Thank you to the beta of this chapter- Born-of-Elven-Blood
Chapter Twenty Five- Closely Bonded
The clock struck four in the morning as Harry read the same paragraph for what must have been the hundredth time. After Severus had gone to bed around midnight, he'd convinced Cinsy to bring him a copy of the Daily Prophet, and in the hours since he had obsessed over every word written against him.
"Sightings of Harry James Potter entering 's hospital… an emotional exchange between the young wizard and his one-time Defense teacher... multiple instances of sexual abuse… only twelve at the time… no word but Potter's that the incident occurred… nothing more than a fabrication to garner attention... history of acting out for publicity… none of this can be substantiated… only Harry Potter knows the truth for certain…"
He read it over and over again, unable to decide which was worse - people knowing what really happened, or people choosing to believe he made it all up in some sick ploy for attention. Either way he was nothing but a joke. No one even cared what happened to him. And why would they? All anyone saw in him was the Boy Who Lived, but no one believed him about Voldemort, so what did it matter to anyone if he lived or died?
Harry groaned, a low, wounded noise, the paper crumpling as his fists tightened and his arms curled reflexively around his middle. He'd never felt this kind of pain before and it wasn't just the hideous memories of Lockhart or what was in the papers. It was McGonagall's kindness. He could still feel her running her fingers through his hair just like a mother would to an upset child. Obviously she'd meant well. She couldn't know that the simple, powerful gesture had only served to show him all that he was missing. He'd never been loved, never cared for. He could die tonight and his family wouldn't even care. If anything Vernon would throw a party.
The thoughts circled and circled, spiraling tighter inside him, making him heavy hearted and light headed, leaden and frantic, leaving him shaking weakly as though he might fly apart and sink into darkness all at once.
He was dirty, stained inside and out, a failure, a joke, a nuisance. He was a mess. He was nothing. How could anyone ever love him? How could anything ever be right again?
The answer was obvious and devastating: they couldn't.
Harry swiped at the tears that had fallen down his cheeks before getting up, letting the paper flutter to the floor. His body ached, but his mind rang with a dull, empty clarity. Grabbing some paper and a quill, he sat down at the kitchen table and stared at the blank sheet, searching for words. Small droplets of ink splattered onto the clean white expanse like black tears from his hovering quill. What could he possibly say? Would anyone even care to read it? He leaned his forehead heavily on the heel of his palm as his thoughts raced. Shame, rage, despair, betrayal, tattered shreds of hope tearing at the seams all whipped around and around under an overarching pall of dragging, soul-deep weariness.
"I just want it to stop!" he cried softly to himself.
With a slash of his quill, he wrote the only two words he was sure of anymore: "I'm sorry."
Harry stared blankly at the drying ink. Then he folded the paper, setting the quill on top before rising and making his way over to the bookshelf. He found the volume Snape had pulled and tugged it out. The bookshelf shifted and swung open to reveal the professor's potion lab. Stepping inside, he studied the colorful array of gleaming vials arranged meticulously inside the potion cupboard. There were no labels, so he wasn't sure which would take his pain away, but he figured it hardly mattered; if he just kept swallowing, one of them was bound to do the trick.
So one by one, Harry uncorked the vials and drank the potions, feeling the burn in the back of his throat. Sweat broke out on his brow as the brews hit his stomach, and he downed them more and more quickly as they began to take effect. He was on number eight when he started to feel dizzy. The room swayed sickeningly, and he grew hot and cold in waves. Green smoke began to pour out of his nose, and by number fourteen he could no longer stand on his own. He leaned heavily against the cupboard, his lungs straining as he reached for more vials. The light in the room spun in a nauseating kaleidoscope of unnatural colors. His skin felt too tight as he swallowed number eighteen, breaking out in boils that hardened into flakey yellowish scales. He slumped to the floor, number twenty two in hand, and the only reason it didn't slip from his shaking grip was that his fingers seemed to have developed suction cups. He tipped it up, but it never reached his lips before he toppled sideways. Darkness swallowed him before he hit the cold dungeon floor.
Meanwhile, several floors above, Hermione and Ron were trying to calm Hedwig who had woken half the tower with her screeching.
"It's alright, girl." Hermione soothed, nervously pulling her dressing gown tighter as the owl started to flap her wings frantically.
"What is wrong with her?" Dean shouted over the din.
"I don't know. She just started screaming and acting up," Ron replied with a helpless shrug.
"She'll hurt herself if she keeps this up," Hermione said as Hedwig started to bang on the window with her beak.
"I've never seen an owl act like this," Neville said as he watched from across the room. "What has gotten into her?"
Hermione's eyes widened. "It's Harry..." she said softly.
"What do you mean?" Ron caught her eye, and the look of terrified certainty on her face sent a chill right through him.
"Something is wrong with Harry!''
Without another word she leapt to her feet and ran for the door. Ron followed, still confused, but with a grim weight of dread clenching his gut as they scrambled through the portrait hole and out into the dark.
