CHAPTER 1: MY NAME IS HARRY
Harry tried again to sit up and argue with the nurse who had just walked in. "Really, ma'am, I'm fine! Look, see, sitting up and everything! I don't really need to be here, can't you let me go?"
The nurse glowered at him. "You, young sir, aren't going anywhere. You have a broken wrist, crushed hand, arm and leg broken in three places apiece, a cracked skull, broken ribs, sprained ankle, a cracked vertebrae and a very unsatisfactory explanation. I've seen fatal car crashes with less damage." She paused and glared at him commandingly. "Now lie back down before you add a punctured lung to that list."
Harry was strongly reminded of both Mrs. Weasley and Madam Pomfrey, and wisely lay down before he got knocked around some more. Sirius wouldn't let him stay here, writhing in pain because the Muggle medicine was virtually useless after years of magical medicine. Sirius would come and rescue him – or the Weasleys. Yes, that was it. Fred and George and Ron would show up again!
But how would he get out of a hospital without being noticed? He could barely sit up unsupported, let alone walk. A thrice-broken leg and a sprained ankle… the stupid nurse was right: he wasn't going anywhere.
"Now, what was your name again, dear?" the nurse asked, a little more gently as she straightened out his pillows and his blankets. "Take your pain pills."
"Harry," he replied, swallowing the useless pills. "My name is Harry."
The nurse sighed. "You couldn't possibly have a more common name. Where can we get a hold of your parents?"
"Try the afterlife," Harry replied, somewhat snidely. "They died when I was a year old."
"Your guardians, then," she said in exasperation.
"I don't really have any," he mumbled. No use in giving her the Dursleys' names, they'd deny it after all that had happened. They wouldn't be able to locate the Weasleys, or Lupin, or Dumbledore. He certainly wasn't about to give them Sirius' name – not only did he not have a fixed address, but the Muggles thought he was just as much of a murderer as the wizards.
"You're from one of the orphanages, then?" the nurse asked briskly. That wasn't good: far too many teenagers ran away from orphanages every day, and most places were second-rate. Even the best among them could scarce keep track of all their runaways. And with such a common name, how could they possibly identify who he was?
"No," Harry said.
Sighing, the nurse found a sheaf of papers in the side table, setting them down in front of Harry. "Since you refuse to cooperate and give us your guardian's name, you can fill these out yourself, then."
Harry looked at her blankly. "How am I supposed to write with these?" he asked, nodding towards his casted, bandaged and sling-supported hands.
"Ah, yes, that does create a problem, doesn't it?" the nurse replied. "Very well, then. I ask, you answer." She uncapped the pen. "Full name."
"Harry James," he said. He wasn't going to give her his true surname, he was powerless against Death-Eaters or Voldemort if they somehow found out that he was injured and away from the protection of Privet Drive. He wasn't completely lying: James was part of his full name, he had just neglected to mention that it wasn't his surname.
The nurse sighed – she'd been really hoping for a more unusual surname. There were doubtlessly dozens of Harry Jameses in Surrey, assuming he was even born in Surrey.
"Date of birth?"
"July 31, 1980," he replied reluctantly. The nurse looked at him carefully – that'd make him barely 15. He could pass for 15, though she thought he was more likely 13 or 14. He really was only a little more than a boy…
"Medical number."
"I… don't think I have one," Harry said. He fixed his eyes quickly on the floor to avoid seeing her disbelieving stare. Did he have one? She would certainly go searching for his birth record now that she had his 'name' and birthdate, but she probably wouldn't find anything.
"Very well. Address."
Harry paused again. The Dursleys had kicked him out. He didn't know that the Burrow or Hogwarts could even be found by Muggles. He didn't have a clue where Lupin lived. Sirius had no fixed address. Finally, he said, "I don't know."
What kind of 15-year-old didn't know his own address, the nurse wondered as she left that blank too. "Town or city, at least?"
"I don't know," Harry repeated, reddening as she stared at him.
She closed one folder of papers and opened another. "Who beat you?" she asked briskly.
Ah, yes, the million-dollar question. "I don't remember," Harry lied, not exactly knowing why he was bothering to protect the Dursleys. It wasn't as though he felt anything but animosity towards them. "I don't remember much about that night," he repeated.
"Who's Cedric?"
Immediately, the nurse saw a serious change in demeanour. Whereas for the last few days, Harry had been lethargic, moody and secretive, as soon as she pronounced the name 'Cedric', Harry became alert, wary as he asked, "Why?"
"You've been muttering in your sleep," the nurse said. "Is he a brother, a friend?"
Harry shook his head. "Just a guy I knew from… somewhere," he said evasively. "He was killed in June."
"I'm sorry to hear that," she told him gently. "An accident?"
"No, he was murdered," Harry replied dully, his eyes going strangely blank.
The Child Protection Services agent threw the folders onto the table in frustration. "He's obviously lying about something," she announced. "We can't find anything on him. Anywhere. No birth record, no baptismal certificate, no guardianship appointment, no records with CPS, no nothing. The lad doesn't exist!"
"Could he potentially be from the cult colony outside town?" one police officer asked quietly. "They keep to themselves for everything."
"That could explain there not being a birth record," another agreed.
"And why he doesn't know where he lives," a third added. "They're just a fenced-off compound about ten miles out of town. There's no signs, no markage, nothing."
"It would explain him not having guardians," one nurse said. "The children are likely being communally cared for, not really being attached to a specific person."
"And he won't say who beat him because he's scared they'll come back to finish him off," a second nurse continued. "Ellen, what do you think?"
The resident psychiatrist looked up from her notes. "I think that there may be something to this cult theory. Talking in one's sleep is often indicative of emotional turmoil. And the things he's saying… it sounds like somebody's being killed. And there are other comments in his sleep that sound out-of-place in a normal setting."
The nurses nodded. "He keeps muttering about a Lord Voldemort returning," one said.
"Could be the leader," the cult specialist from the police forces spoke up. "We don't know diddly-squat about this cult, nobody's ever left. Any attempts to infiltrate have failed. The leaders of cults often take on images of grandeur, titles that reflect their supreme power – the use of the title 'Lord' would fit in with that."
"He's been calling for Sirius," another nurse said. "Saying that Sirius will rescue him."
"Sirius?" the CPS agent asked. "Isn't that a constellation?"
"Good Lord, the boy's praying to stars," one police officer muttered.
"That could be a part of the cult's spirituality rituals," the cult specialist said. "Spirit guides or spirit guardians in the stars."
"Last night, he was saying something about never bowing to somebody," a nurse said.
"I think I've got the story now," the cult specialist said, making a few more notes. "Now, Harry was more than likely born into this cult. Somewhere in his first year of life, his parents died – or are killed. Maybe they tried to escape the cult, take him away. Maybe they were ill. We don't know anything about that. They fail at escape, if that's the case; in any case they die and Harry continues to be raised in the cult. For whatever reason, the leader, this Lord Voldemort, leaves the compound – possibly to start a new colony somewhere. However, he returns. The likely situation is that all those old enough to be true 'followers' were asked to attend a congregational. They bowed, yet Harry, for whatever reason, refuses to bow. Maybe this Cedric he's mentioned does the same thing. The leader gets angry – Cedric dies, possibly on the compound. Why Harry was dumped in a ditch nine miles away is uncertain. Perhaps the leader didn't want him tainting any other followers."
"What about the scars?" one nurse asked. "He's got some rather strange scars. The lightning bolt on his forehead… that's not from a normal, innocent injury. It's too neat, too clean. The new gouge in his arm, the older one on his shoulder…"
"Possibly some sort of ritual?" one officer suggested. "Blood sacrifice?" he looked at his counterpart.
The cult specialist shrugged. "It's likely. I think that the one on his forehead is different. I think it's a marking of some kind. It's too specifically recognizable – why not just slash his head, if it was only for a ritual? Maybe he was supposed to be some sort of special child, some kind of 'set-apart'? Maybe a successor to Lord Voldemort…"
"That would definitely explain the brutality of his beating," one officer commented.
"So what are we supposed to do with him?" a nurse asked. "We can't just release him."
"CPS is going to take him," the CPS agent spoke up. "He's still a minor. We can't do anything else besides try to integrate him into normal society."
"What?!" Harry exclaimed, sitting up in a flash and wincing at the sharp pain spreading through his torso. "No! You can't… you can't do that!"
"I'm afraid I can, Harry," the CPS agent said, giving him a kindly, reassuring smile – as if he were some small child who had been traumatized and needed to be handled gently lest he break. "You're still underage."
"You can't force me anywhere!" Harry continued indignantly. "I'm not a small child, you know."
"You may be, that's right, but you're still not an adult, Harry," the CPS agent continued in that same maddening, sickly-sweet tone. "Until you're 18, you have to be under our custody. There's no two ways around it."
"But that's three years!" Harry exploded. "I can't… no! Can't you lot just leave me alone? I want to go home!" But even as those words escaped his mouth, it struck him: he didn't have a home. He had never had a home.
"I'm sorry, Harry, but you can't go home."
