When Harry woke, he was uncomfortably comfortable. He was in a bed, with stark-white hospital sheets and a flat, but supportive stark-white pillow. Next to his bed, leaning against a nightstand was his backpack. The room was long and should've been more dimly-lit, having no lightbulbs of any sort. In between each bed in this long room was a tall window, with thick glass that was, when the sun was out, remarkably clear. Instead, slightly to the left of each window was a torch in a metal brazier, burning steadily.
Harry could judge by the color of his sheets he was in a ward of some sort. This alarmed him, now likely being a murderer.
He'd killed his cousin. He'd killed Dudley.
They've found him now, no doubt, after he'd... he'd... collapsed? By the forest? He wasn't sure he thought he'd been in the trees but oh god, he'd killed Dudley, his neck was like that, that's not how necks are supposed to be. He must not have run far enough, they found him and now they were going to lock him away, or kill him too, or... he didn't know. But it wasn't good.
Harry tried to get up, but his legs wouldn't move. He could feel them, he could feel his panic pumping blood through them, but they just wouldn't budge from their spot at the bottom of the bed. He kept struggling, and pulling, and
"I regret, mostly, that I couldn't be there for you." The voice cut clear through Harry's silent panic.
Sitting on the bed two left of Harry was an incredibly old man. It wasn't that his face was gnarled beyond belief, although it kept its share of wrinkles, but it was the weariness and experience evident in his piercing blue eyes that gave away his age. They seemed much more pained than usual, as he sat, head low towards his knees, his long white beard close to the floor.
"I wanted to check in on you, it's been so long since my last visit. To find you in such a way..." he trailed off, staring at his hands. In the unsteady torch-light, Harry wasn't sure, but he thought they were shaking.
Harry's notepad and pen had been taken from his backpack and set on the nightstand. He knew who I was.
"What happened to me? What did I do?" Harry wrote on his notepad, then showed it to the man.
He smiled, but it was a reflex rather than a reaction. He was troubled, strained, although exactly why he cared was beyond Harry's current understanding."You lost control, Harry, of your emotions and responsibilities. And therefore, your power. You hurt him, in such a way as he could never fully recover. You didn't kill him Harry, but the space between his life and his death was horrifically close."
Harry was conflicted. His terror was no less, although his relief was considerable that he hadn't killed anybody. Even Dudley didn't deserve that. But, that he even could, that he had that power... necks weren't supposed to do that. How did this happen, how did he get here? And, "Where am I? Who are you?"
"You're at Hogwarts, Harry. A fair bit sooner than you should be, but there's no better place for you right now. Hogwarts is a school for people with remarkable abilities, abilities that can be terrible in the wrong circumstances, circumstances which I fear you have only just begun to see." Here, he paused and allowed himself a deep, shuddering breath, then a slow exhale, and finally a more genuine smile seemed to return to his eyes, then his face."I am the Headmaster of this wondrous institution, Professor Albus Dumbledore."
Harry let himself stare while the questions in his head tried to sort themselves out. How long was he supposed to stay here? Were other people looking for him? Was he in trouble? How did he even get here, and where in the world was here?
It all felt like so much pounding on the inside of his head. Not helping the matter, it's been months since the last time Harry had communicated so much, and he found himself longing for the comfort of silence.
The man, Dumbledore, seemed to understand his weariness, and slowly forced himself upwards, as if he'd been sitting for hours.
"This can all wait, of course, until after you've slept. I dare say, I've had a long enough day myself as well. The potion on your nightstand should help with that." He smiled again, this time with some sympathy, both for Harry and himself, and exited the room through the open doors, past which Harry could only see darkness.
After Dumbledore left, Harry's mind seemed to no longer think anything worth listening to and the silence returned.
However, despite Harry hoping for a sense of peace, he felt discomfort and doubt. He was certain of nothing except that he could no longer go back to Surrey, to his quiet life. It was painful and oftentimes cruel, but he knew what to expect. But now, it felt like everything was out of control. He'd made a mistake, done something that could never be undone.
It had felt almost like justice, like revenge. When his body had moved for him, decided for him, Harry was thinking not just about his helplessness but about what he would do if he had the power to change this situation. But that power... those lights, those rings along his arm, what was that? Why did they come then, and not before? Did the people at Hogwarts have the same ability? Or were the Dursleys right. Was he a mistake, a freak.
Harry really, truly, didn't know.
He looked at his nightstand and saw what he believed the Professor had called a potion, a pale-blue liquid in a glass vial.
He had no clue what it really was, but he had trust, somehow, in some minuscule form, that the man had been truthful. He couldn't handle this right now, he needed to sleep. He uncorked the potion and swallowed it before he could taste it. He wondered when it'd kick -
Albus took his time going up the stairs to his office in the tall tower that, while impressive, right now just seemed all too tall.
He couldn't help but feel glad to have Harry safely in his castle. He had confidence in the strength of his wards, but now it was all too evident that outside dangers weren't the only thing Harry needed to be protected from. Too often he'd seen the silliness childhood rage go untreated, and ferment into something much more bitter, more harmful.
He couldn't lose another one, not Harry.
As he sank back into the comfortable, plush chair at his desk, Fawkes came and settled on his shoulder. Ignoring his exhaustion, he pet his dear friend, and assembled the unopened letters scattered across his desk. He was determined to get some work done.
However, in defiance of the mighty Albus Dumbledore, defeater of Grindlewald, possessor of many middle names, Dumbledore immediately drifted off to sleep as well.
AN: Apologies for the short chapter, it's been a very, very long time since I've even thought about this story so I'm still settling into writing more of it. Quarantine does weird things to us all.
Next chapter will be more information and setup for Harry's first year. Hopefully afterwards I can do some more exposition on Harry's hearing condition. Truthfully, the information about it in the first chapter isn't quite what I want it to be but I figure it's best to build off of what I have for now. Here's to hoping I ever write again.