A/N: The poem in the previous chapter, "The Stolen Child," is by the great Irish poet William Butler Yeats.
Chapter 4: Healing
When Snape appeared in the hospital wing, he had to wait only two seconds before Madam Pomfrey burst out from her office. Her gaze went to the potion master's burden, and her face blanched in surprise.
"Severus!" she cried. "What—"
"He needs immediate attention," Snape snapped as Pomfrey levitated the boy onto a bed.
"What happened to him?" Pomfrey whispered.
"I found him in a prison of sorts."
"Is he…" her voice lowered slightly as she waved her wand over the boy's still body, "is he one of our students?"
Snape frowned. "After the amount of time he spends in the hospital wing, I should think you'd recognize him… after all, that scar is quite unmistakable."
"Scar?—P-Potter? Harry Potter?"
Snape just sneered and left to report to the headmaster, leaving a rather flustered nurse behind. Potter was safe, and the thought gave him an uncharacteristically satisfied feeling…
Strange, though, how much Potter had changed. It didn't seem solely due to starvation, though that was definitely part of it. The higher cheekbones, narrower face, and limp hair reminded him very strongly of somebody—not the elder Potter—but someone else… It was very hard to tell, for the face was bruised and swollen and bloodied all over, but he knew that the face was definitely different from the one he'd glared at the end of last term.
Thinking such thoughts, he swept up the stairs and halls, head bowed in brooding, to the headmaster's office.
Madam Pomfrey had already completed a preliminary scan of the boy's body. Poor thing—starved, more bruises and cuts than she could count, wrists rubbed so raw it was nearly to the bone, a leg broken in two places, twisted ankle, three broken ribs, one which was poking into his left lung, a cracked clavicle, the bone in his cheek chipped, jaw quite cracked, too many internal injuries to count… It was hard to believe that this limp, bloody, nearly-dead boy was, only a few months ago, the fierce, green-eyed teenager she so remembered…
What disturbed her more was the way the boy flinched at every touch, the way his legs clamped together, the way blood seeped out and stained the white sheets. There was only one explanation, and she shuddered as she thought of it. What kind of monster could have done such a thing?
Pomfrey summoned her cache of potions, taking the strongest internal healing one and forcing open the poor boy's mouth. She was about to pour it down his throat when she saw—a piece of paper in his mouth?
Gingerly, she took it out: it appeared to be a mauve-colored envelope, damp from saliva and blood…
"…should have left you there gaping at the doors! I don't see why I had to apparate back to collect you when I told Albus that I should have gone alone."
"He's my best friend's godson, for heaven's sake! I do have—"
Madam Pomfrey drew herself up, glaring at the headmaster, potions master, and werewolf. "Silence!" she commanded. Silence ensued. "You're disturbing the patient!"
"How is he, Poppy?" Dumbledore asked gravely, radiating urgent power.
"Bad," the nurse replied, shaking her head. "He's been starved, dehydrated. There're more bruises and lacerations than I can count, plus quite a few broken bones, and many of the injuries are up to a month old… But—" Her voice lowered. "I think he was raped, Albus…"
A choked sound from the werewolf.
"He was," Snape interrupted in a flat voice. "I saw it."
"You saw it?" the headmaster asked in a sharp voice.
The potion master nodded curtly. "He was in one of the cells, and the other—thing in it with him was…"
An interruption in the form of another strangled sound from the werewolf. Snape shot Lupin an irritated glance, though it was half-hearted a best.
"I've put him in a healing stasis," Pomfrey continued. "There is a chance he might not make it… but knowing him, he probably will."
Remus Lupin, who had been staring at Harry the entire time with a deathly pale face, began shaking.
"Who did this?" he asked hoarsely but slowly. "He can't have been in the prison the whole time—the wards would have been alerted. Who put him there?"
Snape's eyes narrowed. "You might want to ask the one in charge of Jaegger Prison. A most unpleasant man named Shaw, he is definitely a strong lead… Claims not to know it was Potter he had tossed into the cell, but he may know who brought him the boy…"
"What's the meaning of this, Albus?" Alastor Moody growled.
Albus Dumbledore stood in a middle of a circle of Order members. Everybody's face was fraught with worry and anxiousness, besides Snape, who wore a grim smirk, and Remus, who still looked very pale.
"Why are we in the hospital wing?" Molly Weasley wondered quietly.
Remus Lupin shifted uneasily and shot a concerned glance at a curtained bed at the far end of the wing. The glance was noticed only by Snape (who snorted).
"Is it Harry?" Tonks demanded, her eyes turning green for a moment and a scar popping onto her forehead.
"Yes," the headmaster replied wearily.
"Was he found?" Mundungus Fletcher asked hurriedly.
"Concerned, are you?" Arabella Figg snarled. "After the poor boy stumbled into a prickly situation while it was your shift, and for the second time?"
"Arabella, I have a few unresolved issues to ask you about," Remus Lupin said in a deathly voice.
"Remus!" Molly Weasley admonished, surprised, as Arabella Figg stared like a codfish.
"I believe we should start at the beginning," the headmaster said sternly, and everybody hushed. "Arthur? Kingsley?"
"Er—" Arthur Weasley gave Kingsley a brief glance before continuing. "Well, I was at the Ministry when Albus flooed me, saying that he detected magic being done at Number 4, Privet Drive, where Harry was staying. Knowing that, even now, certain people couldn't wait to get Harry expelled, Albus asked me to go and perhaps minimize the damage."
"Albus was right," said Kingsley Shackbolt when the other man paused. "Dolores Umbridge herself went with three of her aurors."
"What! That old cow?" Tonks demanded, her face morphing into that of a disgusting toad.
"Yes, her," Arthur Weasley confirmed. "I got past her into the house. We found two Muggles—Harry's aunt and his cousin, presumably. They were blubbering about nothing being wrong at all. Then I got upstairs, and went into Harry's room." He broke off. "Albus, I think it would be best if you showed us all using the Seeing Pool."
"Certainly," the headmaster agreed, summoning the coppery basin. He closed his eyes and stirred the gold-colored contents before lifting out a strand with his wand.
"Reveloso," the headmaster muttered, and the strand expanded until it became a hologram. The colors bled in, and in the stunned silence that followed, someone choked—
"Is that—blood?"
"Yes, it is," Arthur Weasley answered darkly. "It's blood. His entire room smelled of old blood and—filth. And there were locks on the door, locks! See that? Those are Muggle handcuffs! And that's a belt—with dried blood on it."
Stunned silence.
"Are you implying, Arthur," Alastor Moody growled, "that Potter was strapped to that bed and possibly whipped and beaten—under our very noses?"
A barrage of babble exploded.
"That's impossible!" Arabella Figg wailed. "The notes he sent, the notes! And I didn't notice anything! He never came out, but I thought it was because he knew he had to stay safe!"
"Didn't the notes strike you as a big—fake?" Lupin shot back.
"But how?" Tonks demanded in a bewildered tone. "How could Death Eaters have snuck in there without the wards going off?"
"Perhaps it wasn't Death Eaters," Alastor Moody growled. "Whatever it was, the boy's kin let it happen. I'd like nothing more than to hear them give an explanation for this. I won't be surprised if they confess to having done it themselves."
"Alastor!" Molly Weasley cried. "You can't possibly suggest that his family would do that to him? Granted, his family isn't exactly loving, but—to do that—"
"Mrs. Weasley is correct," Snape said smoothly. "I find it hard to believe that the Potter boy would let himself suffer at the hands of his Muggle relatives. Most likely"—he sneered—"they spoiled and pampered him to unbearable extremes."
"Snape, you know nothing about Harry's 'relatives,'" Remus Lupin shouted, but at that moment, a sharp ding! went off from the curtained bed at the far end of the wing.
"STAND BACK!" Madam Pomfrey commanded as the Order members began stampeding down the hospital wing. The nurse carved through the crowd and flung back the curtains.
Molly Weasley gave a strangled cry before bursting into tears. Tonks looked green. Alastor Moody, however, glanced sharply from the face of the semi-conscious boy to that of the sour potions master.
"Harry!" Molly Weasley sobbed and she took one of Harry's hands into her own. Immediately, the thin boy weakly jerked his hand away, uttering a hoarse cry as he shivered, legs clamped tightly together, eyes flying wide open.
"STAND BACK!" the nurse roared, and this time, the Order members obeyed. She furiously summoned a tray of potions. Arthur Weasley ducked before the flying tray could decapitate him.
The agitated hush stretched as each Order member tried spying on the Boy-Who-Lived (Moody's magical eye was fixed on the bed at the far end, and his face was grim). Silence was broken by Tonks muttering, "Where was Harry, then? You said… he wasn't there when Arthur arrived. Did someone rescue him?"
"We found him," Snape said silkily, "in a prison, one that was not exclusively magical. We suspect that is why it had such a low profile. Apparently, his rescuer deemed it worthy not to take him to a hospital, but to Jaeggar Prison." He paused for a moment and glanced at Albus Dumbledore. Nobody besides those looking for it would have noticed the headmaster shake his head slightly.
Tonks blanched. "But that's—I mean, who'd do such a thing?"
"Dolores Umbridge," Remus Lupin said shortly.
Several incredulous cries rang out.
"Are you meaning to say, Lupin," Alastor Moody demanded, "that Dolores Umbridge marched into Number 4, Privet Drive, plucked him out and dropped him into this Jaeggar Prison, then waited around with several aurors on the pretense of investigating underage magic?"
qpqpqp
Harry awoke with his eyes closed. He felt too tired to open them. Something about where he was lying felt strange, but he couldn't really tell, and he was so tired, and his mind was numb… He knew that if he moved, his body would hurt terribly. His mouth felt very dry, and he was thirsty… He felt something sticking to the wounds on his back, something he didn't remember from before…
Wearily, he opened his eyes—to utter darkness. Ding!
He heard rustling sounds and quick footsteps, and his muscles tensed as he waited for Vernon's raspy voice and heavy blows, but strangely, none came. He let his leaden eyelids droop, and heard a sob-choked voice speak his name.
Mrs. Weasley? He vaguely told himself that he was dreaming when suddenly he felt hands touching him—vile, vile hands that took his hand and stroked it, hands that crept up his arm and smeared his blood over his face and gripped his hips in a bruising hold—oh God, it was starting again—hands, hands, oh God, he tried to bury his mind, willing it to float away…
Sounds. Yelling, and then an anxious hush.
"…Potter? Mr. Potter?"
Madam Pomfrey? Harry opened his eyes but he was greeted only by darkness. Unbidden, his heart began to beat madly in panic and hope, but he suppressed it as best he could, and willed his body to relax. It was too much to hope for, he was probably dreaming again, and he was so tired… There were noises in the background from familiar voices, but up close he could hear the rustling of stiff skirts.
"Mr. Potter, I need you to drink this potion. You've got quite some healing to do…" He was. Oh God. He was in the Hogwarts hospital wing. The realization washed through him like the gentle roar of the incoming tide. All the tenseness in his body rushed out and he let himself go limp. "I certainly didn't expect you to wake up this early…" But even through his relief, he shivered with fear. What if the hands came again? "Here," Madam Pomfrey murmured. Harry felt his pillows raise him into a semi-sitting position. It ached all over as he moved, and a faint gasp burst from his lips.
Concerned, clucking noises. "Now, if you'll just drink this potion… It'll help you with your thirst, too, Mr. Potter…"
He felt the cool liquid burn down his throat. His parched lips and tongue barely registered any taste. He felt something brush his cheek—and he jerked away, the potion spilling, he could feel the wet stain, and it felt like a clammy hand touching him, but he—
The letter.
His fingers went to his mouth. Where was his letter. Where was it. Where was it? Panic began to tumble through his weary mind—had he swallowed it? He stretched his fingers down to the back of his mouth. Was it still—there? Where was it? Relax, Harry, he gibbered to himself. Relax, relax, don't panic, don't panic—
"Mr. Potter! Mr.—Ah. Would you be wanting this? This… erm… envelope?"
He froze, and then, timidly, he held out his hand. He could feel the slightest of currents move against his skin. Then he felt something drop into the palm of his hand, something that was damp and lumpy, something that he recognized— His hand closed over it, and he let himself sink back in relief.
It's all right, he told himself. You're safe now, you're safe. You're in the Hogwarts hospital wing, and they're gone, they're gone… He blinked at the stinging he felt at the back of his eyes, and realized that all he could see was darkness.
"…Are you saying, Lupin, that Dolores Umbridge marched into Number 4, Privet Drive…"
A leaden feeling formed in his chest. Why couldn't he see? He had been blinded, but—wasn't there some way—
"…plucked him out and dropped him into this Jaeggar Prison…"
The waves of relief were ebbing away. Did Madam Pomfrey know he was blind? No, she couldn't, because if she did, she'd treat him, he'd see, he'd be seeing things, he'd see light—
"…then waited around with several aurors on the pretense of investigating underage magic?"
A rumble of protests, and then a firm voice that got Harry's attention.
"Unless the wards we've set around Number 4, Privet Drive were badly malfunctioning, that would certainly not be the case," Albus Dumbledore said. "The wards, which I checked, are indeed still in place and working well. They would have notified me of any magical presence."
"But still, Albus, I don't understand!" Molly Weasley cried, her voice carrying throughout the wing. "From what you're saying, no Death-Eaters or unauthorized witches or wizards went to Number 4, Privet Drive!"
"Yes, Molly—"
"But how could his family do that to him?…"
Family? The words landed like a sharp slap. Vernon is not my family. The Dursleys are not my family…
"…I know they've never gotten along well, and frankly the uncle is repulsive, but—they're family, Albus!"
They're not my family, Harry thought again, his anger battering at his weariness; he felt disgustingly filthy at her words—They're not, how dare she say they are—
"They simply can't have done it. His very own family—"
"I HAVE NONE!" Harry screamed, but all that came out was a hoarse, horrible croak that brought silence upon the entire wing.
Whispers.
"…disturbing the patient, what did I tell you!…"
Shuffling feet around him, robes… Voices… He was suddenly so weary, as though the outburst had sapped what little strength he possessed… "Harry…"
"I don't have a family," he muttered hoarsely, forcing it past the knot in his throat. It was so dark. "I don't have any family…" The thought repeated madly in his head as his lips stopped moving.
Mrs. Weasley's voice was tender and sad. "Of course you do, Harry. You have us."
Harry took a shuddering breath, ignoring the pain of his ribs and lungs. They can't understand, he thought. How can they understand? He remembered how he had desperately prayed through his first whipping—feverishly, hopelessly—for someone to come and save him. And Vernon had reminded him that nobody would save him, and Vernon had been right. He was alone. He thought it fitting: after all, only he could strike down Voldemort—he, alone. At times, feeling the fleshy hand wipe his own blood and the other man's phlegm all over his face, he was glad he had been so hot-headed and self-important last year that nobody would care to come and see him. Because it let him see, despite his blindness, just how alone he really was.
"Harry," Dumbledore was saying, "you have to understand. If we had any idea, if we had even the slightest clue…"
"I understand, professor," Harry said wearily. "You're right. I was wrong. I apologize." Empty. That was how he felt: empty.
"Poppy," Severus Snape snapped. "Did you do a check on his eyes?"
Harry felt his heart skip a beat. Rustling sounds. "His eyes? No. Why?"
"I'm blind," said Harry, opening his eyes as if for proof.
Silence, and then the expected babbling. Through his weariness, Harry almost felt some vindictive pleasure. He felt a vague wind on his face—someone was waving something in front of his face—and then Mrs. Weasley burst into sobs again.
"Mr. Potter? Would you please open your eyes more widely?" Madam Pomfrey asked, sounding grim.
Harry complied. He felt a tingle of magic around his eyes, heard Mrs. Weasley sob some more. The nurse was silent for a long time, and Harry felt his stomach sink. He felt like a criminal awaiting his verdict.
"Poppy…?"
"Some blunt impact must have dislocated the nerves from his eyes to the optic regions of his brain," the nurse said, and Harry felt the leaden feeling return at the resignation in her voice. "His eyes have also been exposed to a chemical corrosive, most likely a phenol derivative, which have also destroyed most of his main lacrimal gland. His accessory lacrimal glands are still intact, so his eyes will be kept moist, but he won't be able to produce tears when he's crying or when his eyes get irritated…"
"Can you help him?" Mrs. Weasley asked in a shaky voice.
"I'm sorry, but the injury from the chemical corrosive is far too old… I might possibly be able to realign the optic nerves, which would allow him usage of a magical eye, but the chances are small, and beyond that… I'm afraid he won't be able see any time in the future…"
Harry felt his insides turn to lead.
"But—Poppy, there has to be some way! There's—he can't—"
"What do you mean he won't ever see again?…"
So I'll be blind forever, he thought numbly. Never, ever again. He would never again see light, he would never again see day—he was trapped in an endless night where everything was dark, and where he was lost, utterly lost and alone…
"I'm sorry, Molly, but there's nothing I can do…"
"But—but that's—"
Shock scattered and the impact of the realization slammed through his mind like the stick of a funeral drum, shattering the numbness like a feeble cobweb, and the echoes brought a terrible stinging to the back of his eyes—but there were no tears, there was no release, he was trapped in the darkness, lost and alone in the dark, in the dark, the dark, dark… You knew, he told himself numbly, you knew it was likely you'd never see again, you knew. But it still hurts, he answered himself in a whisper.
"Harry?" Remus asked, voice hoarse and full of anguish. "Who did this to you? Who did this to you?"
Leave me alone! Harry wanted to cry. Go away. Please go away. The memory and its shame clawed at him, and an angry, frightened, terrified part of him screamed that the nurse was lying, that he didn't want to go blind, he wanted to see, please, just to see their faces again…
"I hardly think Potter would allow that family of his to blind him," Snape snorted.
They're not my family! Harry wanted to scream, but he was too tired. Far too tired. And a part of him didn't care one whit what Snape said. He wasn't going to see again. The numbness was coming back, encroaching his consciousness like the darkling tide, and he welcomed it with unwept tears…
"Harry? Harry"—an anxious speaker, it sounded like Remus—"who did this?"
He ignored the werewolf, unable to concentrate on anything besides the cold, painful core inside him and the creeping numbness… A babble of words and voices broke out… "Death-Eaters…" "No, it can't have been—" "His relatives…" "Muggle! They're Muggle!" "Who?" "The Umbridge cow, I tell you…" "Impossible…" "Who…"
"Harry?" Albus Dumbledore's voice cut through the storm. "Did the Dursleys do this?"
He was so tired. He wanted to curl and hide from the world, but he felt an insistent probing on the surface of his mind, a probing that wouldn't go until he answered, so he nodded and whispered hoarsely, "Vernon did it." He swallowed and a part of him angrily kicked out the probing thing from his mind, while the rest of him prepared to surrender to sleep…
A swell of whispers that ended when Dumbledore spoke again. "Harry, did you scar hurt at all when Vernon was close by?"
Again the probing, and this time, Harry was too tired to resist. He could only shake his head in no, in an attempt to move away. But it was true: his scar hadn't so much as twinged the entire summer.
The hubbub exploded, but he didn't care because he was slipping into the numbing darkness. One finger stroked the lumpy envelope of paper in his limp hand, and with each unhurried stroke, a little of the anguish within him eased, a little by little by little, until at last he knew no more.
qpqpqp
His eyelids slowly slid open, and for several long moments he waited to be able to see again until he remembered that he was blind—forever blind, and so he closed his eyes with the tiniest of sighs. Even yet, he felt reverberating pains in his ribcage.
Ding!
Harry listened to the rustling of stiff skirts as Madam Pomfrey bustled over.
"Awake, are we?" she said brightly.
He kept his eyes closed, mind mercifully blank. His body was sore all over, and he felt so… dirty. He needed a bath.
He heard the clinking of glass. He stiffened as he felt the pillows fluff up on their own to move him into a sitting position: now that moving no longer made him want to scream in pain, the movement of sheets and pillowcases against his skin was too much like hands, too much like the rough, quivering hands that floated over his body…
"You'll need to drink this healing potion, Mr. Potter," the nurse continued. "You were out for a whole three days. I daresay you needed it."
He barely registered feeling the hard rim of a cup against his lower lip—he was still trying to shove the hands out of his mind, hands that were so insistent he forgot about the pain in his ribcage—but the rim tilted, and he felt a steamy liquid against his lips.
"Drink up," the nurse murmured soothingly, and Harry cautiously opened his lips to let the potion in. He felt it simmer down his esophagus and boil in his stomach.
"You're healing very nicely," the nurse said cheerfully. Harry made no response. The pillows began to flatten themselves, easing him back into a sleeping position. Harry tensed as the rustling cloths caressed him… He rapidly stroked the folded, lumpy envelope in his right hand, telling himself that he was safe, that the hands were gone… He felt so dirty, so filthy…
"I'll leave you to rest up, now," Madam Pomfrey said, but Harry was feeling the hands crawl up like legs and float up his back…
He opened his mouth and gathered enough air to speak. "Madam Pomfrey?"
"Yes, Mr. Potter?"
"I… need to take a shower." He swallowed. "Now… Please."
"Mr. Potter! You're in no condition to be out of bed—"
"I feel—I feel dirty," he croaked.
A hesitant silence.
"I'm feeling much better," Harry continued. His voice sounded strange to his ears. "I'll be fine. I just really… need a bath. Or a shower. Please." Hands. Hands all over. His clenched the envelope.
"You're in no condition to move, Mr. Potter," the nurse said.
He shivered. "I have to," he said in a dead voice, and shifted his leg out from beneath the covers. It was his left leg, and he felt a deep insistent pain whenever he moved it. His skin stung from the cuts, but the slide of sheets felt like hands…
"Mr. Potter!"
His legs felt cold when exposed to the air. He pushed himself up, biting back groans as his ribs screamed in protest. He managed to push himself to his feet, wondering for a brief moment what the nurse was doing, and began to step away from his cot…
And then he felt it—hands, hands on his upper arms, holding him steady, but oh God the hands were touching him and running cruelly over his wounds, smearing the blood and mingling it with other stickiness—
More hands, and he flinched and waited for the blows to fall…
"…Mr. Potter? Mr. Potter? Oh dear. A relapse. I was fearing this…"
Slowly, the hands and memories backed away, and he blinked. He was aware that all the muscles in his body were tensed, and that his legs were clamped tightly together. The letter was in a death grip in his right hand, and his arms were held shivering across his chest.
He forced himself to relax. The covers were somehow up to his neck again, and he heard Madam Pomfrey fussing, but he'd get no rest short of a nauseating sleeping potion. He felt horribly, horribly dirty.
"Madam Pomfrey," he tried again, "I really do need a bath."
"Mr. Potter! You just had a relapse! And you can barely stand!"
"But—"
"You must go to sleep!"
"No," he said forcefully. He struggled to find the right words that would convince her that he really needed this… "I—I always feel hands touching me," he blurted out and indeed, the hands returned. Telling her just that much was painful and difficult, but he was desperate as well as determined, and he knew the wonders that a little pity could invoke (as much as he detested it). "Can't you—maybe you can just levitate me into a bathtub. Please?" he added, voice breaking at the end.
A pause. "Mr. Potter, this is… very much against my better judgment, but—very well."
Harry waited as the covers left him. He was in a flimsy hospital gown, he realized, and he shivered a bit, feeling so… exposed… He heard the nurse mutter an incantation, and then the sheets around him lifted up and before transforming into a stretcher.
"We'll be using one of the healing spas, if the castle permits," the nurse explained, and Harry felt himself floating down the hospital wing. Healing spa? he wondered. He'd never heard of healing spas, and what did she mean, if the castle permits? Too tired to wonder much anymore, he let himself be levitated around a bewildering number of corners before they stopped. Judging from the feel of the air, they didn't seem to be out of the hospital wing.
"I, Poppy Pomfrey, nurse and medi-witch of Hogwarts castle, request entrance to the healing spa on behalf of one Harry James Potter."
Harry felt a slight rumble around him in the walls before there can the sound of a door opening. He thought he felt a tender, almost subservient presence soothing his mind, but it was so faint he was sure he was imagining it, and in the next moment, his senses were overloaded with feeling the heavy moisture in the air and smelling the strange odors of… potions? Shampoos? He wondered what wizard shampoos smelled like besides the spartan ones in the Gryffindor dorm.
He was left hovering in the air on his stretcher, and moments later he heard the sounds of water filling a tub.
"There now, I've filled the tub with some restorative potions and healing draughts," the nurse said, levitating Harry into the air. "I've put many charms on you telling me your condition, mind you, so I'll let you be here alone—but I'll be back in ten minutes, do you hear?"
"Yes, ma'am," Harry said, drawing in a breath as he was lowered, hospital gown and all, into the warm, bubbling water.
He listened to the nurse fuss around a bit more before leaving the room, door closing with a quick thud.
Finally. Moving was difficult, but he managed to pull off the suddenly heavy hospital gown. Dragging it through the water, he heaved it—gasping at the pain in his ribs—over the rim and onto the damp tiles.
He crouched there, waiting to regain his breath and listening to the gurgling water and feeling the steam condense on his skin and hair. He caught the whiff of some strange potions in the water—restorative draughts, probably—and he began the arduous search for soaps and perhaps some bathing towels.
A minute later, he found some hard soap and a bathing towel.
Ten minutes later, and after hoarsely telling the nurse that he would be ready in another five minutes, please, he relaxed back into the water, breathing heavily, skin red as a lobster if he could have seen it.
The moment he had touched the towel and soap, he had started scrubbing—first over the parts that did not hurt so much (which were few and far apart) before venturing over the lighter bruises and scrapes.
He had to. He had to wash off the hands, the dirtiness and filthiness of his memories. He'd redrawn with soap and scrubbing the path of Vernon's hands as they had smeared his blood like paint, wincing and gasping as he pressed on broken bones. It frustrated him maddeningly when he couldn't scrub roughly at most of his skin—the pain in his bones or organs or in the wounds of his skin forbade it.
He had furiously washed and scrubbed the area between his legs at least three times. He had winced at every touch the first time, then returned after a bout of frustration for a second time, and finally attempted a third time when he realized the hands brutally gripping his hips and the tearing pain of his hole simply wouldn't leave him until he had covered all sensations with the sting of having scrubbed himself too hard.
And still, after collapsing exhausted in the tub, he felt the lingering remnants of filth. But he was far too tired, far to fatigued for anymore strenuous washing.
Hand like a spider, he reached out and crept over the rim, twice, until he finally found a gentler soap.
At last, he thought irritably as he washed his face and began the search for shampoo. It had been weeks—literally—since he had washed his hair or face properly, and now oil clogged both. It had never happened before—his hair never got this oily, nor his face—but now it did, strangely, and it reminded him all the more of his disgusting, sickening, repulsive, revolting—
Suddenly he dropped the towel and soap and shampoo and slid into the tub until only face was above the surface. The stinging at the back of his eyes was a painful throb.
What's to become of me? he wondered as a knot gathered in his throat. What am I to do? He was blind, totally blind, blind forever—and he would never see his friends again, never see the photos of his parents, never play Quidditch again. (What was it like, the last time he had played? How felt the wind, the sun, the fiery adrenaline, the soaring freedom? He couldn't remember.)
Memories. Hands, and Vernon's voice whispering maliciously, telling him what a useless piece of filth he was. Freak. He was a freak. A disgusting freak.
I'm not, he told himself, but it was like arguing against a relentless nightmare. I'm not, I'm… I'm not…
Yes you are, he snarled at himself with bitter satisfaction. The great Harry Potter, blinded and beaten by his Muggle relatives, then raped in a prison. But then the ire vanished as despair and fear plunged into him.
What am I to do? What's going to become of me? The shadow of the prophecy loomed over him. Either he or Voldemort was going to die, and how was he going fight Voldemort if he couldn't see, if he couldn't even defend himself against a bunch of useless Muggles?
You're alone, the voice whispered. Alone.
He didn't want to fight anymore. He wanted to curl away and hide until some of the pain and the throbbing behind his eyes went away, until the aching loneliness could lift, but he couldn't. No matter what, he'd have to fight. He didn't want to, but he had to. Just like he didn't want to be blind—he didn't have a choice; it was just his lot, his fate. His bitter fate.