Harry stared around his new room, finally done. For some reason, even though the room had stone walls and floors, it seemed much more detached from the rooms beyond it. It held warmth, where the others did not. It seemed like it belonged somewhere.

Harry browsed the books already on the bookshelf mindlessly, tapping the spines of each with his finger. They were mostly various textbooks, and Harry was surprised to see a fair variety of compendiums: everything from Transfiguration to Astronomy. And, of course, Potions.

His forefinger touched a handsome book, blue bound with silver. Immediately, it leapt backwards on the shelf and the bookcase dissolved like mist, revealing a passageway beyond. It was the first few steps to the start of a spiral staircase. The walls were rough rock but the steps were polished stone, smooth like limestone worn after years of submersion in a river. The air was faintly damp as it flowed towards him but Harry gathered one useful piece of advice from this: the passageway, somewhere, opened out of the castle. Harry stared at it for five seconds, startled, and the bookcase snapped back into existence.

Harry stared stupidly at the bookcase for a while, tempted to explore, but he was feeling exhausted. Tired, he changed into his pyjamas and stood thoughtfully before the door.

Pointing his wand into each corner of the wall, he muttered "Silencio." A blue haze settled over the wall momentarily, but it disappeared and took all noises with it.

Harry climbed into the four-poster, threw the bookcase a mistrustful look, and shut his eyes.

llllllllillllllll

Sleep took a long time to come to him that night. His body and mind were tired, but his system didn't want to shut down. He drifted in the pleasant warm sensation most commonly found just before and after sleep. He was vaguely aware of a faint light in his room, emitted by the still-lit fire. Its glow was comforting.

Harry snuggled down further in the blankets and he felt the firelight play over his face. And soft caresses of heat turned into soft caresses of fingers, and he felt a voice echo toward him i can't find you. Harry opened his eyes and ran, feeling rough road beneath his feet, feeling air whip past him, and he was running, he saw faces, so many faces he wanted to see again but they were too far away and they were sad and hurt, and an iron gate slammed across his path. He crashed into it, shouting his parent's names, his godfather's name, his friend's name, but he felt soft tendrils of red mists wrap around his limbs and they were dragging him back, back toward a cloud in which malignant characters moved, and the tendrils of mist were cold, freezing cold. He felt his skin solidify as the mist froze into pure ice, binding him tight to a wall of frozen water and those figures approached him. He was still calling out names but he couldn't even see them anymore, and he felt tears flow down his face even though he was silent now, no sobs racked him. He felt detachedly calm, not there and yet strangely tense, and as he opened his eyes and looked up he saw Voldemort in front of him with an almost fatherly look upon his twisted features. Harry heard him say

why don't you know that you are my child?

then a long white forefinger touched his scar and pain rocketed through his system -

Harry awoke with a violent jerk to find himself on a freezing stone floor. He was horribly disorientated, and he felt cold terror sweep his system. He struggled to his feet, chest heaving, a thin patina of sweat beading on his forehead.

His battered mind took in his surroundings: the walls, the floor, the rug, but perhaps most importantly, the fire.

His crippled anger filled him again, doubled by the fact that his muscles shook too much to respond properly. He stumbled over to the wall nearest him, rested on it a moment, then began to punch.

He let the rage pour out of him as his left hand stuck the wall with rising intensity. All the pain, anger, suffering and rage began to pour out from him in an unretractable stream as tears began to flow for the second time that night.

Harry struck harder and harder, pain, becoming sharper, dulled out by the rising flare of adrenaline. And before he knew it he'd pulled his fist back and smashed it into the wall with all the strength he could muster.

"I'm not, I'm not, I'm not his child -"

The pain reached a pitch Harry hadn't thought feasible. White light exploded behind his eyes. The world pitched threateningly for a moment before the sudden flow of pain ebbed marginally.

Harry stared at the lump of red on the end of his arm he supposed was his fingers. He moved them, but the grinding pain told him it wasn't a good idea. A steady stream of crimson flowed down his arm and splashed onto the floor.

Harry quickly swapped pyjamas for jeans and a t-shirt. The t-shirt proved difficult, and he managed to get it on with few blood spatters. He jammed his shoes onto his feet, checked his glasses and opened his door, stepping into the hallway.

He idly noticed that he was leaving a thin trail of red, but found to his idle astonishment that he really couldn't care.

Right.

He kicked his grudgy brain into action, and started to move down the passageway.

As he emerged into the main room, he vaguely gauged that Snape was sat in the chair by the fire, fingers steepled and eyes glinting. Harry moved his left hand back slightly until it was hidden behind his back. He walked forward trying to fight the grey mist threatening to obscure his vision. Snape didn't move.

Harry moved his hand with his body so Snape could not see it. He paused at the door, located the handle, and opened it with his good hand.

The chilly night air of the dungeons hit him like a slap as he closed the door behind him, and he began his trek up to the hospital wing.

His feet took him in a business-like stride, leaving his upper half to think dazedly about what the hell was happening. His feet, each with an independent brain traced the familiar route up to the hospital wing.

When he arrived, he opened the door in a surprising amount of exhaustion. Madam Pomfry bustled out of her office holding a vial of potion; she looked particularly unusual in a hairnet, a pink, tasselled dressing gown and matching slippers.

She handed the potion to a boy sitting up in the bed. His face was a pale shade of blue, and as he drank the potion his skin took on a more normal shade of peach.

"There you go dear, I can let you out in the morning," she said kindly. "And you promise not to get caught in the crossfire of a salamander and an unarming spell again."

"I won't ask," said Harry, swaying with tiredness. Madam Pomfry noticed him immediately.

"What brings you up here, dear?"

Harry pulled his fist out from behind his back and stared at it bemusedly. Madam Pomfry's mouth tightened into a grim line as though she were fighting some kind of emotion. She took his arm with some care and gently manoeuvred him to a bed. Harry's eyes were beginning to close of their own accord when she brought a blood- replenishing potion. She held the vial to his lips, and Harry swallowed all of the bitter-tasting liquid. The haziness in the corners of his brain snapped away like a light switch being flicked, but he still felt that same exhaustion. He felt his brain flying away on a wave of pain and he didn't fight the blackness as it closed in on his vision.