall marched in ahead of them, and the others made to follow. His vision was clouding fast, the hallway swimming front of his eyes. Damn. he probably wouldn't even make it into the ward.

Harry grunted hard as he fought to keep himself mobile. Hermione faltered, and turned round with an impatient expression on her face. That quickly disintegrated as she saw Harry stumbling for the door. She looped an arm around his shoulder and began to pull him across, essentially holding up his whole bodyweight as Harry's strength began to evaporate even faster.

"Can I have some help please?!" he heard her squeak as the darkness finally claimed him, and he tumbled to the floor, the various tapping and clicking of heels hitting the floor as everyone crowded round him. He barely felt himself being lifted into the air (by magic, presumably) and then dropped into what felt a chair, or maybe a bed. His head lolled back, and he was dead to the world.


"...Although it has impacted a few direct nerves and muscles, it's nothing I can't fix. He should be fine."

Harry groaned, his neck straining uncomfortably against the chair he was slumped against. He pulled open his eyes, and after blinking a few times blearily found himself back in the hospital wing.

"I swear I'm in here every other day," he mumbled, arching his back and feeling exhausted muscles clicking and stretching.

"You are, Mr Potter," said McGonagall sternly, beady eyes looking at him over the top of her glasses.

"And what is the cause this time?" he asked.

Hermione huffed. "It's quite obvious, Harry. Can't you feel it?"

He stared at her confused until she gestured to his hands, muttering something like "oblivious as always". Harry braced himself and looked to where she pointed. Holy fuck, he saw what she meant. His eyes widened as they traced over the freshly-healed crescent-shaped scars littered over his knuckles. Faint blood stains blotted his entire hand, and upon inspecting his left hand met the eyes of a very disapproving Madame Pomfrey.

She glared at him, then turned her attention back to his left hand which was currently open. Open as in flaps of skin peeled back to reveal deep red flesh with cord-like nerves criss-crossing all over the place. Veins were thrown in the mix too. At least that's what Harry though they were - he was no expert in the medical field, muggle or magical.

"I'm nearly done, hold on another second," she said to him after seeing his disgusted and horrified glance. "Aha! There it is!" With her wand trained on his... open knuckles, she flicked her wand and a sensation like a plunger being unstuck went through his hand. A jagged shard of glass was unearthed out of the layers, slick with blood.

"What in the fuck..." he mumbled without thinking.

Pomfrey tutted loudly. "Language, Potter. Save that for when I start questioning you as to why you had glass embedded in your hand."

"I think we'd all like to know what happened today," McGonagall added. "I have fire-called Sirius to inform him of-" she waved her hands over the remaining beds, one of which was occupied. "whatever it is that happened."

Ron was sitting up in a bed across the ward, his eyes firmly trained on the window nearest to him. The inky black sky was almost opaque, apart from the moon like a shining white globe. Remus would be occupied tonight for sure.

Harry's eyebrows furrowed. "So you know, then?" he directed his question to Madame Pomfrey, who had made no complaint at the name 'Sirius'.

"Albus thought it prudent to keep me informed in case any Order members were injured, not that it is any concern of yours boy," she reprimanded him. Ouch. She was like an angry cat; maybe Harry had upset her during his last stay. Pomfrey waved her wand, and his hand sealed up again. He snatched it back and turned it over in his other hand; it was like a dead weight.

"Feeling should return in the next twelve hours." she said, answering his question before it even left his lips.

"Right," he said absent-mindedly, still focused on examining his hand. Harry pulled out his wand and began casting some standard diagnostic charms, mouth moving so fast you could hardly decipher the charms. He cringed as his right hand curled around the wood of his wand, still sore from its recent injuries.

Pomfrey rose from her chair and went over to the other women. She shot another distasteful glance at Harry, before saying: "Do you see what I mean? He doesn't trust in my abilities whatsoever. I find it highly insulting."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Don't get ahead of yourself. I wouldn't have had a clue how to fix that, so you've done a damn better job than anything I would've been able to pull off. I just..." he paused for a moment. "I just like to check, that's all."

The three women started, obviously under the impression he couldn't hear them. Hermione was perched on the edge of a hospital bed, and folded her arms.

"I think you should be a bit more appreciative than that. You did pass out, you know," she told him reproachfully.

Harry scoffed. "I suppose you're right. Thank you, Madam Pomfrey. I am very grateful." A slow silence spread around the infirmary, everyone trying to figure out whether Harry was being sincere or not. After another moment or two, the healer sniffed.

"It's my job, Potter. I did what I was told."

"Well thanks anyways. Now, where are my rings? Don't look at me like that, they are my property."

McGonagall thrust out her hand, where four rings glittered on her palm. He took them, and donned them, hissing as they slid over the scars.

"We had to remove them to properly heal your hands." she paused, inspecting him. I'm guessing you put some sort of charm on the rings to prevent them from becoming tarnished?" she replied.

Harry shook his head. "Nah. They were already there. I did add on some more protection spells, but there's so many at this point from previous owners I wasn't even sure what had already been covered."

Hermione suddenly looked interested. "Do you know what the standard charms for house rings would be?"

Harry was halfway through an answer when McGonagall interrupted him. "If we came here to talk about house rings, I wouldn't have bothered bringing along everyone else. Please, can we get back to the matter at hand?"

Harry and Hermione looked equally annoyed at being cut off, but both held their tongues. Hermione flicked a strand of her bushy brown hair to the side, and glanced back over at Ron with a worried grimace on her face.

Harry stood up again, his knees very nearly buckling. He grabbed onto the chair, holding onto it for dear life. "Could- could you be more specific with the 'matter at hand'?"

"What you did to Ron," announced Mrs Weasley venomously, choosing to ignore his stumble. "You punched him round the face so hard that Mrs Pomfrey had difficulty fixing his jaw. He won't be able to chew properly for a few days yet." Harry squirmed a little. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

All of the adults (and Hermione) glared at him reprovingly, like he was a disobedient toddler. Harry felt the familiar flame of his temper flaring up inside as he attempted to rein it back in. It would only prove their point further if he lost control again.

Harry sighed. "I... I don't know." Their glares became even more ferocious. "I won't say I wasn't completely in the wrong, but he just... really pissed me off. A lot."

"And so you struck him?" McGonagall countered.

"Well, yeah."

"I suppose we'll see the full story in a second, Mr Potter." she turned back to the other women and began their conversation again.

"What in the…?" Harry murmured to himself as Dumbledore entered, a familiar stone basin in tow. It hovered a few feet behind him in mid-air. What in the bloody hell was going on? And then it clicked - the pensieve. They must be viewing someone's memory. All of the adults opened their circle to Albus, the lot of them all continuing in a harried discussion, and despite Harry's constant attempts would not let him join.

"Guys? Hello!" said Harry, increasing in volume to the point where he was almost shouting. He shook his head and cast his gaze around until it landed on Hermione, who had clearly been excluded too. She raised her eyebrows, and made a sort of shrugging motion, almost like she was saying 'what can you do?' Harry grimaced and turned his head in silent agreement.

A rustling motion caught his attention. Ron finally turned round with a sour expression on his face, scowling at everyone in the room. There was a scab on his lip, and his jaw looked swollen and badly bruised. What? Harry thought Madame Pomfrey could heal anything. How hard did he punch Ron? The other boy got up and went over to sit with Hermione, at which point the two began their own hushed conversation.

Great. Harry was left alone again, watching the two groups converse in hurried whispers - until the doors opened and his godfather swept in, eyes narrowed and a stormy expression on his face. The entire room fell silent, waiting with bated breath to see what he would say.

Sirius glared at Harry. "One hour. One bloody hour I've been back at Headquarters when McGonagall requests to see me because of another incident. Upon arriving at Hogwarts, I hear snatches of the other students conversations that, apparently; Harry Potter smashed Ron Weasley round the face, twice no less," Harry gulped and Mrs Weasley gasped when he said 'twice'. Sirius continued: "and then ran off. Of course, I put this down as another stupid rumour, because you two are supposed to be best friends."

He pointed at both boys, then turned his fierce gaze back on Harry. "I run into Fred and George, who are kind enough to give me the right turn of events." Sirius sighed impatiently, running his hands through his hair exasperatedly. "What in the bloody hell are you playing at, Harry?!" he finally exploded. "There's been some... weird stuff happening, and I would appreciate it if you explain it all to me."

Fuck. Everyone was now staring at him expectantly, Sirius looking wild with his glinting grey eyes. Harry didn't doubt if he would actually kill him in that moment. He just stood there, mouth opening and closing as he tried to find the right words. They wanted an explanation - and so did Harry. Some parts of 'this' made sense, but a lot of it didn't. Harry was groping around in the dark, begging that his fingers would fumble on a light switch.

It felt like there should be some sort of explanation for all of this; something so stupidly simple that he would feel like an idiot for not considering it earlier. But at the same time, there was a part of him that wondered if any of this would ever be explained, whether he would just go on having terrifying nightmares and cutting himself until the day he died. What if his last breath was taken during one of his funny turns, and he died sat in a river of his own blood and vomit? They would find the scars on his corpse, and he would be put down as another one of those people that topped themselves.

Harry had seen it on the news before: people with seemingly perfect lives throwing themselves off bridges and the tops of towers. Everyone shook their heads, said things like 'such a shame', or 'I never saw it coming'. Would people say the same for him? Would he be one of the 'gone too soon' people he saw on posters? At his school, they'd had an assembly because his science teacher had drunk himself to death. Of course they didn't put it like that, since the school were dealing with ten-year-olds, but did say the obligatory 'if you ever need help, come and talk to us'.

All of the teachers hated Harry, so he had thought he'd never do that. At Hogwarts there had been a frightening lack of discussion about mental health, and the like. Dumbledore did know he was dealing with teenagers, right?

Harry didn't know if he would actually ever do it, but he'd certainly considered it. But hadn't everyone? Death wasn't anything Harry every really thought about, because it was too depressing thinking whether his parents and Cedric had just gone out like a light, or they were in heaven making daisy chains and dancing about in the sunlight. But what if it was a second chance at life? Reincarnation? Just a big gag-reel of his life? Not that there would be much to see. All Harry was planning to do was kill Voldemort. Maybe he would travel the world after.

And then what? Would he have completed his life's purpose, and just do... nothing? Well, he would think about it when he got there. For now he had to focus on his purpose in life - killing Voldemort.

For now, Sirius and everyone else were still looking at him expectantly.

"If I might, Ms Granger's memory is ready to be viewed now," put in Dumbledore softly. He glanced momentarily at Harry, who was quite relieved to have the attention averted away from him. Not that Dumbledore needed to know that, of course. Harry had only one other experience with a pensieve - the previous year when he had witnessed Barty Crouch Jr's trial.

Harry wasn't quite sure what to do until Sirius beckoned Harry over, muttering "we'll deal with this later," before the two joined the fringe of people clustered around the bowl.

"Now then, before anyone complains about violation of privacy-" she glared pointedly at Harry - "The participant has willingly agreed for her memories to be viewed, so it is all perfectly legal."

Then, she leant close to the pensieve, almost dipping her nose into the serene waters, and was gone.


*I don't own any characters, all rights to J.K. Rowling.

**Hi all! I'm sorry to cut it short, but it was getting too long. Tell me what you thought. Thanks, Tea33 xx.

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