Chapter 5

Harry was missing for 3 hours.

After the third hour, as he stood on the topmost level of the astronomy tower, he noticed a bird approaching, riding on a current of wind - a very large red bird.

Fawkes landed gracefully on the stone parapet beside him and whistled a greeting. Harry peeled his eyes away from the horizon and flashed the bird a small smile, devoid of any real cheer.

"Please," he said, his voice a bit hoarse, "don't tell Dumbledore where I am."

The bird looked at him quizzically. It was silent for a moment and still. As Harry watched, however, it began to cry. He reached out a hand and caught a tear as it fell.

"Not the right kind of wound this time, Fawkes," he said sadly, as the single droplet sparkled unremarkably in the sunlight. "But thanks." The bird whistled again and then stretched its wings and launched into the open sky. About a meter from where Harry was standing, the bird burst into a cloud of flame and disappeared. It did not return.

Harry bowed his head and ran a hand through his hair. He felt bad about running away, about not letting himself be found. He knew his friends would be worried out of their minds, especially given what they'd just heard, but he couldn't bring himself to go back yet. Since his return from Malfoy Manor, he'd been tossed to and fro by a wild sea of emotions he sometimes couldn't even identify, but that left him breathless and desperate. His memories, reawakened, made him feel raw and exposed, especially to the eyes of company. They didn't know, they couldn't understand, what it was like to feel utterly helpless, hopeless, and alone.

And then there was the encounter with his parents. He shied automatically from the memory of that ethereal moment because it left him filled with impossible longing, as the Mirror of Erised had done, once upon a time. Except that, now, he actually knew who he was missing. He had actually seen his mother smile, had felt her arms around him, had listened to her voice as it soothed his guilt and shame. He had met his father, had actually watched as James' eyes lit with pride for him, Harry, his son. They were no longer just enchantments, images printed in a picture, or shadowy memories from his infanthood. Now, his parents were whole and real people who had lived and loved. And died.

Harry scrubbed hard at his face, banishing the tears for what felt like the hundredth time that day. He refused to let any more fall. There was something dark inside, just within his chest, clawing at his soul, and it scoffed at his tears. They are unearned, Guilt whispered in his ear. You are nothing but the coward Snape thinks you are.

He groaned and buried his head in his hands.

Wind swept through the high tower, pummeling the hardened rock and pummeling Harry as he stood, unseeing, on the edge of the world.

Finally, as the sun began its slow descent, he pushed away from the wall. Reality beckons, he thought. As usual. He felt his face harden and the muscles of his gut stiffened too, as though his body were bracing itself. The words of the prophecy slithered through his mind and he reminded himself that, regardless of what he felt, he had promised that he would see this war to its bitter end, and he would.

-SSS-

He found Hermione and Ginny in the Gryffindor Common Room. They were, as predicted, quite frantic.

"Harry!" Ginny said, jumping off the couch where she'd been worriedly ringing her hands over and over. "Where were you? We've been looking everywhere." She only just barely stopped herself from flinging her arms around his neck. He winced a bit when he noticed her red-tinged eyes. Hermione looked the same and, unlike Ginny, was unable to resist giving him a quick hug, which he forced himself to accept without protest.

"Sorry guys," he said, quietly. "I just needed a while to myself."

"Oh, Harry," Hermione said with a sympathetic smile. "We can understand that, of course we can. Professor Dumbledore said as much."

"Which reminds me," Ginny piped up, rubbing roughly at her eyes, "Hermione, you'd better send a message to Dumbledore to let him know Harry's got back."

Nodding, Hermione drew her wand and narrowed her eyes in concentration. She aimed past Harry at the portrait hole. "Expecto Patronum!" A wispy white otter bounded out of her wand and straight through the portrait. Harry looked at her, confused.

"You can send messages through a Patronus?" he asked. "Since when?"

Hermione nodded triumphantly. "Tonks taught us when you got…taken," she said, a little guiltily. "She wanted to make sure we could communicate. It's not overly difficult, assuming you already know how to conjure a corporeal Patronus."

"We would have sent one for you today, but you need to have at least a vague idea where the person is for it to actually find them," Ginny supplied. "Where'd you go? I feel like we looked everywhere."

"The Quidditch fields. The Owlery. The Astronomy Tower." Harry listed off quickly, rubbing his neck. "Where's Ron, by the way?"

"Dumbledore sent him off somewhere a while after you left, to run some sort of errand, I think," Hermione answered.

"And…" Harry hesitated. "What did Snape do after I left?" He asked as he sat down on the couch.

"After you finished telling him off, you mean?" Ginny said with a snort, plopping on the couch beside him. "He just had a really sour look on his face but didn't say much. Dumbledore told us to let you cool down a little before taking off after you, but he dismissed us all right after that, except for Snape."

Harry leaned his head back and closed his eyes, forcing breath into his lungs. Snape was going to kill him once he got his full strength back. Harry didn't even want to think about what kind of jibes the man was libel to throw at him now. Almost worse, though, was Dumbledore knowing how close he'd come to failing him, how close he'd come to throwing the whole prophecy out the window. He hadn't gone to the meeting with any intention of mentioning the Afterlife. He rubbed at his face.

"Harry?" Ginny asked from beside him. "Are you alright? I mean… really alright," she asked when his eyes opened. It was the second time she'd asked him that in two days. And for the second time, all he could think to answer was that 'no, he was not alright, and no, he had no idea what would make him be alright again.' He just shook his head.

"Is there anything we can do, Harry?" Hermione asked. She'd taken the single chair across from them and was gazing worriedly at Harry, between meaningful looks at Ginny.

"Don't worry, guys. You're doing it," Harry said, forcing a smile.

"Did you really see Sirius?" Ginny whispered.

"Yeah, Gin," he replied, closing his eyes again and trying to relax. "I really did…He looked happy." And he had.

"I'm glad you got to see him, Harry," Hermione said, leaning into her own chair and wrapping her arms around herself. "I'm not happy about how it had to happen, but I'm glad you got to see him and say a proper 'good-bye' this time."

"Me too, Hermione," Harry mumbled, exhaustion stealing slowly over him. A memory of Sirius's hug – warm, solid, and patient, as Harry had cried on his shoulder – came unbidden to Harry's mind. "Me too."

Ginny stood up a few minutes later and pulled out her wand. Holding a finger to her lips at Hermione, she cast a quiet "Wingardium Leviosa" at the sleeping Harry, which levitated him a foot above the couch. Hermione jumped up and accio'd a pillow from upstairs and it came whizzing down to rest on one edge. Ginny lowered him down again and Hermione helped lay him out and removed his glasses. Harry didn't so much as twitch. The girls looked at each other and contemplated what to do. There was still about an hour before dinner to fill.

In the end, they both came to the same conclusion. Ginny went and fetched her Defense textbook from her room and Hermione fetched hers. They settled down again and began to read, waiting for Ron to get back, or for Harry to wake, whichever came first.

-SSS-

Harry was dreaming. He knew he must be either dreaming or dead because he was back in the ghostly King's Cross Station. The bank of fog was there, just as before, and he could see the shadows within it moving throughout. Finally, just as the suspense was about to drive him mad, someone began to step out of it towards him.

One black boot first, then a swooshing black cape until, finally, he found himself staring back at Severus Snape. Harry took a step back and Snape took a step forward. This dead man was not like his parents, Harry realized, because Snape was practically see-through, like a Hogwarts ghost. Snape took another step forward and Harry realized he could not go backwards any further as his feet refused to move. Frantically, he looked around and noticed other figures had begun emerging from the fog – Dumbledore, Hermione, Lupin, Madam Pomfrey, McGonagall, Ron. They all had Snape's semi-transparent appearance, and all were approaching with a staggering walk.

"No!" Harry shouted. "Please!" His heart filled with terror he couldn't explain. Dumbledore was closing in on Snape now, and then passed him, his aged hand reaching for Harry, his face stoic and merciless.

He grabbed Harry's wrist and suddenly the scene changed; he was now holding Cedric's dead wrist at the graveyard. Voldemort was just ahead, pointing his wand at Sirius, who he appeared to hold as hostage.

"No!" Harry screamed, just as Voldemort began to enchant the Killing Curse.

In a flash of green light, Harry woke up.

"No!" he shouted again and tried to sit up but felt himself constricted. He fought against it, unable to see, and his heart was beating loudly in his ears.

"Lenniretae!" Someone shouted and that same cool filled him from before, covering him like a chilled blanket. A calming charm. But this time it reminded him of the cold touch of Dumbledore's hand, and Cedric's. Panic filled him and he strained to see, but his eyes seemed cloudy and unable to focus. The breath was stopping in his throat and he felt like he was being suffocated.

"Harry!" he heard someone saying desperately in his ear. "Harry, breathe. Harry it's just us, no one is going to hurt you. Just breathe."

But he couldn't. Finally, darkness took him.

"Something must be done, Albus," someone was saying nearby. "These attacks are getting worse."

Harry didn't want to open his eyes. He was wrapped warmly in a blanket or two, wherever he was, and a soft pillow cushioned his head. Somewhere, a fire was crackling merrily.

"I cannot fathom, Minerva, what this boy has been through in the past two weeks," Dumbledore's distinct ancient rumble said from Harry's other side. "Perhaps only Severus has some inkling, but he has closed himself to me as well."

"Potter is not Severus, Albus. This is a 16-year-old boy who has suffered beyond our wildest fears and now survives only to be tormented nightly by terror dreams. His mind cannot withstand the strain for much longer."

"What do you suggest, Minerva? I assure you, I am open to all avenues," Dumbledore replied.

"He needs to talk to someone who can help him work through all this trauma. As his guardians, we owe him that, at the very least."

"No," Harry said, hoarsely. Both speakers quieted immediately and shifted in their seats. His eyes opened and he frowned at the ceiling.

He was not in the Hospital Wing as he had expected he would be. The dark mahogany wood of the ceiling and the crimson walls proved that, even before Dumbledore handed him his glasses. He sat up slowly, his head pounding a bit, and looked around. He was lying on a cot in the middle of what appeared to be a sitting room. A few couches and chairs were sprinkled around the room, a coffee table sat before the fireplace, and a large collection of unfamiliar gadgets, much like the ones from Dumbledore's office, were atop every available surface. A portrait of an older woman, hair in black twists, a calico cat on her lap, was looking at Harry with some distaste from across the room.

"Where am I?" He asked.

"In my personal quarters, Harry," McGonagall responded from an elegant wooden chair beside his bed. She smiled lightly, "or did you think I slept in my office?" Harry shrugged one shoulder, unwilling to say that he actually thought she slept curled up as a cat somewhere.

"What happened? What am I doing here? And who do you want me to talk to?" He asked in rapid succession, sliding his feet out of the covers and onto the ground. Someone had removed his shoes and lined them up with the edge of the cot on the ground, but, otherwise, he was wearing the same shirt and trousers from that day. Dumbledore stood up and moved around to McGonagall's side to face Harry, and he looked decidedly grim.

"It appears, my boy, that you were in the throes of a nightmare and could not be woken from your nap in the Gryffindor common room," he said, grasping his hands before his stomach, blue gaze piercing. "Fortunately," he continued, "Professor McGonagall had returned to her quarters already and was on hand to aid the Weasleys and Miss Granger. Minerva thought, quite aptly, it might be better to move you in here, than take you all the way down to the hospital."

Harry frowned and rubbed his arm. He remembered, now, the new dream in bits and fragments. He looked back at Dumbledore, spotting his hands, and noted with some relief that they appeared to be rosy and solid, distinctly different from Dream Dumbledore's.

"I couldn't wake up," Harry said, slowly. "I don't know why. It was awful." Silence fell, during which Dumbledore conjured himself another chair, despite the number already in the room, and sat beside McGonagall so he was eye-level with Harry. He reached out with one of those Not Dream Dumbledore hands and grabbed one of Harry's own. Instinctively, Harry wanted to pull away from the touch, as he had from nearly all touch since he'd returned to Hogwarts, but he fought against it. After only a few seconds, he was able to relax again. Dumbledore said nothing throughout this silent battle, just waited until he was settled and able to lift his eyes.

"Harry," he said, and there was a tone in his voice Harry didn't immediately recognize, something akin to desperation. "My dear boy. I wish I could have spared you all that you have had to endure in the past few years of your life. I wish I could have spared you from your trials of just the last few weeks. You have suffered greatly, Harry, and for that I am truly sorry."

"Headmaster, no, it wasn't – " Harry started to protest, but Dumbledore held up his free hand to stifle him.

"No, Harry, perhaps it was not my doing," he continued, "but I have long felt that your safety and your life, wherever you may be, are among my chief responsibilities. I have failed you in this on many counts, but I must continue to try, for your life is far too precious." He sounded truly remorseful and devastatingly sad. He tightened his hand around Harry's for a moment and then pulled away. Harry frowned, confused.

"Harry," McGonagall started, casting some concerned glances at Dumbledore and then at Harry himself. "As the headmaster intimated, and as I'm sure you will have recognized, the struggles you have overcome until now have been struggles far beyond your years and yet you have handled them magnificently. It would be impossible for anyone, even someone as old as myself or the headmaster, to come away from such things without a few lasting impacts, however, aside from the physical scars, of course." She smiled sadly and hesitated as she chose her words carefully. "I believe, and I think Albus will agree, that, in order to truly get past the effects of your recent traumatic experience at the hands of Death Eaters, and Death itself, for that matter, you will need to speak to someone about all that you went through."

Harry's face fell perfectly flat. He felt his fist clench, however, and heard the ghost of a Dudley-laugh in his mind as he opened his mouth. "You think I'm crazy," he said.

"No," McGonagall said firmly, and her lips drew into a tight line. "Do not accuse me of such an insinuation. You are not crazy. You do, however, have some trauma which has manifested in your inability to sleep without nightmares and your inability to accept physical contact without flinching." She softened when he leaned back on the cot from the impact of her tirade. "Do not deny it, Harry. We see it and we do not judge you for it, but if you wish to get passed this part of your life adequately, you will need to acknowledge it, first, before you can move on."

Harry looked from her face to Dumbledore's, which was watching him attentively. He thought back to the silent battle he'd just faced when Dumbledore took his hand and part of him considered the truth of McGonagall's words. But the other part, the bigger and stronger part, was already imagining giving voice to those secret thoughts he'd had on the Astronomy Tower, vocally admitting to his failings, or describing for someone the torture that he'd had to endure in greater detail. He shuddered physically and wrapped his arms around himself.

"I'm sorry, Professor, I can't, not right now," He looked up, eyes pleading, realizing that he was sitting between the two adults who'd been entrusted with his care. "Please, don't make me," he finished lamely, sounding to his own ears like a whining child.

McGonagall sighed, glanced at the still silent Dumbledore, and then placed a weathered hand on Harry's knee. He flinched. She did not remove her hand and waited until he looked up at her.

"Very well, Mr. Potter," she said with a sad smile of defeat. "No one will force you. I doubt, in fact, if I could force you to do anything aside from your homework at this point," she said dryly, "but I will tell you, should you ever find yourself needing to talk to us, or another member of the staff, about anything at all, I assure you, you will be most welcome." She smiled kindly, and it struck him as a blow of guilt direct at his heart. He could do nothing but nod.

"Indeed," Dumbledore said, finally weighing in. He grasped his hands on his lap, atop the many layered robe, and gathered Harry's gaze again with his own. "You are a strong young man, Harry. We know it and we hope you know it too. And it takes a certain strength of character to realize a fault, whether of our own making or if it was wrought upon us, and try to mend it. There are, however, many paths towards healing that one may take. We ask only that you recognize your needs - physical, mental, and possibly emotional - and keep an eye out for the path that best suits you." His eyes regained a bit of their twinkle. "Until then, however, we have found some other methods to try." He stood up and offered an arm to McGonagall, who took it politely, and Harry stood too, feeling his muscles stretch stiffly beneath his skin. "You will find," Dumbledore continued, "Mr. Weasley has delivered a week's stock of Dreamless Sleeping Draughts to your room for you to use at need. However," he cautioned, "before you begin to take them regularly, you must consult with Madam Pomfrey herself, as there are certain dangers associated with constant reliance on this kind of potion. It is, in no way, a solve-all, one-time solution, Harry. It is simply giving you enough time to work out something more long-lasting. Is that clear?" He asked, his tone unusually sharp.

"Yes sir," Harry said and deflated in relief. The thought of getting through even one night with the guarantee of no nightmares was threatening to make him giddy. "Thank you."

With that, he was dismissed, and he slipped out the door into a long corridor just around the corner from the Fat Lady's portrait. He made his way first to the Common Room, found it deserted as it was dinner time, and then down to the Hospital Wing. There, Madam Pomfrey spoke to him at length about the dangers of over-medicating, especially on this particular potion, on the importance of regular sleep and on the value of dreaming. He rather thought his brain could do without this particular brand of dreams for a while, however, and after convincing her that he was taking her admonitions seriously, he went down to dinner. If his step had a bit more hop to it, or his smile was wider, well then more's the better.

-SSS-

Author's note: First, a huge 'Thank you!' to my new followers and reviewers. You sincerely made my day!

Also, I mentioned this at the beginning of Chapter 1 but it bears repeating: I do not have any professional (or amateur) training in the mental health field. I have no expertise in this area and am simply drawing from my own life experiences and applying logic to Harry's situation. I am attempting to approach the subject of mental health in this fic as respectfully and as carefully as I can, while still telling the story I want to tell, but I'm still new at this so it won't be perfect. If you see anything that bothers you, please let me know in a review and I'll see what I can do to reword that section.

Thanks lovelies. No Sev in this chapter (well, no real* Sev, just Dream Sev), but he's coming in ample supply, I promise.