Chapter II : Digging Up Demons
[ colloquial title : Push It ]
iStaring down the hall again
Hands are on my back again
Survival is my only friend
Terrified of what they've done
...and I'd trade it All
for just a little
peace of mind.../i
-tool-
"...and a bruise on his face. It might not be a bad idea."
"God only knows what else Black's done to him..."
Vaguely, Harry was aware that there were people talking; somewhere close by people were speaking in hushed, disapproving tones - and they were speaking about his godfather. Harry forced his eyes open. It took a lot of effort, this, as though there were lead weights attached to his eyelids - and as soon as the light hit his eyes, he realized that he was best off with them shut. He couldn't really see anything besides whiteness, but piercing pain shot through Harry's head, and he buried his face in his arms to block out the light, rolled over onto his stomach.
He came to note that he was lying on something very cold and very hard... something metal, in a room that echoed and smelled like disinfectant. He knew that smell. It was a hospital smell. Harry hadn't expected magical hospitals to smell like this; then again, he hadn't much expected them to smell like *anything*, because he hadn't expected to end up in one. And how could he even be sure he was *in* a hospital? He couldn't see anything. The voices nearby hadn't stopped; in fact, now one of them was addressing him.
"Harry. Can you hear me, son?"
Harry didn't like the owner of this voice already. He was not this man's son. "Sure can't," he muttered into his arms, hunching his shoulders a bit against the chill in the room. Somewhere off to his left there were footsteps, heavy footsteps that echoed like everything else in the room. And then there was a hand on his shoulder, and the same voice was telling him to roll over and wake up.
"...You're hurt, Harry. We need to take care of you."
Cautiously, Harry lifted his head up a bit, cracked one eye and peered over his arms. He couldn't see very well without his glasses... but then there was a hand, giving them to him, and as he fit them awkwardly onto his nose the room came into focus at last.
This place reminded him very much of the hospital wing at Hogwarts. It had the same long, narrow design and high, arched ceiling - only there were no long rows of beds here, only steel tables on wheels, like the one he rested upon now. One or two of them had curtains set up around them, and a few others were covered in ominous looking metal instruments, rolls of gauze and parchment. Harry pushed himself up onto his elbows, then sat up in full.
There were three other people here with him, that he could see. One man, a tall, thin, balding wizard with glasses - who's white robes emblazoned with a red cross denoted him as a doctor - was standing a few feet away and looking over a scroll of parchment that looked suspiciously like the one Lucius had shown up at their house with. There was a young nurse standing at his side whom Harry had not realized until now was present - he hadn't heard her speak yet. But the man peering down at him was the man that Harry did not like already, the man that had called him 'son'. He was a burly, severe looking wizard with a mustache and the dark robes of the Ministry. Harry glared at him. The man only peered down the bridge of his nose at him in a manner highly reminiscent of Professor McGonnagall - only that when Professor McGonnagall looked at him like this, it wasn't so condescending, and subsequently he didn't usually feel like punching her on the nose.
"Good afternoon, Harry," the man said to him. The doctor had already advanced on him - taking his pulse, trying to shine a light in his eyes. Harry jerked his head away. It felt like someone was beating on his skull from the inside, and the light didn't help matters. "My name is Alexander Whippingbird, and I'm from the Ministry of Magic, Civil Affairs Bureau. Do you know where you are?" The man had continued as though Harry was paying full attention to him, speaking in a voice more suitable for a 6 year old than a person ten years in senior of that.
"No," Harry snapped. Now the doctor was lifting his chin up, frowning as he turned his head this way and that. He ran a thumb over Harry's cheekbone, and a lick of pain shot through it to the very back of his skull. Without thinking, he batted the doctors fingers away and cupped his own hand to his face, wincing. "Ouch. Quit it."
"Now, now, son, let the doctor take a look at you. We're here to *help* you, Harry, not to hurt you," said Mr. Whippingbird. "But that means you're going to have to cooperate with us. You are at St. Mungo's, and you have been taken into custody by the Ministry. We removed you from the custody of Mr. Black this morning, and we shall do everything we can to see that you recover properly from what you have suffered."
"What I've suffered," Harry said through gritted teeth, "is a nice blow to the head from one of *your* members - not to mention getting dragged out of my own house like a criminal. Now get off me!" he added to the doctor; feeling a bit bad for him, but having no patience for being poked and prodded right now nonetheless.
Mr. Whippingbird tsk-tsked through his teeth, shaking his head in a manner that made Harry want to throttle him. "Its all right now, Harry, you needn't cover for him any longer," - and it dawned on him what the man was implying.
"Sirius does *NOT* hit me! He's never laid a hand on me!!" he bellowed. Almost at once, Harry realized his mistake. Of course Sirius had 'laid a hand' on him. These people knew exactly where Sirius's hands had been. That's why they'd dragged him here, wasn't it? Mr. Whippingbird regarded him sternly again.
"You must understand, Harry, that we know precisely the opposite is true. But it's alright. I understand why you're frightened to implicate him. Just let the doctors do their jobs, and we'll have proof enough. You may not even have to testify."
Harry leapt off the examining table, somehow managing to remember he was still wearing nothing but a bath towel and having the good sense to clutch it around his waist as he did so. "Sirius doesn't hurt me, and he never will. He loves me and I love him and you're completely daft if you think I'm going to testify against him! Why did you bring me here?" He was yelling now, his voice echoing in the long, arched room. He yanked his wrist away from the doctor so sharply that they gave up on trying to manhandle him back onto the examining table for a few moments.
"We've brought you here for your own protection, as well as to... determine the amount of damage... that Black has done to you. This is for your own good," said Whippingbird, obviously uncomfortable as he struggled for a delicate phrasing. But the cold fist that clenched itself around Harry's stomach knew exactly what he meant, nevertheless; **We've brought you here to go over every inch of you with a fine tooth comb, inside and out, so we know for sure he's fucking you. No evidence like physical evidence, is there?**
He didn't realize that he was shaking, or that - for the second time in twenty-four hours, he had backed himself into a corner. He was only aware of the smell of hospitals, the cold plaster against his back, and the flood of nightmare memories; ghosts, drifting out of dusty corners and forgotten rooms in his mind to haunt him. The way the sun had shone through the trees that long ago afternoon, dappling the pavement as he'd walked home from school. And then, out of nowhere, the Hands upon him, dragging him into the van.
He'd never seen Their faces. They had kissed at him, touched him, forced Themselves upon him in every manner possible and passed him around like a flask of good whiskey - but he had never seen even one of Their faces. They had all been wearing hoods or masks; and though he would never forget Their voices, Their hands, Their horrors, he would never know what They had looked like. But They'd all had mean eyes and rough fingers, and They had held him down, and he had lost consciousness before They were done with him. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the hospital - and this hospital smelled exactly like that one - and realizing that the hands were not gone from him. But this time, it had been the doctors; and though Harry had cried, had begged them not to touch him, they had persevered, claiming that it was for his own good. And the doctors had held him down, too - held him still until he exhausted himself in sobbing struggling against their hands; until he had only been able to lie there... lie there beneath the fluorescent lights, with needles in his arms and monitors beeping away behind his head, and wishing that someone would just kill him...
"HARRY!" The voice was loud yet gentle; female, as it were.
Harry opened his eyes.
He was still here, still at St Mungo's; but he had tears streaming down his face, his knuckles were white, clenched shut in fists of panic, and his throat was raw as though from screaming. Only he did not remember crying, or screaming; only sinking into the memories while trying to reason. Harry shook his head and flexed his fingers, drew his forearm across his eyes to wipe the tears away.
The doctor was talking to Mr. Whippingbird in hushed tones, and Mr. Whippingbird was regarding Harry with a mixture of disturbance and concern. It was the young nurse that was speaking to him now in low, soft tones. "--you're alright, Harry, no one will touch you until you're ready. Just come sit down, dear, and relax a moment..." Her voice was melodic, and Harry made himself concentrate on it - steadying himself against the wall before he followed her back to a chair nearby. A moment later, the doctor approached him in a rather cautious manner. Harry swallowed hard, forcing the lingering sense of helpless panic back down into his stomach. i You are sixteen years old. No one has hurt you for nearly half your life now. Keep this up, though, and they're liable to think Sirius tortures you day in and day out./i The thought made him rational again, pulled him together as nothing else could, even the sweet little nurse that now stood protectively beside his chair.
"I'm sorry," he said, clearing his throat. "I have no idea what happened." He forced himself to make eye contact with the doctor, and found his eyes unthreatening. The waves of panic ebbed a bit inside him.
"N-no need to apologize, my d-d-dear boy," said the doctor. He had a stutter, which didn't win him any points with Harry, as it reminded him all too much of Quirrell. "But I n-need to ask you a few questions b-b-before we p-proceed." He pulled up a chair near Harry's, shuffling his papers on his clipboard as Whippingbird looked on sternly. Harry pushed his hair out of his eyes, then leaned foreword and rested his elbows on his knees, fixing the doctor with what he hoped appeared to be a tired, heavy stare.
"Fine."
"Ah. Yes, well, a-alright then...." The doctor straightened his glasses, shuffled his clipboard. He didn't meet Harry's eyes, only read from his sheaf of parchment. "C-can you tell me how l-l-long you have been intimate with M-Mr Black?"
"Eight months and change," Harry said steadily, staring straight at the man. He was making the doctor nervous now, he could feel it, and it gave him some satisfaction to know this. *He* wouldn't be the only one squirming in his seat; all of this was making him more than uncomfortable, and he felt it was only fair that he return the dubious favor.
"Er... yes. And have you ever f-f-felt uncomfortable in the r-relationship...?"
*Absurd.* Harry's stare became unwittingly all the more drilling for the indignance the question raised him. By nature, he was not one to 'kiss and tell', or so they say - what was between he and Sirius, stayed between he and Sirius, and discussion of it with any third party made him extremely self-conscious. And here was this man that he didn't even *know*, drilling into the most intimate part of his life. But just knowing that these people had taken him away from Sirius gave him the strength to stare the doctor down, gave him the conviction to lace his voice with and the serenity to keep his voice steady and even.
"Never. Not a bit." He was satisfied with the way his own voice sounded when he answered - clear and direct and honest, leaving no room for argument for Mr. Whippingbird, who looked clearly dissatisfied with his lack of hesitancy.
"A-a-and to w-w-w-what extent, e-exactly, have you b-b-been intimate with M-Mr B-Black?" The doctor's stutter was getting worse and worse. He didn't seem to want to ask Harry these questions any more than Harry wanted to answer them. Indeed, the man's bald spot was turning decidedly red, and he wouldn't look anyone in the eye, especially not Harry. Harry couldn't feel too satisfied, however; he felt himself turning red with the question as well.
"What do you mean, to what extent?" he snapped, hiding his humiliation behind an offensive assault of venom laced words and a steely glare. "We're in love. We sleep in the same bed. Anything beyond that is our business alone. What do you and your wife do with the shades down, hmm? What's the extent of *your* intimacy?" Harry had practically risen to his feet, his fists clenched at his sides.
"That is enough!" bellowed Whippingbird. He stormed foreword from his vantage point beyond the examining table, turning very red in the face and reminding Harry a great deal of Uncle Vernon when he was angry. Involuntarily, Harry flinched as the larger man advanced up upon him, stopping only feet from where he sat, and without realizing it he shrunk back in his chair. "I will tolerate no more of this insolence! You treat us as though we were the enemy! Enough! We need certain information from you, we need to examine you, and that's the end of it right there. You were asked to cooperate, and you've done nothing of the sort. I'll have no more of this childish nonsense," Mr. Whippingbird rounded briefly on the young nurse, "--fetch a bottle of Vertiaserum. Doctor, I advise you send for assistance before you examine him. It's not likely to go smoothly, at this point." He shot Harry a contemptuous glare. "You've brought it on yourself, son."
"I am NOT your son!" Harry retorted, but instinct born of his life with the Dursley's kept him rooted to his chair. "And as far as I'm concerned - you *are* the enemy! You people are ruining our lives, and I'll be damned if I'm going to help you convict my godfather of crimes against *me*!"
"Your relationship with Black is *completely* inappropriate!" sputtered Whippingbird, "Even *beyond* the fact that your sexual persuasion is an abomination - you are sixteen years old! He is twenty years in your senior! Not only is it highly immoral, it is highly illegal! You are still a minor, Mr. Potter - and Sirius Black has never given this Ministry anything but trouble!" He was very close to Harry now, nearly leaning over him, and Harry shrank back in the chair. Whipping bird exhaled heavily through his nose like an angry bull, ruffling his mustache. Without another word, he spun on one foot and stalked out of the huge room, leaving Harry alone with the doctor - who only looked at him with apprehension, as if he had a dirty job ahead of him. Harry shuddered.
It wasn't long until Whippingbird returned - and he had cronies now; four men dressed in white medics robes. The thin, balding doctor rose, straightened his papers for the umpteenth time, and finally met Harry's eyes. It was a look of sympathy. "C-come on, Harry," he said quietly, "I'll make this a-as easy on you as I c-c-can...".
And he gestured to the steel examination table.
Harry swallowed hard, squared his shoulders, and stood up. His eyes moved around the room - seven people in all; Whippingbird and the doctor and the young nurse, and the four mediwizards, one of whom was a female. "Does there have to be so many people here?" His voice sounded anything but confidant in his own ears now. It sounded scared.
Whippingbird only smiled a mean, oily smile, and slipped through the door. Now it was a roomful of medics, and Harry, and they were all looking straight at him. It was the young nurse that stepped foreword. "C'mon, love," she whispered, so that only he could hear, "It'll be alright. Here, hold my hand," and she took Harry's fingers in her own, squeezed them warmly. Harry took a deep breath and nodded, let her lead him over to the table. He could feel his heart pounding against his rib cage, hear it in his ears, and the last thing he wanted to do was to get on that table and let these people go over him inch by inch with their hands and their eyes; that cold, brusque, medical touch imprinted so clearly on the dark side of his mind.
"Let me put that aside for you, love." The young nurse's voice sounded distant, and there was a ringing in his ears. "We'll get you something to wear after..." Harry appreciated her diplomacy, her gentle manner. He looked her; at the doctor, at the medics in the shadows, with apprehensive eyes. The knot of panic back was back, twisting itself tight in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn't swallow it back this time. Harry took another deep breath, stared at the floor as he handed her his bath towel.
The table was freezing, the lamps were glaring, and Harry shut his eyes as he lay back. He barely felt the nurse smooth his hair back, but he felt her gentle hands on his shoulders. They were no comfort to him now, however - Harry knew they were there to hold him down if he struggled, and he choked back a dry, hopeless sob as the doctor's hands met his skin. Somewhere behind his head, the nurse hushed him soothingly, but it was nothing to Harry anymore - this was age old fear, a fear that only one person had ever been able to quell.
And as the doctor pushed his knees apart, Harry whispered "Sirius" on the barest hint of breath, and wished that he was there to help him.
* *
Fear.
Amazing, the impact fear has upon the human psyche. Amazing, how deeply it can entrench itself into the subconscious - festering with time, becoming instinctive, sometimes all consuming. Irrational yet overpowering, it roots itself in the darkest corners of the mind, and though one may chop down the tree itself, sometimes those roots are unreachable. Fear was the one thing that Harry hated the most; and yet, for the past three hours, it was all that he felt, all that he knew.
He could still feel the hands on him even now. His worst fears had come true on that examination table - the first time in six years that strange hands had touched him. He'd forced himself to stay silent through the entire procedure. And then they had fed him the Vertiaserum, and he barely remembered anything until he'd found himself lying here, on a cot in another long, thin room much like the first one. Harry couldn't even begin to think about what he had told them. He could barely think at all - his resolve had broken halfway through the examination, and he'd lain there, numbed and terrified and holding back tears until it was over. Even now, he couldn't have spoken if he wanted to. He could only lie where he was, shaking and forcing his eyes to stay open. Harry didn't want to sleep. The nightmares would come if he slept now, and so he stared into the oncoming darkness and tried not to blink.
Footsteps. He heard the footsteps, coming up behind him - lots of different feet. Not again. Harry hunched his shoulders and pulled his knees closer to his chest **Just leave me alone, for Merlin's sake, please just leave me be...** He wanted nothing more than to sink through the mattress and into the floor, to hide from everyone and everything someplace that was dark and safe and quiet. He didn't think he could deal with one more personal question, with one more strange finger on one hair of his head.
But the footsteps came, echoing off the arched ceilings of the place, and now there were voices. Whippingbird. Malfoy. Anita, the sweet young nurse, telling them that she would be more than happy to handle his placement case in her spare time. Not necessary. That was Whippingbird. And Malfoy's cool, smooth voice saying perfectly alright, that he'd see to these arrangements himself. A Ministry case, to be handled by the Ministry. Harry put his hands over his face.
The footsteps stopped, not three feet away from his bed, though the voices had ceased moments before - and Harry felt a light pressure against the blankets at his feet. Nowhere to hide. Ever so slowly, he uncurled himself enough to take a peek at the end of the bed. Clothes. His clothes. Who had gone into his room and gotten his clothes for him?
"Ministry agents have been sent to collect a portion of your possessions for you, as you won't be going home any time soon."
Lucius Malfoy was standing beside his bed.
Harry hated this man. A thousand-and-then-some words came to mind, a thousand venomous condemnations and hateful retorts, but the only words he manages to get past his lips were, "You hit me. Get away from me," in a small voice that sounded more plaintive than accusatory in his own ears. He recoiled to the opposite side of the bed.
"I was ordered to remove you from Mr. Black's household by any means necessary. You were warned that resistance on your part would not be tolerated." Malfoy's voice was patient yet cold
"It was *our* household," Harry whispered, pressing his eyes against the sting of oncoming tears and turning his face away from Lucius. "Ours. It's our *home*."
"...The Ministry will be making arrangements for your placement until the beginning of term at Hogwarts," continued Lucius, as though he hadn't heard Harry's words [which he very well might not have]. "Until then, you will be remaining here at St. Mungo's."
"Where's Dumbledore?" muttered Harry.
"Professor Dumbledore has absolutely nothing to do with the Civil Affairs Bureau, and will not be involved in your case." Lucius couldn't keep the satisfaction out of his voice; however, no sooner had he spoken these words, than a deep, wise voice answered him from somewhere near the doorway.
"Not so, Lucius."
Dumbledore came 'round the curtain beside Harry's cot; a tall, thin, stately figure in royal blue robes and half-moon spectacles, his long silver hair and beard catching the torchlight. He greeted Malfoy's shocked, indignant expression with a warm smile, popping a lemon drop into his mouth and offering the bag to the blond-haired man as he spoke. "Corneilius Fudge sent word to me only an hour ago to tell me of the proceedings, and ask my aid in finding Harry here suitable guardians until school commences." Lucius stared at the older man, open mouthed, as Dumbledore took a seat on the edge of Harry's bed, offering him a lemon drop from the bag that Lucius had barely noticed. His sparkling blue eyes were kind, gentle, and they softened when Harry blinked back tears and finally swiped at them with his forearm.
"Molly Weasley nearly begged me to send you straight to her; and being the pushover that I am for a woman with such fine baking skills, I could not find it in my heart to refuse her." He winked to Harry with a conspirator smile. "I do hope the arrangements are to your liking. I'd awfully hate to tell her you weren't coming. She may never honor me with her treacle fudge again!"
Harry nodded and forced a weak little smile. "When can I go?" he asked.
Dumbledore patted his hand, and Harry had to fight the urge to wrap his fingers around it, to cling to it the way he wanted to. "You'll be there in time for supper."
[ colloquial title : Push It ]
iStaring down the hall again
Hands are on my back again
Survival is my only friend
Terrified of what they've done
...and I'd trade it All
for just a little
peace of mind.../i
-tool-
"...and a bruise on his face. It might not be a bad idea."
"God only knows what else Black's done to him..."
Vaguely, Harry was aware that there were people talking; somewhere close by people were speaking in hushed, disapproving tones - and they were speaking about his godfather. Harry forced his eyes open. It took a lot of effort, this, as though there were lead weights attached to his eyelids - and as soon as the light hit his eyes, he realized that he was best off with them shut. He couldn't really see anything besides whiteness, but piercing pain shot through Harry's head, and he buried his face in his arms to block out the light, rolled over onto his stomach.
He came to note that he was lying on something very cold and very hard... something metal, in a room that echoed and smelled like disinfectant. He knew that smell. It was a hospital smell. Harry hadn't expected magical hospitals to smell like this; then again, he hadn't much expected them to smell like *anything*, because he hadn't expected to end up in one. And how could he even be sure he was *in* a hospital? He couldn't see anything. The voices nearby hadn't stopped; in fact, now one of them was addressing him.
"Harry. Can you hear me, son?"
Harry didn't like the owner of this voice already. He was not this man's son. "Sure can't," he muttered into his arms, hunching his shoulders a bit against the chill in the room. Somewhere off to his left there were footsteps, heavy footsteps that echoed like everything else in the room. And then there was a hand on his shoulder, and the same voice was telling him to roll over and wake up.
"...You're hurt, Harry. We need to take care of you."
Cautiously, Harry lifted his head up a bit, cracked one eye and peered over his arms. He couldn't see very well without his glasses... but then there was a hand, giving them to him, and as he fit them awkwardly onto his nose the room came into focus at last.
This place reminded him very much of the hospital wing at Hogwarts. It had the same long, narrow design and high, arched ceiling - only there were no long rows of beds here, only steel tables on wheels, like the one he rested upon now. One or two of them had curtains set up around them, and a few others were covered in ominous looking metal instruments, rolls of gauze and parchment. Harry pushed himself up onto his elbows, then sat up in full.
There were three other people here with him, that he could see. One man, a tall, thin, balding wizard with glasses - who's white robes emblazoned with a red cross denoted him as a doctor - was standing a few feet away and looking over a scroll of parchment that looked suspiciously like the one Lucius had shown up at their house with. There was a young nurse standing at his side whom Harry had not realized until now was present - he hadn't heard her speak yet. But the man peering down at him was the man that Harry did not like already, the man that had called him 'son'. He was a burly, severe looking wizard with a mustache and the dark robes of the Ministry. Harry glared at him. The man only peered down the bridge of his nose at him in a manner highly reminiscent of Professor McGonnagall - only that when Professor McGonnagall looked at him like this, it wasn't so condescending, and subsequently he didn't usually feel like punching her on the nose.
"Good afternoon, Harry," the man said to him. The doctor had already advanced on him - taking his pulse, trying to shine a light in his eyes. Harry jerked his head away. It felt like someone was beating on his skull from the inside, and the light didn't help matters. "My name is Alexander Whippingbird, and I'm from the Ministry of Magic, Civil Affairs Bureau. Do you know where you are?" The man had continued as though Harry was paying full attention to him, speaking in a voice more suitable for a 6 year old than a person ten years in senior of that.
"No," Harry snapped. Now the doctor was lifting his chin up, frowning as he turned his head this way and that. He ran a thumb over Harry's cheekbone, and a lick of pain shot through it to the very back of his skull. Without thinking, he batted the doctors fingers away and cupped his own hand to his face, wincing. "Ouch. Quit it."
"Now, now, son, let the doctor take a look at you. We're here to *help* you, Harry, not to hurt you," said Mr. Whippingbird. "But that means you're going to have to cooperate with us. You are at St. Mungo's, and you have been taken into custody by the Ministry. We removed you from the custody of Mr. Black this morning, and we shall do everything we can to see that you recover properly from what you have suffered."
"What I've suffered," Harry said through gritted teeth, "is a nice blow to the head from one of *your* members - not to mention getting dragged out of my own house like a criminal. Now get off me!" he added to the doctor; feeling a bit bad for him, but having no patience for being poked and prodded right now nonetheless.
Mr. Whippingbird tsk-tsked through his teeth, shaking his head in a manner that made Harry want to throttle him. "Its all right now, Harry, you needn't cover for him any longer," - and it dawned on him what the man was implying.
"Sirius does *NOT* hit me! He's never laid a hand on me!!" he bellowed. Almost at once, Harry realized his mistake. Of course Sirius had 'laid a hand' on him. These people knew exactly where Sirius's hands had been. That's why they'd dragged him here, wasn't it? Mr. Whippingbird regarded him sternly again.
"You must understand, Harry, that we know precisely the opposite is true. But it's alright. I understand why you're frightened to implicate him. Just let the doctors do their jobs, and we'll have proof enough. You may not even have to testify."
Harry leapt off the examining table, somehow managing to remember he was still wearing nothing but a bath towel and having the good sense to clutch it around his waist as he did so. "Sirius doesn't hurt me, and he never will. He loves me and I love him and you're completely daft if you think I'm going to testify against him! Why did you bring me here?" He was yelling now, his voice echoing in the long, arched room. He yanked his wrist away from the doctor so sharply that they gave up on trying to manhandle him back onto the examining table for a few moments.
"We've brought you here for your own protection, as well as to... determine the amount of damage... that Black has done to you. This is for your own good," said Whippingbird, obviously uncomfortable as he struggled for a delicate phrasing. But the cold fist that clenched itself around Harry's stomach knew exactly what he meant, nevertheless; **We've brought you here to go over every inch of you with a fine tooth comb, inside and out, so we know for sure he's fucking you. No evidence like physical evidence, is there?**
He didn't realize that he was shaking, or that - for the second time in twenty-four hours, he had backed himself into a corner. He was only aware of the smell of hospitals, the cold plaster against his back, and the flood of nightmare memories; ghosts, drifting out of dusty corners and forgotten rooms in his mind to haunt him. The way the sun had shone through the trees that long ago afternoon, dappling the pavement as he'd walked home from school. And then, out of nowhere, the Hands upon him, dragging him into the van.
He'd never seen Their faces. They had kissed at him, touched him, forced Themselves upon him in every manner possible and passed him around like a flask of good whiskey - but he had never seen even one of Their faces. They had all been wearing hoods or masks; and though he would never forget Their voices, Their hands, Their horrors, he would never know what They had looked like. But They'd all had mean eyes and rough fingers, and They had held him down, and he had lost consciousness before They were done with him. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the hospital - and this hospital smelled exactly like that one - and realizing that the hands were not gone from him. But this time, it had been the doctors; and though Harry had cried, had begged them not to touch him, they had persevered, claiming that it was for his own good. And the doctors had held him down, too - held him still until he exhausted himself in sobbing struggling against their hands; until he had only been able to lie there... lie there beneath the fluorescent lights, with needles in his arms and monitors beeping away behind his head, and wishing that someone would just kill him...
"HARRY!" The voice was loud yet gentle; female, as it were.
Harry opened his eyes.
He was still here, still at St Mungo's; but he had tears streaming down his face, his knuckles were white, clenched shut in fists of panic, and his throat was raw as though from screaming. Only he did not remember crying, or screaming; only sinking into the memories while trying to reason. Harry shook his head and flexed his fingers, drew his forearm across his eyes to wipe the tears away.
The doctor was talking to Mr. Whippingbird in hushed tones, and Mr. Whippingbird was regarding Harry with a mixture of disturbance and concern. It was the young nurse that was speaking to him now in low, soft tones. "--you're alright, Harry, no one will touch you until you're ready. Just come sit down, dear, and relax a moment..." Her voice was melodic, and Harry made himself concentrate on it - steadying himself against the wall before he followed her back to a chair nearby. A moment later, the doctor approached him in a rather cautious manner. Harry swallowed hard, forcing the lingering sense of helpless panic back down into his stomach. i You are sixteen years old. No one has hurt you for nearly half your life now. Keep this up, though, and they're liable to think Sirius tortures you day in and day out./i The thought made him rational again, pulled him together as nothing else could, even the sweet little nurse that now stood protectively beside his chair.
"I'm sorry," he said, clearing his throat. "I have no idea what happened." He forced himself to make eye contact with the doctor, and found his eyes unthreatening. The waves of panic ebbed a bit inside him.
"N-no need to apologize, my d-d-dear boy," said the doctor. He had a stutter, which didn't win him any points with Harry, as it reminded him all too much of Quirrell. "But I n-need to ask you a few questions b-b-before we p-proceed." He pulled up a chair near Harry's, shuffling his papers on his clipboard as Whippingbird looked on sternly. Harry pushed his hair out of his eyes, then leaned foreword and rested his elbows on his knees, fixing the doctor with what he hoped appeared to be a tired, heavy stare.
"Fine."
"Ah. Yes, well, a-alright then...." The doctor straightened his glasses, shuffled his clipboard. He didn't meet Harry's eyes, only read from his sheaf of parchment. "C-can you tell me how l-l-long you have been intimate with M-Mr Black?"
"Eight months and change," Harry said steadily, staring straight at the man. He was making the doctor nervous now, he could feel it, and it gave him some satisfaction to know this. *He* wouldn't be the only one squirming in his seat; all of this was making him more than uncomfortable, and he felt it was only fair that he return the dubious favor.
"Er... yes. And have you ever f-f-felt uncomfortable in the r-relationship...?"
*Absurd.* Harry's stare became unwittingly all the more drilling for the indignance the question raised him. By nature, he was not one to 'kiss and tell', or so they say - what was between he and Sirius, stayed between he and Sirius, and discussion of it with any third party made him extremely self-conscious. And here was this man that he didn't even *know*, drilling into the most intimate part of his life. But just knowing that these people had taken him away from Sirius gave him the strength to stare the doctor down, gave him the conviction to lace his voice with and the serenity to keep his voice steady and even.
"Never. Not a bit." He was satisfied with the way his own voice sounded when he answered - clear and direct and honest, leaving no room for argument for Mr. Whippingbird, who looked clearly dissatisfied with his lack of hesitancy.
"A-a-and to w-w-w-what extent, e-exactly, have you b-b-been intimate with M-Mr B-Black?" The doctor's stutter was getting worse and worse. He didn't seem to want to ask Harry these questions any more than Harry wanted to answer them. Indeed, the man's bald spot was turning decidedly red, and he wouldn't look anyone in the eye, especially not Harry. Harry couldn't feel too satisfied, however; he felt himself turning red with the question as well.
"What do you mean, to what extent?" he snapped, hiding his humiliation behind an offensive assault of venom laced words and a steely glare. "We're in love. We sleep in the same bed. Anything beyond that is our business alone. What do you and your wife do with the shades down, hmm? What's the extent of *your* intimacy?" Harry had practically risen to his feet, his fists clenched at his sides.
"That is enough!" bellowed Whippingbird. He stormed foreword from his vantage point beyond the examining table, turning very red in the face and reminding Harry a great deal of Uncle Vernon when he was angry. Involuntarily, Harry flinched as the larger man advanced up upon him, stopping only feet from where he sat, and without realizing it he shrunk back in his chair. "I will tolerate no more of this insolence! You treat us as though we were the enemy! Enough! We need certain information from you, we need to examine you, and that's the end of it right there. You were asked to cooperate, and you've done nothing of the sort. I'll have no more of this childish nonsense," Mr. Whippingbird rounded briefly on the young nurse, "--fetch a bottle of Vertiaserum. Doctor, I advise you send for assistance before you examine him. It's not likely to go smoothly, at this point." He shot Harry a contemptuous glare. "You've brought it on yourself, son."
"I am NOT your son!" Harry retorted, but instinct born of his life with the Dursley's kept him rooted to his chair. "And as far as I'm concerned - you *are* the enemy! You people are ruining our lives, and I'll be damned if I'm going to help you convict my godfather of crimes against *me*!"
"Your relationship with Black is *completely* inappropriate!" sputtered Whippingbird, "Even *beyond* the fact that your sexual persuasion is an abomination - you are sixteen years old! He is twenty years in your senior! Not only is it highly immoral, it is highly illegal! You are still a minor, Mr. Potter - and Sirius Black has never given this Ministry anything but trouble!" He was very close to Harry now, nearly leaning over him, and Harry shrank back in the chair. Whipping bird exhaled heavily through his nose like an angry bull, ruffling his mustache. Without another word, he spun on one foot and stalked out of the huge room, leaving Harry alone with the doctor - who only looked at him with apprehension, as if he had a dirty job ahead of him. Harry shuddered.
It wasn't long until Whippingbird returned - and he had cronies now; four men dressed in white medics robes. The thin, balding doctor rose, straightened his papers for the umpteenth time, and finally met Harry's eyes. It was a look of sympathy. "C-come on, Harry," he said quietly, "I'll make this a-as easy on you as I c-c-can...".
And he gestured to the steel examination table.
Harry swallowed hard, squared his shoulders, and stood up. His eyes moved around the room - seven people in all; Whippingbird and the doctor and the young nurse, and the four mediwizards, one of whom was a female. "Does there have to be so many people here?" His voice sounded anything but confidant in his own ears now. It sounded scared.
Whippingbird only smiled a mean, oily smile, and slipped through the door. Now it was a roomful of medics, and Harry, and they were all looking straight at him. It was the young nurse that stepped foreword. "C'mon, love," she whispered, so that only he could hear, "It'll be alright. Here, hold my hand," and she took Harry's fingers in her own, squeezed them warmly. Harry took a deep breath and nodded, let her lead him over to the table. He could feel his heart pounding against his rib cage, hear it in his ears, and the last thing he wanted to do was to get on that table and let these people go over him inch by inch with their hands and their eyes; that cold, brusque, medical touch imprinted so clearly on the dark side of his mind.
"Let me put that aside for you, love." The young nurse's voice sounded distant, and there was a ringing in his ears. "We'll get you something to wear after..." Harry appreciated her diplomacy, her gentle manner. He looked her; at the doctor, at the medics in the shadows, with apprehensive eyes. The knot of panic back was back, twisting itself tight in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn't swallow it back this time. Harry took another deep breath, stared at the floor as he handed her his bath towel.
The table was freezing, the lamps were glaring, and Harry shut his eyes as he lay back. He barely felt the nurse smooth his hair back, but he felt her gentle hands on his shoulders. They were no comfort to him now, however - Harry knew they were there to hold him down if he struggled, and he choked back a dry, hopeless sob as the doctor's hands met his skin. Somewhere behind his head, the nurse hushed him soothingly, but it was nothing to Harry anymore - this was age old fear, a fear that only one person had ever been able to quell.
And as the doctor pushed his knees apart, Harry whispered "Sirius" on the barest hint of breath, and wished that he was there to help him.
* *
Fear.
Amazing, the impact fear has upon the human psyche. Amazing, how deeply it can entrench itself into the subconscious - festering with time, becoming instinctive, sometimes all consuming. Irrational yet overpowering, it roots itself in the darkest corners of the mind, and though one may chop down the tree itself, sometimes those roots are unreachable. Fear was the one thing that Harry hated the most; and yet, for the past three hours, it was all that he felt, all that he knew.
He could still feel the hands on him even now. His worst fears had come true on that examination table - the first time in six years that strange hands had touched him. He'd forced himself to stay silent through the entire procedure. And then they had fed him the Vertiaserum, and he barely remembered anything until he'd found himself lying here, on a cot in another long, thin room much like the first one. Harry couldn't even begin to think about what he had told them. He could barely think at all - his resolve had broken halfway through the examination, and he'd lain there, numbed and terrified and holding back tears until it was over. Even now, he couldn't have spoken if he wanted to. He could only lie where he was, shaking and forcing his eyes to stay open. Harry didn't want to sleep. The nightmares would come if he slept now, and so he stared into the oncoming darkness and tried not to blink.
Footsteps. He heard the footsteps, coming up behind him - lots of different feet. Not again. Harry hunched his shoulders and pulled his knees closer to his chest **Just leave me alone, for Merlin's sake, please just leave me be...** He wanted nothing more than to sink through the mattress and into the floor, to hide from everyone and everything someplace that was dark and safe and quiet. He didn't think he could deal with one more personal question, with one more strange finger on one hair of his head.
But the footsteps came, echoing off the arched ceilings of the place, and now there were voices. Whippingbird. Malfoy. Anita, the sweet young nurse, telling them that she would be more than happy to handle his placement case in her spare time. Not necessary. That was Whippingbird. And Malfoy's cool, smooth voice saying perfectly alright, that he'd see to these arrangements himself. A Ministry case, to be handled by the Ministry. Harry put his hands over his face.
The footsteps stopped, not three feet away from his bed, though the voices had ceased moments before - and Harry felt a light pressure against the blankets at his feet. Nowhere to hide. Ever so slowly, he uncurled himself enough to take a peek at the end of the bed. Clothes. His clothes. Who had gone into his room and gotten his clothes for him?
"Ministry agents have been sent to collect a portion of your possessions for you, as you won't be going home any time soon."
Lucius Malfoy was standing beside his bed.
Harry hated this man. A thousand-and-then-some words came to mind, a thousand venomous condemnations and hateful retorts, but the only words he manages to get past his lips were, "You hit me. Get away from me," in a small voice that sounded more plaintive than accusatory in his own ears. He recoiled to the opposite side of the bed.
"I was ordered to remove you from Mr. Black's household by any means necessary. You were warned that resistance on your part would not be tolerated." Malfoy's voice was patient yet cold
"It was *our* household," Harry whispered, pressing his eyes against the sting of oncoming tears and turning his face away from Lucius. "Ours. It's our *home*."
"...The Ministry will be making arrangements for your placement until the beginning of term at Hogwarts," continued Lucius, as though he hadn't heard Harry's words [which he very well might not have]. "Until then, you will be remaining here at St. Mungo's."
"Where's Dumbledore?" muttered Harry.
"Professor Dumbledore has absolutely nothing to do with the Civil Affairs Bureau, and will not be involved in your case." Lucius couldn't keep the satisfaction out of his voice; however, no sooner had he spoken these words, than a deep, wise voice answered him from somewhere near the doorway.
"Not so, Lucius."
Dumbledore came 'round the curtain beside Harry's cot; a tall, thin, stately figure in royal blue robes and half-moon spectacles, his long silver hair and beard catching the torchlight. He greeted Malfoy's shocked, indignant expression with a warm smile, popping a lemon drop into his mouth and offering the bag to the blond-haired man as he spoke. "Corneilius Fudge sent word to me only an hour ago to tell me of the proceedings, and ask my aid in finding Harry here suitable guardians until school commences." Lucius stared at the older man, open mouthed, as Dumbledore took a seat on the edge of Harry's bed, offering him a lemon drop from the bag that Lucius had barely noticed. His sparkling blue eyes were kind, gentle, and they softened when Harry blinked back tears and finally swiped at them with his forearm.
"Molly Weasley nearly begged me to send you straight to her; and being the pushover that I am for a woman with such fine baking skills, I could not find it in my heart to refuse her." He winked to Harry with a conspirator smile. "I do hope the arrangements are to your liking. I'd awfully hate to tell her you weren't coming. She may never honor me with her treacle fudge again!"
Harry nodded and forced a weak little smile. "When can I go?" he asked.
Dumbledore patted his hand, and Harry had to fight the urge to wrap his fingers around it, to cling to it the way he wanted to. "You'll be there in time for supper."