Author's Disclaimer: HP – Still not mine.
Author's Note: Thank you so much, Nicky15, for the fast beta! I have to admit, I was getting a little worried! ;-)
This story is AU (post-OotP and pre-HBP). I'm still non-HBP-compliant myself, so remember not to let anything slip, okay? Reviews are obsessively read, so please feel free to leave feedback! ;-)
As for goals and timelines – I'm done with projecting. RL is eeeevil, and I suspect the Fates are cackling away each time I try to put a deadline down on the page. New goals? A chapter a week. That's possible. Not a guarantee, but certainly a feasible ambition. And now, on with the show! (author exits stage right)
All That's Left Behind
Chapter 9 – Fake It Until You Make It
He was a fool. He'd been so wrong. It hurt worse than anything he'd ever felt before. The Cruciatus curse was nothing compared to this. Even being possessed by Voldemort couldn't compare. His head felt like it was exploding, being crushed against his skull and expanding until he could feel things giving way inside.
Memory, he discovered too late, wasn't just one sense. It covered everything. The smell of Aunt Petunia's bacon when she'd burn it - the feeling of spider legs skittering across his cheekbone when he slept in the cupboard. The jolt of Uncle Vernon's sharp cuff to the head and the brief disorientation when he'd been just a little too slow. The confused bewilderment as Sirius disappeared from view, wand in hand, before he'd realized he wouldn't reappear. The soft thud as Cedric fell, completely slack, to the ground, causing the faintest puff of dust to stir around his body before settling again…
On and on, everything he'd ever experienced was being re-catalogued and filed away; his mind stripped of all its previous tools and realigned to conform to the pathways being forged by the spell he'd cast on himself.
He could feel as it drew in its power from his very essence, and burned behind his eyes. He knew he was beyond shrieking. He tried to claw at his forehead, his eyes, his mind, but tiny hands restrained him. His back arched impossibly and he felt muscles tear and tendons pop as he struggled against himself, to somehow flee the pain that now seemed as much a part of him as his magic.
He didn't want to remember his past. Nothing he'd read said that the spell would be retroactive. His life had been hard enough the first time, and he cried out in despair at the folly of his own foolhardy plan. What had he been thinking? Everything he'd ever experienced pulsed within his mind in time to his heartbeat. He could hear it: an inevitable explosion of memories relived and re-examined to fit the new paths within, still tender and raw.
He hated to see them: The years of idiocy that kept him hoping that this time, somehow, he'd find a way to make the Dursleys like him: The naiveté of allowing himself to believe that Sirius was his and his alone – that he had a family now: The ridiculous pride at having walked away from confrontations with Voldemort those first few years at Hogwarts and thinking, I think I can do this if I must. If he could go back in time, there were so many things he wanted to change that he didn't even know where to start.
He'd made so many mistakes. There was too much to fix. Too much he'd do differently. He had no concept of time passing as he writhed under the weight of his own magic. There was no possibility of unconsciousness. There was no escape, no way to ease this passage. He wished for death. Part of him wished for madness.
Maybe he already was mad, and just hadn't realized it. He wanted so badly to just let go. He could see the barrier now: a thin veil between consciousness and the unknown. It was a wall of darkness, and the closer he looked, the more movement he could see. There was a lot going on behind the curtains – the darkness now practically seethed with activity.
What's in there, he wondered as he drifted perilously closer. Was it his fears? He instinctively knew that in those shadows resided the part of the mind that remained untapped and untouched, except in dreams and intuition. Its darkness called to him, promising muffled protection from his memories, and he longed to just stop trying to ride the waves of pain and slip away, yet something kept him anchored…
The briefest touch – the faintest sense of witness. Someone else felt his pain, and it frightened them. They tried to push at first, but quickly shrank away, and then Harry did laugh, a mad frantic pant amidst the screams. Thought better of that, did you! He impulsively tried to send after the fading link. He had felt Harry's spell and wanted to know what was happening, but hadn't been able to handle it.
I did this for you! Harry seized onto that thought as years came back in no particular order. Memories that used to gradually float to the surface, triggered by a word or sense which then cascaded into his mind gently now came with lightening speed, utterly visceral and totally encompassing.
He was entirely alone now. The presence that haunted his dreams had left him completely, unable or unwilling to share his distress, and his screams also held a note of triumph. He'd felt a sense of vindication at knowing he was willing to die to win, and that Voldemort wasn't. It now appeared he was also willing to suffer more as well.
His crazed laughter turned to sobs as his life bore witness to his capacity to endure. He'd been practically born to it. Not in self-pity, though. He could see the parts he played in his own pain, and knew he'd earned it. He cried for the hope he no longer had, that had died along with Sirius.
He cried for the life they could have shared. He'd even imagined Remus there as well – the three of them; fractured and incomplete separately – they could have healed each other. He'd never forgotten the day Professor Lupin was packing up to leave at the end of his third year. Remus had been so quiet and dignified in what he knew would inevitably be rejection. Harry understood that. Remus cared for Sirius. He instinctively knew Remus needed a home as much as he and Sirius did, and remembered thinking that it might have worked.
It was the greatest gift life at Hogwarts had given Harry. Away from the Dursleys, who used to browbeat his teachers and neighbors into not giving him a chance, and away from Dudley, who used to pummel anyone who even considered the possibility of Harry being their friend – he'd found that family didn't need to consist of blood. In fact, blood was often the weakest part of it.
Blood. It was all about the blood, wasn't it? He groaned and sobbed as he was forced to re-examine his life and the things he'd learned up until now. The cryptic statements Dumbledore had always been so fond of making now made too much sense, and he wished he didn't see the truth in the Headmaster's eyes.
Eyes that morphed into the eyes of Sirius, peering from the shrubs just moments before he'd summoned the Knight Bus. What if Harry had just gone with his godfather then? What if he hadn't summoned the bus? What would his life have been like? He knew it was foolishness, that it would never have worked, but he wished he'd flown away with Sirius that night on Buckbeak's back. Would Sirius have been okay? Away from Grimmauld Place, would his godfather's sanity have slipped like it had? Would you have seen me for me?
I want you to be proud of me, Sirius. I'm so ashamed… Harry's throat was raw, and still he couldn't stop calling out. Not for someone to save him – that would never happen – but for forgiveness. I'm so sorry! But no one would be coming. He'd insured that.
Hands pressed his shoulders against the cushioned floor, trying to keep him still. He couldn't raise his arms, and a voice was softly speaking as the waves of searing magic slowly eased, leaving only violent flashes of memory to remain.
"Dobby's here. Breathe, Harry Potter. It's almost over. Don't fight it, Harry Potter. Relax. Dobby won't let go…" the squeaky house-elf's voice pierced his pain, and Harry did as instructed, allowing the memories to try resorting themselves. He stopped trying to fight the images and sensations, instead letting them roll over him. He drifted, floating, immersed in the past. But far off, he could now sense the present too. It was in Dobby's clawed fingertips, strong yet tender and in his odd voice; in the throbbing of Harry's body trying to ascertain what he'd done to it and which messages his nerves should send first.
He was utterly submerged in the past, in the minutia of details, but now that he'd stopped fighting it, he realized that if he concentrated, he could almost dim certain parts of the memories so that they weren't quite so present… Thank Merlin! Harry thought, and realized that as unlikely as it had seemed before, he might just survive this spell relatively intact.
He'd learned too late that another reason the spell he'd cast on himself could be considered dark was because there were certain things the human mind tried to forget, as a protective mechanism. Thankfully, he'd spent too much of his life as a realist. He didn't try to soften what the Dursleys did – they were who they were – so reliving it wasn't a shock. However, Cedric's death was. He'd forgotten how insanely quickly Cedric's life had been ended, how casual Voldemort and Pettigrew had both been. He'd forgotten how long he'd stood, waiting for Sirius to reappear. He'd forgotten just how big that Basilisk had been, and how on earth had he survived it!
With awareness came the capacity to direct thought, and Harry began working in earnest to dull the edges of the more painful memories. It was ironic that in his endeavor to find more clarity in recall, he was now forced to consciously suppress things. I think you'd be proud of this, Sirius. This was certainly reckless and foolhardy, which certainly could qualify as something the Marauders would try to do.
"That's it. Harry Potter is fine, but must rest now. Dobby is watching over his friend. Sleep, Harry Potter. Dobby will give as much time as Dobby can," Harry barely heard the house-elf murmur, and finally did let go of his last, tenuous grasp on consciousness.
The spell had run its course, and while he was certainly far from adjusted, he'd survived the worst of it. Although, considering how he felt, he had no idea how he'd be able to hide what he'd done for two days. Quit projecting, he thought, and fell into a restless slumber. Tomorrow wasn't there yet, and he'd had a loooong day.
The first thing Harry noticed when he first became aware was that he was in his bed. His fingers were all curled up in the sheets. He frowned and sighed, realizing that even opening his eyes had suddenly become a major effort.
"Harry Potter is waking up?" Dobby whispered right beside his left ear, effectively scaring Harry enough that both eyes were instantly open. Dobby was peering intently at Harry's face, and he realized the house-elf didn't have the best breath.
"D…Dobby," Harry said after having to clear his throat, and couldn't help but try to smile a little. He sounded like he had laryngitis.
"Harry Potter is doing better?" Dobby asked, his enormous eyes looking bizarre so up-close. They were the only thing Harry could clearly see without his glasses, and where were his glasses, anyway?
"Yeah," Harry rasped and tried to sit up, which didn't turn out to be a possibility. At least for the near future. His arms quivered too much, and he had no idea what he'd done to his forearms and biceps but they spasmed each time he tried to use them.
"Dobby has some potions Dobby stole from Hogwarts for Harry Potter to take. Then Harry Potter will be more comfortable," Dobby said solemnly, and without further ado put his hands under Harry's armpits and lifted him effortlessly until he was sitting up in bed.
"Wow," Harry whispered. "That was entirely too easy," he whispered, then proceeded to cough dryly. Dobby frowned in disapproval.
"That's because Harry Potter isn't eating enough of Dobby's cooking," the house-elf scolded, then reached over to Harry's nightstand for several vials. Ah hah! There were his glasses! Weakly reaching over, Harry slipped them in place and looked around. His whole body was quivering with exhausting, and his toes kept trying to curl up and cramp. He was having a hard time staying awake, but too many things still needed to get sorted out. He had a vague plan for what happened after the spell, and recognized that he'd put off getting too specific until he had survived it.
His nightstand looked like a magical pharmacy, Harry realized, and nervously glanced at the vial Dobby was currently holding in front of his face. Potions bottles of all sizes and shapes filled most of the surface, along with a pitcher of water. Oh, that looked good. Dobby caught him eyeing the water and shook his head.
"Dobby will pour Harry Potter some water only after Harry Potter takes his potions," he said.
"What potions are they?" Harry asked automatically, feeling bad for not just blindly drinking them. He didn't want to hurt Dobby's feelings, after all, but he didn't recognize the coloring of half of what was there.
"Dobby worked in the Hospital Wing long enough to learn about good basic healing potions for wizards," the house-elf said matter-of-factly.
"Did you steal them from the Hospital Wing then?" Harry whispered curiously.
"Oh no! Dobby wouldn't do something that might cause the other house-elves to get in trouble," he said wide eyed, and suddenly Harry had a bad feeling.
"Then where did you get the potions?" Harry asked.
"From the same place Dobby got the gillyweed for Harry Potter: the Potions Master's stores."
"Wouldn't that cause the house-elves even more trouble?" Harry asked, stunned and forcing himself not to abruptly giggle manically. He was still sane, right?
"The Professor doesn't let the house-elves in, so he won't think we took them," Dobby said. He'll probably blame it on me anyway, Harry thought and snorted, then took the vial from Dobby.
He raised the thin glass in the faintest gesture of salute then tossed it back. He'd come this far with Dobby. The potions would be fine. As much as he loathed the Potions Master, the man still had professional pride. He swallowed then frowned, wiggling his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
"How does Harry Potter feel now?" Dobby asked, and Harry realized that his muscles no longer quivered quite so badly. That's not what had caught his attention, though.
"Why am I not surprised?" Harry said in a slightly stronger voice, and felt his face contort in anger. Dobby jumped back and began to apologize before Harry realized what he'd done.
"Oh no! Dobby, no! It has nothing to do with you! I'm sorry! I'm not angry with you! It's just that this potion – I've had it in the Hospital Wing, and I can promise you it didn't taste nearly as good there as it does right now."
Dobby's ears immediately perked up. "So Dobby didn't do anything wrong?" he asked hesitantly. Harry reached out his hand, and Dobby tentatively put his small hand in Harry's.
"Not at all, my friend. Our resident Potions Master can evidently do a lot more to make healing potions taste better for himself than he does for his students," Harry said with distaste. Could the man get any pettier?
Harry proceeded to down vial after vial. It wasn't nearly the hardship it could have been, and he found it darkly amusing that he'd inadvertently be causing the professor distress when he realized his stores had been raided… again.
After his initial rage, Harry did have to concede to the possibility that perhaps what Dobby had given him could be more of an experimental potion, because not all of them were flavored. Some of the potions he couldn't visually identify did turn out to be ones he was familiar with, once he could feel their effects.
It made what Dobby said not quite sit right with Harry. Were some of these potions already being used in the Hospital Wing and he didn't know about it? Otherwise, how would Dobby know which ones were which? Unless they were placed somewhere labeled, because there were no labels on the bottles themselves, and could Dobby even read…?
It was odd how the more Harry thought, the more confused he became, so he finally had to let his fears go and come back to the fact that he trusted Dobby, and had already placed his life in his hands and survived, so what was he worried about?
He hurt, both inside and out, and while the memories were not quite so insistent, when they appeared, they still took all his attention, and he knew that could never do. If he was going to be able to focus and apply his newfound gift of recall, he'd have to figure out how to handle it quickly.
He didn't mean to, but managed to drift off, only coming awake at the soft tap at his door. Thankfully, after nearly a dozen potions, he had enough strength to sit up now, and distractedly ran his fingers through his hair as Tonks came in his room, peering at him intently.
Her hair was bright red today, and idly Harry wondered if she had to spell it to stick up the way it did, or if it was natural like his. She was wearing Muggle jeans, a baggy t-shirt (nothing on it, thank Merlin) and her fuzzy slippers.
"Dobby tells us you had a late night last night," she said and proceeded to sit next to his bed. The image of her smiling face the first time he met her suddenly overwhelmed everything else, and Harry had to keep his face slack to keep his surprise from registering.
Oooh, he looks just like I thought he would. Wotcher, Harry!
It took a few seconds to suppress the memory of all of those faces staring up at him, people he'd never met before as he'd prepared to leave the Dursleys, and to drag his mind back to the present.
"Harry?" Tonks was asking, her kind, heart-shaped face easily displaying her thoughts in her expressions. Was she good at what she did? She seemed so guileless to him. He forced his lips into a smile.
"Sorry. What time is it? I can't believe I was still asleep," Harry hedged.
"It's nearly two o'clock. Aren't you hungry?" she asked. Harry shook his head, then second-guessed himself.
"Maybe. Let me wake up first. Did you already eat?" he asked. Tonks nodded, then frowned and put her hand against his forehead. "What?" he asked.
"I'm just checking. What teenage boy isn't always hungry?" she asked.
"I'll get something from Dobby. I'm feeling okay – just tired," Harry said.
"Was it….? Dreams?" she asked, and he felt a little better about the fact that at least she looked a little apologetic for having to ask.
"Not that kind. Just your garden variety," Harry replied and smiled again. Considering how he felt, he knew his illusion spell still had to be in full-effect. Otherwise, they wouldn't even be discussing it. Also, it appeared that she was taking the raspiness in his voice for grogginess, because he knew he didn't sound right but she didn't seem to notice.
"I'm sorry to interrogate you about your dreams," she said, and reached out to ruffle his hair affectionately. It shocked him when he had to discretely brace himself. She'd nearly toppled him, although thankfully didn't seem to see it.
"S'okay," Harry replied and shrugged. "Everyone else does."
Tonks stood up and eyed him suspiciously. "Just yell if you need anything, okay?" she asked. Harry nodded and weakly waved his hand at the door.
"I will. Now shoo," he said, and felt brazen enough to wink at her. He couldn't believe he was going to get away with it!
"I expect to see you at dinner then," she said. Harry suppressed the initial panic and theatrically rolled his eyes. He refused to think beyond the moment. He'd figure out this evening after he had a few more hours rest. He just needed to regroup.
"Please. Even if I had Ron's appetite, I wouldn't be hungry for dinner in just a few hours," he said jokingly, then reconsidered his words. Tonks raised an eyebrow. "Right. Never mind. Bad example," he said, and Tonks smiled indulgently at him as she shut the door behind her.
"Dinner's at seven!" she called from the hallway, her voice now muffled, and Harry let himself fall on his side with a huge sigh. How was he going to be able to keep up the ruse? He could barely sit up, let alone try to walk.
Dobby solved the question of how he'd get to the kitchen for him by apparating him there directly. House-elf magic, he's discovered, while potent, is also a bit more… crude. Blunt. The disorientation of being apparated by a wizard had nothing on house-elves. It felt as if he'd been compressed and decompressed in the span of several seconds.
It made sense, though, when he thought about it. All he had to do was look at the lives house-elves led. Merlin knows Dobby must have had an incredible tolerance for pain, considering his penchant for ironing his hands.
The house-elf was distraught but did finally relent when Harry insisted on trying to dress himself. He couldn't seem to find the words to try to explain why it was so important to him. It wasn't all about modesty, although that played a part. Mostly, he realized he was having a hard time staying focused on now. His mind had a tendency to drift, and he knew he needed to get it together fast before people started to see it.
So he spent nearly half an hour getting ready, and realized it wasn't easy trying to tie his shoe laces when the first teacher to ever try to teach him how to tie a bow's voice would suddenly be the only thing he could concentrate on. The memory as such a complete surprise that it made his nose tickle, and he most certainly wasn't tearing up. He'd forgotten how kind his kindergarten teacher had been.
Dobby had to put sticking charms in place to keep him from falling out of his seat. He wasn't really hungry, but Dobby's death-glare was a sight to behold, and he put a decent dent in his pot pie before Kingsley and Tonks even arrived. He had no idea Dobby was so adept at guilt.
A book had been set strategically at his side to explain why he'd remain in the kitchen after everyone else was done with the meal. He felt kind of bad about claiming to have fed Buckbeak when really it was Dobby who'd done it, but it presented the illusion that Harry was moving around and going places, so he did as Dobby suggested.
He'd always known Dobby was fearful of Buckbeak, but it wasn't until he saw the two of them interact that he understood why. Before coming to dinner, Dobby had apparated him up to Buckbeak's room to help coach the fearful house-elf through the proper etiquette of how to approach a hippogriff, but it ended up being more of a lesson in esteem and confidence than in how to feed magical beasts.
When Hagrid had explained why bowing was necessary and Harry had done so that first time, he'd done it with a sense of awe and fear. When Buckbeak had bowed back, it had felt like he'd been acknowledged by an equal. Harry had showed respect and the hippogriff had responded in kind. Approaching a wild hippogriff was less about being a master or keeper, and more about being a companion.
It took a lot of verbal coaching to explain the difference between groveling and bowing, and by the end of it, Harry suspected that probably no other house-elf besides Dobby would be able to feed hippogriffs simply because of their own lack of independence. The poor house-elf had nearly come out of his skin when Buckbeak had bowed back, and it was only Harry's voice that kept Dobby from fleeing the room.
Neither Kingsley nor Tonks seemed to be sure what to make of his deciding to camp out in the kitchen for a while to study, but didn't pursue it. They kept shooting curious looks his way, but didn't ask. By the end of dinner, Harry was exhausted. He could barely keep his eyes open. Luck seemed to be on his side though, because instead of using Harry's continued presence in the kitchen as an opportunity for conversation, they left shortly after dessert to go upstairs.
That, unfortunately, turned out to be a glitch in his and Dobby's plan. The only time Harry could theoretically be apparated back to his room was when both Tonks and Kingsley had either returned to their rooms, or were in a part of the house where they couldn't prove whether or not he'd gone upstairs on his own steam.
The two Aurors didn't do so until nearly three hours later. By then, he'd fallen asleep and jolted awake often enough to practically give himself whiplash, and had drooled on his book as well. His temples throbbed, his eyes felt goggly. All in all he felt like a puppet, dangling limply from where the sticking charm attached his shirt to the chair. Keeping anyone from finding out what he'd done to himself for the next twenty-four hours, especially considering Hermione and Remus were coming, was going to be a bloody miracle.