A/N: Yes, I know that this is short and pointless. I'm trying to capture Harry's mindset during and after severe torture... Needless to say, he's not all there. I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this, but I may add the viewpoints of other charecters later. Please review!

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his friends, sadly, are not mine. If they were, this wouldn't be fanfic, simply authorfic, which doesn't wuite have the same ring.





Ten fingers. Ten toes. I wiggle them doubtfully, pleased by the motion. All right, then. I'm whole... I open my eyes and the world is blurry, indistinguishable. But one thing that strikes in my mind is the lightness, the brilliant white of the walls, the ceiling, the bed. Dark Lords and Death Eaters never use white.

My memory is coming back slowly, and I distinctly remember pain, and- my cupboard? What? And I think that Snape was there... I close my eyes, trying painfully to sort out reality. I remember the pain, and even now my body aches for it, the muscles tightening, my back arching as I suck for air that comes readily, now. My throat is burning, it feels as though somebody lit a match inside and is attempting to burn their way out of it. I whimper, unable to escape the sound.

It's barely more than a a sigh, but someone is there an instant, and I flinch in expectation of pain as glasses are situated neatly on my scraped face, raw and bloody from being smashed and ground against the rough ground of His torture chamber. This time when I open my eyes, I'm greeted by the worried visage of the Hogwarts nurse, peering at me intently. I've been in this position so many times it's hard to tell if this is the past or present, reality or a hopeful dream.

I consciously order my body to relax, breathing deliberately deep breaths despite the frantic pounding of my heart, focusing on one muscle, then the next, until I've gone completely limp. A rag doll, a puppet with cut strings. I couldn't move if I wanted to, can't force words from my painful throat, out my swollen and bloody lips. There's nothing to say, anyway.

They didn't physically torture me, relying instead on the Cru- the Curse. I'm disgusted by the way that I can't even think the name without shuddering. But despite the purely magical methods, there are bandages and bloodstains, from the places where I hurt myself convulsing. There are scrapes on my face and arms, my nails are broken and the my fingertips bloody from where I scrabbled for purchase on rocky ground. I bit through my tongue, and my lip, and my throat is ruined from screaming. Even thought they didn't touch me, they left a mark- left in a mark in the bruises, where I fell to the floor. Left a mark in the memory of pain...

Phantom pain is like a phantom finger, I realize. Even once it's gone, you still feel it. You still turn, expecting it to be where you left it, only to smacked by shock when you look down and realize that you have only nine fingers. I have all my fingers, and all of my toes, but there's no way of telling if the pain is real- no way of telling how much is memory, how much nightmare, and how much reality. I hate magic- it plays tricks on the mind, fools it into thinking somethings there that's not, and then you can never be sure....

Madame Pomfrey is holding a glass up to my ruined lips, which I obligingly part, trembling slightly. I have no false ideas that I could somehow hold the glass myself- I have no motor control whatsoever, and all my limbs are trembling. I wonder briefly how I managed to wiggle my fingers, and am struck by a brief, blinding, panic. Phantom digits... Suppressing a scream, I jerk my head forward awkwardly, knocking the glass out of Madame Pomfreys hands. The sight of my bloody hands, tightly bandaged but still whole, is reassuring.

I relax backwards with a quiet sigh of relief. I'm still in one piece. Still holding together. My glasses were knocked off by the force of the gesture, and Madame Pomfrey placed them gently on my face once more. She didn't look angry, to my relief, merely exasperated. Mr. Potter, if you stay still this goes much faster, She told me. I am perfectly capable of feeding you myself. She didn't understand, didn't know that I might have been a ghost and wouldn't even have known...

She pulls out her wand to clean up the mess I made, and we are both equally surprised by my reaction. It's not a conscious decision, not a choice. I pulled backwards forcefully, images running through my mind, flashes of that damning pain- it hurt, and I hated it, and I thought I might be crying but felt no tears.... I saw Voldemort, and the Death Eaters, and the torture chamber. I heard screaming from the past, or the future, or possibly the present, but it was impossible to tell which was which, anymore....

The sound of screaming is rising, growing, multiplying. It's breeding like a colony of rabbits, until I can't hear anything but screaming, can't see anything but red eyes and a little stick of wood. My Uncle's voice is in there somewhere, damning me as worthless, my cousin is tormenting me, I'm five again and someone's holding my arms behind my back as he punches me over and over again. My Aunt's wail of disgust mingles with the laughter of the Dark Lords, the screams of my mother, and my own wailing grief...

In the end, she puts the wand away and uses a simple towel, murmuring soothing words and sending me worried looks. I keep my eyes shut tightly. Trembling, scarred hands are clenched tightly against the phantom pain... Ten fingers. Ten toes. I'm whole....