Harry Potter and the Year he Broke Free
Chapter Twenty-Five: Pensieve
Soon after McGonagall entered Hermione's memories, the rest followed. It was extremely odd seeing Mrs Weasley, Sirius, Dumbledore, Ron, Hermione, McGonagall, Pomfrey and himself standing in a slightly blurry looking Gryffindor Tower. Memories were very strange - surreal, really. Everything was distorted at the edges, and if you looked in the corner of your eye it was all just indecipherable shapes. But it gave you a clear enough picture, which was the most important part.
Since it was all from Hermione's point of view, she was the clearest, hair settled in bushy waves on the back of her head and nose buried in a book as per usual. The portrait hole swung open, and memory-Harry came into view, an easy smile settled on his face that shattered when he observed the scene. It was Ron, in the very centre of a crowd.
"That was after I left your office, Professor." Harry remarked to McGonagall, and to the rest of the group at the same time. It was really unsettling to see yourself just... existing. Harry had of course seen himself in the mirror, but it was different watching himself walk when he didn't think anyone was watching. Watching the slightly wary expression that seemed to be on his face almost permanently that he could swear was never there before.
He did look taller and older too. Well, puberty, he thought. Still really weird though. Harry watched himself exchange a few uncomfortable words with Ron before heading up to the dormitories. Was the air always so stilted between them? Definitely not. Harry was almost jealous when he remembered the ease with which he used to talk to his best friend. That familiar, lonely ache resurfaced again, only to be stamped out by inexpressible anger.
Whilst Harry was fetching his jumper, (which he told the group) Ron was just carrying on in the same tune as before. Harry is an attention-seeking loser, basically.
"Yeah! He wouldn't stop laughing at my robes last year at the dance, too!" Ron replied to a sixth-year batting her eyelashes at him flirtatiously. Being the centre of attention has its perks.
Harry sighed heavily. "I didn't laugh at your robes! Well, not that much. But I still helped you sever some of that lace off it, didn't I?" he shot at the other boy, eyes flashing with annoyance.
Ron fiddled with his sleeve like he did in the common room again. "I-I didn't mean it! It's just- it's just different when you're standing there in front of everyone."
For the most part, the adults had just stood by and watched the scene unfold. Childhood squabbles meant little to them anymore. But when Ron announced that Harry was just in it for the fame, they all winced. However, when he got to the part about not believing Harry about Voldemort returning, McGonagall tutted loudly, Sirius growled and Pomfrey's eyes widened.
"Ronald!" Mrs Weasley spluttered, face turning a blotchy red. "You can't-"
But she was cut off by Harry storming across the room and punching Ron square in the face. he watched himself, chest heaving and looking thoroughly unhinged. The youngest male Weasley rose again, and the shouting ensued. Memory-Hermione had long forgotten her book and was immersed in the confrontation, squealing loudly when the butterbeers broke.
Harry was sure all of the adults would have screamed at both of them had they not been utterly entranced by the scene unfolding before them. And so was Harry, honestly. All eight pairs of eyes were fixated on first the window, where it was speedily fogging up with condensation, then all of the other students' breath rising up in front of them. Even Harry felt like shivering, and they were only in a memory.
Somehow, all of the power was emanating from Harry, who was virtually glowing at this point. His hands were clenched tightly, and he had his teeth bared at Ron whilst his eyes flickered and flamed. It was like there really was fire in his eyes. Harry couldn't blame Ron for looking completely petrified as the glass spun behind him, around fifty or so shards surrounding him completely. They sprung back, ready to shoot right into Ron's head.
The redhead stammered something out, a few words that were nearly lost in the animosity of the atmosphere. But they were the key. Almost immediately, everything stopped. The ice crawling its way around the common room evaporated instantly, and the room returned to a normal temperature. The glass dropped, showering on top of everybody. They all seemed to miss people's heads though, some of them swapping courses and swerving off in another direction to avoid impaling someone.
No glass went anywhere near Harry, (something he suspected to be no coincidence) and the room was silent for a moment. Just for a moment, though. Harry saw his eye twitching rapidly before he swung and completely knocked Ron off his feet. The sheer power of that punch was linked to his magic, Harry knew that now, having seen it with his own eyes. Like superhuman strength and speed, almost. The force of it completely shattered Ron's jaw, the snapping crunch of bones just as disturbing as before.
Harry swept out of the common room, the glass crunching under his knees as he went. Everything swirled; grey mist warping the dimensions of the room and disappearing it completely. He felt him and his companions being spat out of the pensieve and landing back in the infirmary as they were before.
Every set of eyes was on Harry again, who wondered if he was having an out-of-body experience. He was completely frozen in one spot, eyes unmoving from the floor. His brain was full of an assortment of thoughts: he could've killed someone! It was clear his magic was utterly out of his control - changing his surroundings, destroying things, controlling objects. This was almost unheard of. Like his magic had a mind of its own.
Harry could feel his heartbeat speeding up; pounding so wildly he thought it would fall out of his chest. He could feel his chest heaving rapidly with every dizzying breath, each one harder to pull in than the last. The world was spinning and Harry felt like he might just keel over right there. What in the fuck is going on? Harry thought, eyes still fixed on the floor beneath his feet. And why hasn't anyone arrested me yet? I feel like I should be carted off to Azkaban right away!
The scariest thing is that nobody was saying anything. Harry wanted to turn his head to look where everyone was, but he was too afraid. Too frozen with fear that he might turn round and find Dumbledore with his wand pointed in his face, demanding him to get on his knees and detaining him. From there it would be Azkaban - Harry would be tossed to the dementors and forced to stay there in the gloom with nothing but his worst memories for company. This did nothing to calm him: on the contrary it made him tremble even more, great jolts of fear wracking through his body. The food he had eaten earlier was threatening to make a reappearance.
Was this all it took to reduce him to a wobbling heap of nerves? Harry was better than this. He took a shaky breath, then turned round to face the others. His nails were pressing so deeply into his palms he felt like he was drawing blood. Keep it together, Harry. "So... so now you know what happened." he said firmly, training his voice so it didn't wobble. Keep it together.
Pomfrey had gone a pale colour, and almost whispered, "Yes, I suppose we do..."
Sirius gulped, his brow furrowed. "Madame Pomfrey... or anyone, really, I suppose... do you have any bloody idea what we just witnessed?"
"I've never seen anything like it." McGonagall remarked. She looked as she always did - absolutely formidable. Apart from her left eye, which was pulsing oddly.
Ron cleared his throat. "N-neither have I. That was why I- I was so freaked out."
Harry, who up until that point had been keeping his eyes on the floor, finally looked up at them all. "Me three. I don't have a clue what that was." he said quietly.
"You didn't?" said Ron, surprised.
"Of course I fucking didn't. Did you think I planned to nearly kill you?" he hissed back, feeling his emotions swinging like a clock pendulum. Ron backed up, stepping away from did nothing to improve Harry's quickly evaporating patience. Keep it under fucking control, he firmly reminded himself. Harry tried to soften his glare into a calmer expression.
"And Ronald, what gives you the right to say those awful things?" Mrs Weasley shouted, her dulcet tones slowly building in volume until her hair was flying everywhere from her constantly tugging it. "Really, you boys! My own son, knowing full well what his family is included in, going against everything we stand for!" She frowned at him sadly. "Ron, do you really feel that way?"
Ron squirmed, face slowly turning red. "No. I-I'm sorry, mum. It's just different, um, you know..."
"Don't apologise to me, dear. Apologise to Harry." she said matter-of-factly.
"Only if he apologises to me," Ron replied hotly.
Mrs Weasley put her hands on her hips, and looked between the two, who were now openly glaring furiously at each other. "Well?"
Harry laughed coldly. "No way. It wasn't anything I didn't expect, really." Everyone looked surprised at this, even Ron. "It was only a matter of time. I was just surprised you decided to do it so..." he paused for a moment, searching for a word. "Publicly," he finished.
Ron grumbled and turned his back again, ambling over to his bed where he settled down onto it and turned away from everyone. Harry furrowed his eyebrows and watched his back for a while, observing his breathing getting slower until he was inclined to believe Ron had dropped off. How he did it so easily was a mystery to him. Often it took hours for Harry to get any sleep, and even then it was fitful and short-lived.
"Wanker," he mumbled quietly. He thought nobody heard it, but from the way Sirius scoffed shortly and then pressed his fist to his mouth he wasn't so sure.
Dumbledore was frowning slightly. "Mr Potter, has anything like this ever happened before?"
"Yes. But never this bad." he replied.
Sirius did a double-take. "Really? Why didn't you tell me, when I asked if anything was wrong?"
Harry shrugged. "Didn't want you all fussing. And I wasn't even sure if anything was wrong. You have to admit this is all very confusing."
"You stupid boy!" Pomfrey screeched. "Why are you so intent on dealing with all of this yourself? Didn't you think any of us had knowledge you didn't? It would've been much easier if you just came to us in the first place."
"There is no more you could know about this! I've checked hundreds of books, and absolutely nothing has turned up! Flourish and Blotts, Borgin and Burke's, The Healer's encyclopaedia of diseases and illnesses- and yes, the 3000-page one," he added at Pomfrey's sceptical look, "Hades' library, and the muggle book of diseases. I've searched every one. There's nothing!"
Not one of them looked convinced, so Harry pulled out his wand and slashed it impatiently through the air once, summoning a satchel similar to his school one. He got down on his knees, and undid the buckle.
"Haven't had time to unpack yet," he threw out to the audience absent-mindedly. Some nodded, and some didn't bother to respond. Harry grabbed the bottom two corners of the bag, and fixed everyone with a severe look.
"I'd step back if I were you," he said coarsely before unleashing the books.
It was complete and utter chaos. Around 200 books sped out of the bag and crashed onto the floor, torrents of leather-bound volumes spilling out into the infirmary. Some were very slim, hardly thicker than a breadstick and others were as wide as a tree trunk, some bigger than that. Thousands of pages all piled together in published work, all of it crashing together into an indecipherable mess of colours. A rainbow of covers was spread everywhere, varying from the harshest whites to the softest blacks. Yellow, green, blue, red. All of it dumped in a towering pile of ink-stained pieces of dead tree bound together tightly.
Panting slightly, Harry lowered the bag. "Do you believe me now?"
"Uh, yeah." said Sirius, wild-eyed and pressed flat against the wall, trying to avoid the flood of books. "Where did you even get this many? And why?"
"Because believe it or not, I actually like to read. And I had to look up my symptoms."
"What are your symptoms?" asked McGonagall, wobbling slightly as she tried to balance on one leg.
Harry looked at her. "Doesn't matter." Then, he waved his arm around, gathering all of the books together in one fluid motion with his arm and vanishing them all into his bag again. It dropped to the floor like a rock (or boulder, in this case) and Harry cast a feather-light charm on it. Now he could pick it up again, and he did just that, sweeping it off the floor and onto his shoulder.
"Don't look so surprised. That isn't even all of them." Harry said, frowning at the still shell-shocked adults. "Can I go now?"
Silence. Harry shot them all an exasperated look and then made his way to the door, stopping when Madame Pomfrey cried out.
"No! Potter, we need to monitor you to find out what you have. At least one day," she pleaded with his stony expression.
"I must insist, Harry. I myself am interested to confirm a diagnosis." said Dumbledore, holding up a wizened hand.
Sirius stepped forward. "We only want what's best for you, kid." Behind him, Molly nodded.
Harry contemplated each of them. He didn't believe for a second that they had his best interests at heart (maybe an exception for Sirius, and Mrs Weasley) but Dumbledore was most likely just being his usual manipulative self. However, Harry was also interested to find out what was wrong with him: after all, he was no healer, so maybe Madame Pomfrey could come up with something?
He nodded, and his godfather sighed in relief. Harry spun round again, glaring at Dumbledore. "What do you mean, 'confirm a diagnosis'? Do you know what's wrong with me?" he persisted determinedly.
Albus surveyed the teen over the top of his half-moon glasses. "I... I would be lying if I didn't have any suspicions."
Harry thought for a moment, the cogs turning in his brain. How long had he known about this?
"How long?"
"I'm sorry?" said a confused Albus.
"How long have you suspected?"
"Since you left the maze last Summer." Dumbledore didn't see a point in lying. He had speculated that the ritual performed on Harry would have had its repercussions, he just wasn't sure what they would be.
Harry was stunned. "You- you what? Since last fucking Summer? And you didn't think it would have been a good idea to warn me?"
"I couldn't be sure. Professor Snape and I had some ideas, but-"
"SNAPE?! YOU TOLD SNAPE?!" he exploded. Harry was well and truly 'off the handle' now; and he couldn't care less. Bloody Dumbledore and his secrets.
"Harry, if you would calm down-"
"NO! I WON'T BLOODY CALM DOWN! I TOLD YOU THAT I DIDN'T APPRECIATE YOU KEEPING THINGS FROM ME, AND YOU'VE DONE IT AGAIN-"
"HARRY! CALM DOWN!" Dumbledore bellowed, catching him completely off guard. Sirius and Mrs Weasley along with the rest of the group looked utterly terrified, and Harry felt the anxiety trickling down his back like a disillusionment charm.
"What?" he said, afraid of the answer. Dumbledore, with his eyes blazing with cold determination, gestured with a curt nod to the back of the ward. His wand was out, and he had adopted a protective stance against the people huddled behind him. Harry turned to see all of the beds clustered at the end broken, smashed to pieces. Sheets were torn and strewn across the broken frames of the beds, which were large panels and boards with jagged cracks where they had snapped in half. Ron had joined the other people behind Dumbledore, and were all staring at him intently.
"Who did that?" said Harry, voice breaking with the strain of keeping up his composure. He already knew who did it, but... there was a small part of him that hoped it was all a big joke. Maybe Peeves would jump out from behind one of the still intact beds, blowing raspberries and taunting him as per usual. That would mean he wasn't some bed-smashing maniac. Oh God, he hadn't even felt himself doing anything. Harry didn't know anything was wrong until Dumbledore said so.
"Harry, could you get down on your knees, please? I'm going to have to restrain you, for everyone's safety, including yours." said Dumbledore slowly, raising up his hands in peace.
"N-no, you-you c-can-'t I... I don't.." Harry stammered, feeling the tears well up in his eyes. His throat was closing up fast, and he realised that he couldn't breath. He choked, spluttering something else before sprinting out of the hospital wing as fast as he could, hearing the shouts of his concerned friends echoing after him. The tears threatening to fall finally did with a dry sob, and the corridors he raced down were a blur as he tried to put as much space as he could between himself and everyone else.
After what seemed like an eternity, the familiar door of the Room of Requirement came into view, and he threw himself at it. His hand grasped at the cool metal of the doorknob until it burst open, allowing him entry to his room, his safe-space. Harry sank against the hard wooden slats of his door, and just let himself scream and sob and rage, tearing apart whatever he could get his hands on.
He was still unsatisfied. Harry crossed the threshold into his bathroom, and stretched out a hand to the drawer on the bottom right. The dreaded bottom right drawer, the one that concealed his razor. He pulled it open roughly, sliding the blade out of its casing and pushing up his sleeve. He knew it was wrong, but this was the only way he could get control, just... stop. Everything just needed to stop. Harry's head was overcrowded with terrifying emotions and hurtful memories, and he just wanted it all to stop.
The blade crossed his pale, clammy skin twice. One was jagged and thin, the other shorter and deeper. They both bled; one flow thicker than the other. It didn't matter to Harry. The world stopped spinning, his blood dripping rhythmically onto the pristine tiles below. His breathing finally settled in, and the spinning walls stood still, leaving Harry feeling drunk with peace and tranquillity.
He just sat for a while, letting the blood dry and wounds scab over. A quick scourgify sorted out the mess on the floor and on his jumper, leaving everything clean and tidy, apart from his room - but he would deal with that later. For now... he had to digest the day's events.
That morning he'd felt so amazing. The high of the quidditch match spurring on his rare happy mood, uplifting it and giving him the confidence to ask out Cho Chang. And she agreed! It felt so, so fantastic to be able to walk down the halls and not be glared at, or whispered about. Lunch was spent walking around with the girl he liked, discussing outfits and corsages for the ball. That felt so far away now, Harry thought as he rinsed the blade under the tap. The surface sparkled and shone in the candlelight; you would have never known it was covered in blood moments ago.
Harry smile half-heartedly, and continued. An afternoon party soon turned into a boozy catch-up session with his mates. No, not mates, but... fellow Gryffindors. Harry hardly felt like a lion anymore, to be honest. He barely spent any time in the common room, and the way he'd just run away from everyone in the infirmary didn't speak greatly about his bravery. Then, he went and cut himself again. Could he be any more spineless?
Feeling the familiar pang of loneliness and the overwhelming sensation of shame and guilt almost made him dig out the blade again, but Harry tore himself away from the sink. No - he couldn't, he wouldn't deal with his problems like that. Not anymore. He grumbled, making his way over to his bed which he had thankfully left alone before. Harry collapsed into it, and glanced at his alarm clock. Eleven?! How could it be eleven already? He shook his head, and stared at the ceiling above. To help with Astronomy, he had pinned up moons and stars and then labelled them. He could never tell the difference between Denebola and Altair.
And then, he'd had an interesting conversation with Dobby. Harry hadn't realised the Malfoys had shaken up the small elf so much, and three years after leaving their service was still falling back into old habits. They'd done quite a number on him. How had Harry missed it? He went to the kitchens almost every day - he didn't want to be gossiped about when he was trying to eat dinner. And there was only one other person he'd seen down there so far: Draco Malfoy.
That prat was acting most peculiarly. Whereas before he was loud, ignorant and constantly boasting of his family's wealth, Harry had observed that the blonde-haired Slytherin was much more subdued than the previous year. He stared off into space a lot more, and Harry couldn't remember the last time he called anyone Mudblood. At breakfast, every morning without fail, Malfoy would stare at Harry. Just stare. Never speaking, never breaking eye contact unless he had to; just watching him, sipping his tea contentedly.
And so Harry had stared back. Firstly, it was just to see if he could scare him off, but Malfoy remained undaunted, grey eyes like steel fixed on his own. Then... well, Harry didn't know why he kept looking. He observed him so frequently he knew Malfoy's breakfast off by heart: reasonably well-done toast, lightly buttered and tea with an inordinate amount of milk and sugar. Really, what was the point of having tea so stupidly diluted that it was probably more milk and sugar than anything? Harry liked his tea strong.
The whole Malfoy thing was giving him a headache. What did he want? Was he sent to spy on him? It was kind of easier just hating him than having all of these questions. And did he still hate him? Whilst they had spent too much time just gazing at each other, not once had they smiled, or exchanged any words. Apart from when Harry... uh... stuck him inside a quidditch hoop. But he didn't regret that, well, not really anyway. That pug-face Parkinson was the one pissing him off anyway, not Draco. Wait, Draco?! Since when were they on a first-name basis? Especially when it was just in Harry's head? The whole Malfoy catastrophe was just a load of questions that seemingly had no answers, as just demonstrated.
Harry shifted round, eyes drifting around until they landed on the ajar bathroom door. When had things gotten so bad? The last six months felt like a whirlwind; one minute he was stuck in the Little Whinging playground, swinging back and forth, wondering why everyone had ditched him and the next he was in his own place. Two things he had been lacking his entire life (money and freedom) were in infinite amounts right at his fingertips. For once in his fucking life, Harry could do whatever the hell he wanted, regardless of what the Dursleys', his friends, or his teacher said.
But not anymore. One disadvantage of being able to return home to his friends (whatever was left of them) and Sirius, as well as Remus, was that he had to follow the rules. Well, Harry followed the rules in his own way, which was... hardly following them at all. But it was annoying everyone thinking that he had to answer to them, that he had to be reprimanded and talked to whenever he stepped out of line. It was just pissing him off that people were still treating him like a toddler, keeping secrets from poor, fragile Harry. Not telling him things that he had a right to know. For one, what the bloody hell was going on with him.
That was a question that had been circling his brain for weeks now. What was going on? He had to set things straight: so, after emotional strain - such as Ron driving him up the wall - seemingly impossible things would happen. He had broken some of the beds in the infirmary with his magic, and back in the common room created a tornado of glass. And how could he forget? He transfigured a sunflower into edible soup, and that was without anything triggering it. However he had suffered the effects, namely bleeding from his eyes, nose and ears and then collapsing.
None of this was normal. Things that he shouldn't be able to do according to the firm rules of magic, were suddenly possible. But Harry reminded himself with a chuckle; when had he ever been normal? He was Harry bloody Potter, and although many negatives came with that, there was also the fact he had survived Voldemort on more than one occasion. Voldemort. How many people could boast that? So may times Harry thought he would never make it out alive, but against the odds, he had made it. Granted, he had a lot of help and luck along the way, but some of it was down to him. What made this any different?
He had to view it like- like an experiment. What were the boundaries of his new abilities? How far could he push himself? They were all questions for later, though; right now he wanted to know how to contain it. How to stop nearly blowing people up, because that's just impolite. And it could get him landed in Azkaban.
Harry didn't really want anyone else clued in, though. He didn't doubt that McGonagall, Dumbledore and Sirius would possess more insight about these things, but what if they discovered the best thing for him was to be locked up in St Mungo's and throw away the key because he was just too dangerous to be kept around people? Or what if they found out Harry had immeasurable power and potential? He was sure Dumbledore would force Harry to become his lap-dog if that was the conclusion.
Also, Harry had a sinking feeling that his extra magic had something to do with the nightmares, and everything that came with it. And other people would need to know the full story, a tale which he didn't especially feel like sharing. Who knows what they would all say about the scars littered up and down his forearms?
Everything had gotten worse since he returned to Hogwarts, probably because it was tied to his emotions. Back at the Shrieking Shack, when his mental state was rarely tested, his magic had been relatively manageable. But when stressful things occurred every hour, Harry was bound to... unravel. Or his magic was, in a better way of putting things.
So that was all he had to do. Keep it together, at least until he knew more about this.
*I don't own any characters, all rights to J.K. Rowling.
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