Chapter 8: Revelations
Harry sat in his usual seat at the Gryffindor table. From outside, the distant murmur of chatter was drowned out by the rumble of thunder and the patter of raindrops. They'll be here soon, he thought. Despite all his attempts to calm down, he was feeling terribly nervous. He ran his right thumb over his wand, and clutched his cane tightly with his left hand.
After his talk with Dumbledore, he had returned to the seventh year dorms and found a set of Hogwarts robes laid out on his bed. They felt new, but not stiffly so, and were a welcomed relief from his drab hospital garbs. And hour or so before he had gone down to the Great Hall, McGonagall had barged into his dorm and examined him critically. In that moment, while the two of them were alone, he was sure she had noticed his changed: even he, blind, had noticed them. His gait felt significantly different, and it wasn't because of his limp; his nose felt hideously enormous under his fingers (though his sense of smell had sharpened almost exponentially); his hair swung in oily locks about his face, despite his best efforts to keep it behind his ears. He had seriously considered cutting his hair, but he knew that doing so would only make him look more bizarre, especially since he couldn't see how his cut would look.
He was glad that Snape hadn't commented on his changes; but on the other hand, it made his task of speaking first much more difficult. Snape. Ever since the reading of Sirius's will yesterday, he hadn't come upon Snape even once. Though he had hovered briefly outside the dungeons, he knew better than to brave Snape's wrath. Snape wouldn't have been anything but wrathful: that much he knew, and it cast a dismal cloud over his gloomy apprehension.
The creak of the doors echoed through the hall and the murmuring from the head table ceased. Thunder roared. Bloody unpredictable weather, Harry thought, stiffening as the approaching babble washed over him relentlessly… One, two, three—ah, finally. The babble abruptly hushed as the students noticed him. He kept his face tranquil and eyes closed, though he considered opening them and glaring sightlessly just to hear a few of them shriek. It might be fun, he thought hollowly, bitterly.
The students brought with them the smell of wet clothes and rainwater. He heard the scraping of chairs far down Gryffindor table. So people are sitting far away from me, he noted.
"Where is he?"
"Mum wouldn't tell us exactly what happened—"
Harry's heart sped up.
"I wonder if he got any of our letters…"
"And Dad knows too, but he wouldn't tell—"
Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, he thought, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. He suppressed the miserable urge to limp away into some shadowed corner and hide.
"Don't be silly, Dumbledore said he can't see anymore, how would he read our letters?"
"D'you suppose it's really bad? Mum always bursts into tears—"
"Where is he? He's here, isn't he—"
"Harry?"
Harry managed a weak smile at Hermione's voice. "Hi, Ginny, Ron, Hermione…"
"HARRY!"
Harry steeled himself as footsteps hurried towards him, and his heart sank as he heard Ron's words, blurted out in disbelief, "But Hermione, that's not—that's not Harry…"
He had just begun to open his mouth to reply when, without warning, he felt a rush of air—he tensed, and arms enveloped him like shards of darkness— ("Harry! We missed you so much, and were so worried—") He jerked his arms to his chest and his legs together, and he heard his cane clattering on the ground with unnatural loudness— ("Hermione! You're choking him…") Hands were touching him, hands were groping him, over his back and neck and down his chest, clammy and cold—in the darkness, all over his body, and he—powerless, a weak little filthy freak, unable to stop it, unable to cry out… ("No I'm not, Ginny… Harry…")
His mind, already sailing off the precipice, slipped back into his body. The hushed sounds of a crowd of spectators, the absence of hands touching him, his own uncontrollable trembling, the deluge of rainwater… ("Harry! Why isn't he responding…?") All of it returned, and he took a shaky breath, straining against the darkness to clear his mind and steady his hands.
"Harry?" Hermione asked anxiously.
"I'm—fine," he said flatly, trying to stretch his uncooperative facial muscles into a grin, and tensed even more when Hermione didn't leave…
A touch, next to his neck—
"Your hair, Harry…"
He froze, torn by screaming urges to stay absolutely still or scramble away or lash out—
"…why is it so oily?…"
The hand ran down his hair and he felt it brushing his neck—the hands: caressingly, all over him, over his stomach and between his legs—
("Harry…?")
—A cold, dark cell—
("He seems to have zoned out again or s—")
His hand was on his wand before he could think and he swung wildly— He felt a bolt of magic burn down his arm and explode from the tip of his wand— Dimly, he was aware of a startled cry, but he was too lost in the whirlpool of darkness to respond…
And then, as though he'd just awakened from a nightmare, the hands crept away, leaving behind a filthy feeling (I need a bath, he thought vaguely). Sounds swam into focus…
For a split second, there was only silence. Harry barely had time to wonder run his mind over what had happened, wondering why everyone was so quiet, when—
"HERMIONE!" Ron's voice was a shout of shock and horror, and Harry froze. He heard footsteps—whispers—fierce whispers—felt stares—
What happened? he wondered anxiously. He remembered Hermione hugging him, he remembered stiffening and feeling the hands creep upon him, and then her… touching his hair, his neck, and—Oh God…—he remembered the bolt of magic that had erupted from his wand… The memory of the startled cry suddenly echoed deafeningly in his ears like a harsh, anguished scream—
"Hermione," he whispered, tottering to his feet, feeling lightheaded and dizzy and sick— "Hermione—"
"STAY AWAY FROM HER!" Ron roared, and Harry flinched, backing away. I attacked her, he thought, hysteria creeping into his mind—I attacked her, she's hurt, oh God—
"I…" His voice sounded dry and garroted and the words wouldn't come. I attacked her, she's hurt, oh God, she's hurt, I hurt her— He took a step forward, heart hammering. "I'm sorry, I—I couldn't—I—"
"STAY AWAY!" Ron roared a second time. Harry didn't flinch, but he swallowed hard, feeling his heart turn to lead. He heard sharp footsteps approaching, heard the background of frenzied whispers—"YOU! YOU—YOU—STAY AWAY FROM HER"—a weak moan, and a part of Harry wished desperately to be kneeling next to her, to be blubbering apologies, but the rest of him was frozen, suspended in dark nothingness—"Hermione!" Ron's voice was tremulous. "Are you… are you… thank God…"
"Weasley! Potter!"
Harry froze at the caustically biting voice and felt his stomach plummet even further. He slowly turned to face the speaker. Snape.
"What happened?" Snape asked, his voice holding more loathing than Harry could ever remember. Harry clenched his hands into fists, suddenly aware that they were trembling. He opened his mouth but words wouldn't come…
"He attacked her! For no reason! He nearly killed her…" Ron's voice crashed over him, and he found that he couldn't say anything—he couldn't even shake his head, or nod, or breathe. He was frozen, a cold, terrible cloud of numbness swirling through his body.
"Really?" Snape sneered, his smooth voice dripping menace. "Has the Gryffindor trio reached an end? How tragic. Though I must say, I'm not surprised, given Potter's particular… tendencies."
This can't be happening, please, Harry thought dimly, feeling his throat choke with despair as the malice in Snape's voice washed over him like acid.
Another set of footsteps, sounding as though from far away, approached. "Mr. Potter! Mr. Weasley!" McGonagall barked. "What is the meaning of this? What happened to Ms. Granger?"
"He attacked h—"
"Never mind," McGonagall snapped. "Take her to the hospital wing. Immediately!"
Harry listened to the sounds of Ron's voice—shaky and tender—as he tended to Hermione… The numbness cracked enough to let in a whiplash of pain: I hurt her, oh God, I hurt her—I did—I—
"Mr. Potter!"
Harry turned to face the Transfiguration professor, his face totally blank.
"You go to the hospital wing as well."
"You can't let him go!" Ron shouted. "He attacked her! He—he's a bloody Death-Eater—" The crowd gasped.
"That'll be enough!" Professor McGonagall barked. "I will hear no more such nonsense from you, Mr. Weasley!"
"But he's—"
"ENOUGH, MR. WEASLEY!"
Without another word, Ron grunted as though picking up something heavy, and then ran out of the Great Hall with heavy steps.
"I'll have to have a word with him later," McGonagall growled. "Mr. Potter," she snapped, "I'll take you to the hospital wing…"
Harry bent over, groped for a moment, found his cane, and shakily got to his feet. "No need, Professor. I know the way," he said, voice barely above a whisper. Before anyone else could say anything, he was on his feet, his strides taking him along the path to the infirmary… The tapping of his cane was unnaturally loud in the stunned silence. I've just attacked Hermione in front of the whole school, he thought again, and his heart clenched in misery. Oh God. I hurt her, oh God… The whispers rose like dark fires in the shape of hands… I expect it'll be second and fourth year all over again, he thought as the crowd's frenzied whispers sparked and leapt like nervous frogs. He continued walking, back ramrod straight, his heart and mind sick with guilt and despair… And Snape— The memory of his sneering voice suddenly made him want to curl up in a shivering ball…
"…and then he just attacked her! He can't be—he can't have been Harry—"
He was at the hospital wing entrance now, and at Ron's words, he froze, unable to force himself to enter.
"Mr. Potter has gone through some severe trauma, Mr. Weasley," the nurse said in cold, clipped tones. "As regrettable as this is, it is only an accident." Ron made a disbelieving sound. "What you need to do is to give him your support and care," she snapped, sounding glacial.
Harry knew that Ron, though silent, was fuming. He swallowed, steeling himself, and entered the hospital wing, his entire body stiff and tense.
"Mr. Potter!" Harry heard her advancing footsteps and the swift rustling of her skirts. She mumbled something about how she knew letting him out of bed was absolute folly. "What are you doing, standing there? Get into a bed! Now!"
"I'm unhurt," Harry managed to protest.
"BED. Now."
Knowing that he would never win against Madam Pomfrey when she was like this—and because he was too tired and numb to put up a fight—he obediently tottered to one of the cots and slipped into the familiar confines of a hospital bed. He could feel Ron's burning, ceaseless gaze.
He heard the tinkle of glass vials bumping into each other. "Drink this," Pomfrey ordered, and Harry sipped at it obediently. He didn't know what the potion was, but it cleared away some of the numbness and dulled the pain and trembling that took its place.
"You'll spend a night here—no arguments! Miss Granger will too."
"Then I'm staying," Ron said immediately in a cold voice that Harry had never heard him use.
"Mr. Weasley—"
"No! He'll— I'm not leaving."
"Mr. Weasley! Your behavior is completely inappropriate—"
"I WON'T LEAVE!"
Silence. "Miss Granger is in absolutely no danger," the nurse said firmly, and Harry was overtaken by the memory of the startled cry Hermione uttered as she was blasted by his magic. I am a monster, a freak, he thought. He shuddered and clenched his hands into fists. Oh God, I'm…
"I'm staying."
"I'll have a talk with your Head of House, Mr. Weasley," the nurse said in a threatening tone.
"Go ahead!" Ron shouted.
There was another silence. "Very well then," the nurse said in a stiff tone. "You may stay, but I shall be going to Professor McGonagall all the same, and the moment I hear a disturbance of any sort…"
"Yes, ma'am," Ron growled. Harry listened to the rustle of skirts and the footsteps as the nurse left the infirmary, pausing to send back one last warning glance.
The silence that felt was stony and itchy all at once, and Harry struggled to breathe. He was still tense, and the potion's effects faded enough for the thought to return: I hurt Hermione. I hurt her. I hurt her. And then another thought, one that he had dreaded and had known with the first of Ron's words to him that day: Ron… I've lost him.
He sat up, slowly. He heard an almost inaudible rustle from somewhere off, and knew it was Ron stiffening. His mouth opened, and he had to shape the words like a potter wrestling forms out of stubborn clay. "Is… is she… awake?"
The silence extended until Ron hissed, "No," just as Hermione moaned. "…Ron?"
Harry was aware of more rustling sounds, and suddenly felt, more acutely than ever, that aching loneliness. It was as though a chasm had ripped open between him and the two who had been his best friends, and he felt himself drifting farther and farther away, with nothing he could do to bridge the abyss. He bowed his head slightly, his mind awhirl with thick clouds of numbness and Vernon's voice (worthless freak, where are you friends now?) and the ruthless, clammy hands…
Hermione spoke again, her voice weak and bewildered. "What happened, Ron? I remember—"
"He," Ron snarled, and Harry's heart flinched though his mind and body were too numb to do anything, "attacked you."
"He?" Hermione mumbled in disbelief. "Harry?"
"He's not Harry!" Ron shouted. "He can't be. Would Harry attack you?"
"I… but he…"
"Exactly."
Harry swallowed and found the will to stand. He moved forward a few steps just as Ron roared, "Don't get any closer!"
Harry stopped. "I won't. But I… I am Harry." He swallowed, acutely aware of how stupid he sounded. But at this point, he didn't care.
"Liar," Ron spat. "Harry would never attack us. Who are you? You might've fooled Dumbledore and the rest of the staff, but you can't fool us. And why do you look so much like Snape?"
Ron's words slammed into him but he kept his face blank. He suspects, Harry thought, heart pounding. It will only be a matter of time before he finds out, and with that, everyone will know… The unexpected brevity of the time he had left suddenly became suffocating. Well? he snarled at himself. What did you expect? That you'd have forever? That nobody else would notice? What are you stalling for? He knew the answer long before he asked the question. He was afraid: afraid that his world, nothing more than a card house, would topple… I've already lost Ron, Harry thought, suddenly numb and tired, and Snape hates me right now, even though—the thought came brokenly, hesitantly, caught by the nettles of his fear and uncertainty—though it may only be because of something Sirius said in his will, and he may stop hating me if I wait a long enough time… But it was one thing for Snape to hate Harry Potter and a totally different thing for Snape to hate his own son, for his own father to hate him. And it was yet something else entirely for his father not to acknowledge him, to refuse to accept him, to turn him away with a cold, angry sneer…
"Ron!" Hermione admonished.
"It's true, though!" Ron retorted. "That can't be Harry."
Harry licked his dry lips. "I am Harry," he said again, though his voice was a little more even. He was aware that he was suddenly very thirsty. "And I'll prove it."
"Prove it then," Ron snarled, overriding Hermione's weak admonitions.
"You and Hermione gave me my first real Christmas gifts. A big box of chocolate frogs from Hermione, and a sweater and homemade fudge from your mum, and in our second year, you gave me Flying with Cannons, and Hermione gave me that eagle-feather quill… And when you went with me to the Mirror of Erised, I saw my family while you told me you saw yourself as Head Boy, holding the Quidditch cup, without any of your brothers…"
"SHUT UP!" Ron roared. Harry did.
After a moment's pause, Hermione spoke. "He is Harry." Her voice was very quiet. "You are Harry."
"I am Harry," Harry echoed, "but I… I changed. I never meant to hurt you, Hermione." His voice sounded bleak and miserable, even to himself. "It was a… reflex. Perhaps you would understand if you knew…" He swallowed, unable to continue.
"Knew what?" Ron sneered.
"Ron!" Hermione snapped.
Ron ignored her, and Harry tried to force the words out. "I…" He remembered the pain, the helplessness, the loneliness and the despair… "Over the summer, I was—"
"Professor Dumbledore told us that your uncle hurt you," Hermione said gently.
"He is not my uncle," Harry said sharply. He took a deep breath. "Vernon—did. He…" He could feel the hot breath against his ear as his uncle spoke those malicious words… "He hurt me very badly. But… after that, I…" The dark cell, the hands that ran over him… "I was…" The powerlessness he had felt as pain exploded in his most private parts… "I…" The shame, the fear, the breaking, the hands fondling him, and him—unable to stop them, unable to do anything, anything at all…
"Cat got your tongue, Potter?"
Harry was so shocked for a moment that his eyes fluttered open.
"Ron! What is— Harry! Your eyes…"
"He blinded me," Harry said flatly, shutting his eyes. "Vernon blinded me. You knew, though. Dumbledore told me he told you." And Harry knew he wouldn't—couldn't—tell them about what had happened afterwards in the cell and what Vernon had whispered to him as he endured the beatings and the pain, especially after hearing Ron's reactions…
"Oh, Harry…"
"That doesn't really explain why you hurt Hermione, though," Ron snapped, sounding no less hostile. "Or why you look so much like Snape."
"Ron!" Hermione said sharply.
Harry took a shuddering breath. This was it, he knew. He felt as though he were on a churning river, heading relentlessly to a yawning waterfall. "After I was rescued, I received a letter from my mother." He paused, taking in a deep breath. "In it, she… told me that…" His voice suddenly faltered, and he had to force out the next words: "that my biological father wasn't James Potter."
Silence.
"That it was… Snape," he croaked.
Silence.
"I knew it," Ron growled. "No wonder you look like Snape! You've been lying to us all along! You're the son of that—of that—"
"Ron!"
"He's not HARRY!" Ron roared. "He's SNAPE!"
Harry listened to Ron's word, though he didn't really register what the redhead was saying. The first word, the first syllable was enough. Ron was lost to him. Perhaps, if he had enough strength and Ron enough open-mindedness, their friendship may not totally die, but it would never be same. The little flicker of hope he'd been harboring all along died, leaving behind cold, barren ashes.
"Ron! How can you say that? It is a—rather big shock, but it doesn't matter if his father was actually Snape—he's still Harry, it doesn't change at all what he's been for five whole years to us…"
There's still Hermione, Harry thought gratefully, pulling himself out of his sluggish despair, and a little bit of that hope shimmered back to life.
"…and he's—he's been hurt, he's hurt, and you ought to…"
"Hermione, don't you understand? HE IS NOT HARRY! HE'S SNAPE!"
There was an angry rustle of sheets. "RON! That's just like saying I'm inferior because my parents are Muggle! Parentage has nothing to do with this! It's—"
"Hermione," Harry interrupted. "Please. Lie back down. You're… unwell."
"Because of you!" Ron hissed, suddenly close, and Harry cringed involuntarily. Vernon's voice and Ron's were nothing alike, but the malice in them, the hate—that was identical. A storm of memories (and hands) raged at the edge of his mind…
"RON!"
Harry backed away a step. He had to leave. Now. "I'll go," he whispered. "Get better soon, Hermione," he said hesitantly and turned around and blocked all sound from his mind except for the relentless tempest of spiteful, malicious words and memories, and limped out of the hospital wing, away from Hermione's angry shouts and Ron's incensed yells.
He paused in a corridor, forcing himself not to think of… anything. Just on where he was heading. Where he was running. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew where he wasn't. He couldn't bear to face Gryffindor tower, and he didn't fancy hobbling into the Great Hall, even though he was absolutely parched. The kitchen? At least Dobby won't snarl at me, he thought bitterly. I hope. He shook his head despairingly. Don't think of it! He squeezed his eyes tight and clenched his fists and thought fixedly of where to run… His mind flew to the dungeons, but that train of thought halted abruptly as he remembered Snape's malicious tone…
"Mr. Potter."
Harry froze. Damn it, he thought desperately, of all the times to meet him…
"I believe you were supposed to be in the hospital wing, Potter," Snape sneered, "or are you too good again for rules?"
Harry wanted to slide down and disappear. He didn't have the strength for this, not after Ron's brutal rejection and their one-sided shouting match; he felt a broken sob rising in his throat but he fought it.
"I couldn't stay there," he replied, sounding choked.
"And why not? Has the touching camaraderie of the golden trio reached an end?" Snape's smooth, mocking words beat into his brain, whirling around him relentlessly. Please, just go away, he pleaded. His hands shook. "The vaulted Gryffindor loyalty isn't as firm as it's praised to be, is it? Or this charming little fight one of your melodramatic dramas?"
"Please—don't," Harry begged, voice coming out as a croak. He didn't know what else to say.
Snape's voice became, if possible, even more mocking, more filled with hate. "Don't what, Potter?"
Harry took a deep breath, trying desperately to organize his thoughts. "I know you are angry, now, over—over whatever Sirius said in his will, something that I have no idea about… but don't spill that anger on me"—again, he thought, unable to continue. Not like you spilled your hate at James Potter on me for five years.
"Black," Snape hissed, and Harry flinched at the onslaught of hatred that reeked from the potions master's voice, "was a stupid, arrogant, reckless brat, and your father was too!"
Harry flinched at each malice-filled word, but at the word 'father,' he felt an uncontrollable desire to laugh hysterically. My father—my father is you! he wanted to giggle, but the giggle felt like sobs. "Yes," he said, words tumbling out without his brain's control, "I am like them, I am stupid, and reckless, and arrogant and self-centered and filthy and disgusting and a freak, and I am a greasy git—like my father." He laughed.
"To the hospital wing, Potter," Snape sneered, sounding highly unimpressed.
"No," Harry said with an assertiveness that astonished him. "Not until I tell you what you need to know." He took a deep breath. "I…" I am your son, his mind rambled, but suddenly he couldn't just say it—he—
"Cat got your tongue, Potter?"
Harry snapped his mouth shut, the hysterical edge tottered by a flash of déjà vu. That's what Ron said, he thought, and crippling fear suddenly rose like a monstrous shadow and blasted through his mind like the howling winter wind. "I'm… I am your son," he said at last.
"Nonsense," Snape snapped before Harry had any time to brace himself. "Potter, you have clearly lost what pathetically miniscule amount of brain you had in the first place."
"NO!" Harry shouted. "It's true! Look at me. Do I look like James Potter anymore? This nose—it's nobody's but yours—"
Harry flinched as Snape's voice cut across him like a whip. "If you think this prank"—prank? Harry managed to think incredulously, feeling another brief flash of déjà vu—"is funny, Potter—"
"Seventeen years ago," Harry interrupted harshly, his words tumbling out on their own accord, "early in November, a band of Death-Eaters kidnapped as many Muggleborn women as they could. The women were blindfolded and masked and"—clammy hands, darkness, helpless cries—"taken… and only one survived, because a spy for the Order gave her his Order pendant, and it took her to the Hogwarts hospital wing." He swallowed. Snape was silent. "She married soon after to try to forget, and nine months later, she had a child, but because they were hiding, she disguised the child…" Harry paused, suddenly exhausted. There was a moment of silence, broken only by his own harsh breathing. "I am… that child."
The silence stretched on. Harry kept his head bowed, unable to lift up his face. He felt the oily strands of his hair curl about his face and brush the edges of this mouth. His words somehow found their way up his dry throat and parched lips: "And you are my father."
"No."
No. It took a moment for the word to sink in. And then it quietly echoed and reechoed and reverberated and thundered in his mind. No. He was numb. Numb. Despair froze him as the single word rumbled like a falling mountain. He could think of or hear nothing else. No.
"It's…" Snape's garroted voice suddenly broke into an infuriated snarl. "Impossible! You!—you are Potter's brat—you are not my son—wherever you learned this—whoever told you this—Lupin! or Black—he—I—" Snape took a deep breath. "Leave," he grinded out through clenched teeth.
Harry remained unmoving for a moment.
"LEAVE!" Snape roared. "NOW!"
Without another word, he turned and left, limping each step until he stumbled and fell; and then he picked himself up slowly, and took another step. The numbness became something he choked on. His feet carried him drunkenly, and he broke into a faltering run, and his left eye became bruised from crashing into a wall, but he continued, Snape's words yipping at his heels like a relentless pack of hounding dogs.
He didn't want to go on.
Part of his mind begged him to stop, to find some release for the pounding at the back of his eyes, but still he went on. His feet carried him blindly, and he knew he was lost, but it didn't matter. As long as he was far away… As long as he kept moving, for he couldn't stop…
He became aware of approaching footsteps and stiffened, wondering with desperate hope and mounting dread if it was his father, but when he stopped, the footsteps were gone, and he knew he had imagined them in the first place.
This is what you get for being such a fool, he thought bitterly, for clinging to a fool's hope. Stupid, stupid, stupid worthless freak. He quickened his pace, bumped into a suit of armor, stumbled to the other side of the wall, and stopped to catch his breath. It was difficult to breath past the knot in his throat and through the numbness that swept his mind and body; all he wanted was to find release from this pain, from this overwhelming anguish…
He realized belatedly that he was very thirsty. The purely physical need for water slowly overcame some of the pain and despair that tore his soul and he wondered where he was. The air was rather damp, and the silence was complete, save for his heavy breathing. Don't think of it, Potter, he told himself (Potter, the unquenchable parts of his mind whispered, not Snape—Potter, Potter…) Thanking Madam Pomfrey for the thoroughness of his cure, he took another step and reached out his hands…
He was sure he heard the footsteps again.
But before he could do anything else, he heard a whiny voice call, "Who are you?"
He jumped. He knew the speaker; it was Moaning Myrtle. This must be her bathroom, he thought and stumbled forward, deciding that Moaning Myrtle's company would be just as good—better, even—than anyone else's. And in a bathroom, there may be water…
"You're a boy," the ghost repeated, sounding both resentful and curious. "This is a girl's bathroom. Who are you?"
Harry opened his eyes and Myrtle gasped. He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. "I don't know who I am anymore." You are not my son. Snape's voice echoed in his mind again, and he squeezed his eyes shut and his hands clenched around the head of his cane. He hates me. Despair welled up in full force, choking him. My father hates me. Ron hates me. I have no family. I am worthless, weak, unwanted… a freak…
"Oh," said Myrtle, sounding subdued, and said no more, for which Harry felt a weak surge of gratefulness. He was suddenly exhausted, so tired that he wanted nothing more than to slip onto the ground and cast away all consciousness for the blankness of sleep. He wanted oblivion. It hurt, and he wanted it to end, to end, but there was no way he could release some of the pain through weeping. It wasn't because he could not shed any tears, but he had learned—learned too well—how to hold in his sobs and anguish and to keep them inside a trove of growing darkness and pain…
He tensed and spun around, sure that he'd heard the footsteps this time; and these footsteps were different from anyone's he had heard. "Who's there?" he demanded after a pause. It might be a good idea to have your wand ready, he told himself as his mind resurfaced from its despair, and he reached his hand into his pocket to get his wand—
The footsteps abruptly sped up—
Myrtle gasped—
Harry barely registered the sound of stone slamming onto stone when the castle gave a tremendous groan; the ground shook; and before he could even open his mouth to shout or scream for help, he found himself falling sideways—
Into nothingness.
qpqpqp
A pulse of magic shot out from the second floor girl's bathroom. It was tense and quivering, the magic of a ward going off as a chamber, deep underground, opened four and fifty-four years ago, opened once more. The pulse shivered through the castle, spiraling up and up to the headmaster's office—
On the seventh floor, the pulse of magic passed the tapestry of a garden. In a corner of the tapestry was a cypress tree with a green serpent wrapped around its trunk. As the pulse of magic passed, the serpent suddenly snapped forward, swallowed the pulse of magic, and then rewrapped itself languidly around the cypress tree.
The headmaster's office remained undisturbed.
qpqpqp
The boy with blue eyes snarled as the vertigo ended.
Massster! Massster!
I am here, Nagini.
Massster…
Something happened. The boy was near, but the cassstle threw me and took the boy. He is not here anymore.
Was it Dumbledore?
Perhapsss. But I cannot believe he has this much hold over Hogwarts! It cannot be him.
Does he know you are here then?
The wards about his office are still intact. He is still blubbering away in his own ignorance. He cannot know.
The boy stepped forward towards the sink with snakes carved into its taps.
"Who're you?" the ghost asked from where she had peeked out, half-in and half-out one of the cubicles. "And where'd the other boy go?"
The boy narrowed his eyes, and red filled them.
The ghost gasped and quickly dived back into her toilet, but the boy had his wand out, and the incantation, spoken at a murderous hiss, had already left his lips.
"Let me go!" the ghost squealed, eyes wide with terror.
"Don't you know who I am?" the boy asked teasingly. His voice changed. "I killed you."
The ghost gasped. "You're him!"
"Yes," the boy went on conversationally and flicked his wand. "You weren't my first kill, you know." The ghost's voice trembled and shattered like her pearly white body. "But you are the first for me to kill twice."
The boy smiled as the echoes of the ghost's shriek flittered some more in the corners of the bathroom before reluctantly dying away.
The boy turned back to the taps.
"Open," he hissed.
Nothing happened.
The crimson eyes flashed. "Open!" he commanded.
His voice echoed and then died into nothingness.
Massster?
A block. A block. The entrance has been blocked.
Dumbledore?
Who else can it be? Yet this magic… It is older, much older, and much stronger…
Who is it then?
I do not know, Nagini. I do not know.