Part two of two.
Warnings: dark fic. contemplating loss of self, descriptions of blood (though not graphic), and similar to canon- violence.
o0o0o0o0o
"Mr. Potter, Mr. Potter. Can you hear me? You're in St. Mungo's." it was Madam Waylace, bone weary and concerned as she put three fingers to his forehead. It felt like ice. "You've been here for two days, and we'll keep you under observation for the next several days. We believe the curse has been lifted—or at least the worst of it. The brands have been removed, and any rate, and all signs suggest that you've recovered your ability to speak." Her calm manner flickered at that last, as though irritated with Harry.
"Whatever possessed you to touch it?" a familiar voice demanded. Dawlish? No—too young. Hillam, then. "You're usually so paranoid around things like that."
The young man was immediately hushed, and Madam Waylace hovered over him. "Can you hear us?"
Harry opened his eyes. He felt little better than before—but at least no one was stabbing him, magically or no. He opened his mouth experimentally, hissing as he touched the sides of the bed. "I was trying to bind it shut. The book."
Hillam smiled wryly. "Playing the hero again, then? You know if we get any suspicious mail, you're supposed to give it to—"
"Gentlemen." Waylace said severely. "Please. I'm sure he'll hear about it when he returns to work. I do believe your duties are fulfilled, Auror? You can report to the Head of your Department that Harry Potter is awake now, can't you?"
It suddenly felt very, very important that Hillam not leave. Harry looked shiftily to Waylace and then around the room. "Has—"
"You have other visitors waiting for you." The healer fixed the other Auror with a meaningful gaze, "Hillam merely wished to give you a message, and he shall be out within minutes, isn't that right?"
Harry was strongly reminded of Madam Pomfrey, ushering Hermione and Ron out of the Hospital Wing when he was a child. He fought a smile.
"Er." Hillam stuffed his hands in his robe pockets. "They couldn't find fault with you, as usual, and the office is all in one piece. The only one worse-for-wear is you, so, uh, get well soon. And all that."
Relieved, Harry smiled. "Well, it's a good thing you can see the truth then, isn't it? You remind them I'm only human, will you? Don't let me get away with what anyone—"
"That will be all." Madam Waylace said serenely. "Thank you for the message. Now that you are awake, it's time that we give you a special blended potion—and after that, let's hear what you remember of the Cursed Artifact. We'll have you back to your usual cheery self in no time."
Harry's heart pounded in his chest. "Remind Dawlish that I make mistakes."
"Don't need to; he knows." Hillam said on his way out. "You're still golden. Don't you worry."
Was that mockery, or the truth? For an uncomfortable minute, Harry really couldn't say. Then an endless stream of Healers and MediWitches trailed in and out of his room, filling the silence with questions that all had answers. There wasn't a suspicious glance his way, and this only made his suspicions grow.
Harry knew it, as the day wound to a close. It wasn't a Curse from the Death Eaters or any other Dark Wizard—it was a present. A gift for himself…whatever lurked in the shadows of his mind was stirring, and soon (very, very soon), it would wake.
He took his chance when Healer Lancelot came into his room. Harry threw himself forward, heedless of the pain in his hands when he leaned against them. "Healer." He said seriously, something like terror clinging to his voice, "I know who sent the book. It was me—or whatever's attached itself to me. I…I'm going to do something terrible, and I can't—"
"Mr. Potter…are you saying that you sent the package to yourself?" Healer Lancelot removed his glasses and began to polish them with a cloth. He seemed remarkably steady despite the dire situation.
Harry's throat worked. He opened his mouth to say 'yes,' but nothing came out. Harry felt a headache coming on. He had the oddest sensation that he was looking out his eyes as though from a long tunnel. "That's ridiculous. That's not what I meant." Harry's lips formed an unfamiliar smile.
There was an awkward silence. "Are you…retracting your statement, then?"
The door opened, nearly slamming against the wall until something stopped it. Harry suspected a built-in cushioning charm.
"Harry!" Hermione burst in and flung her arms around him. Not far behind her, Ron entered.
"We came loads of times, mate, but you were out of it. Asleep, I mean." Ron told him earnestly.
In between polite exchanges, Harry found himself examining his own responses to their concern, wondering if he was just going through the motions of being happy to see his friends. Did he feel satisfied? Maybe all these signs were showing was that everything had gone as planned—if he'd planned it at all. Which he hadn't.
Harry felt his breathing constrict even as he spoke in a soft, calm voice. "This is Healer Lancelot. He's seen me off and on. It seems he's seen most Aurors at some point or other." Harry felt his mouth stretch into that unfamiliar smile again. Was he being…antagonistic toward the Healer? That wasn't good…if Harry made it look like a latent part of the curse—if people thought it was the second half of the cursed book, it would be ages before anyone started to catch on. If Harry Potter, the Chosen One, cursed a Healer, everyone would think it was just an accident. They'd never think him evil, not after putting away so many Dark Wizards. Not until it was too late.
"Are you often injured?" Hermione asked, chewing her lip and looking at the Healer with guilty concern.
"Oh, he thinks I've got this Fear of Being Alone. Don't you, Healer?" Was the old defiance, that urge to turn his nose up at authority his? He refused to let the Healer simply watch, or leave, and Harry wondered if he'd somehow prevented the man from retreating.
"I think you have Autophobia, yes…Fear of being alone is one way to put it. Or an irrational fear of oneself." Lancelot didn't quite meet Harry's eyes. "Have you ever talked about it to your friends?"
Harry's laugh was bitter and dark. "What was that you said about an Oath to Confidentiality? Well, Healer. Are you telling all my visitors now?"
"Are you feeling out of control, Mister Potter? Or are you being hostile because I approved your return to work?" The Healer met his gaze at last.
"You're doing this on purpose. Questioning me in front of them. Do you believe what I said then? Are they your security in case I snap and take you out?" Harry leaned forward.
"Slow down there, mate." Ron sounded alarmed. His eyes darted back and forth between the Healer and Hermione. "Fear of being alone or irrational fear of yourself? That's rubbish. How can you not know which—I mean—if Harry's afraid of something at all, really. He's probably just being cautious. High-profile Auror like him's bound to sound a little paranoid from the outside. But that's what keeps them alive, right? I mean—"
Hermione cut him off. "I think we need to take everything a little slower. Harry, tell us about the book. That's what it was, right?"
Harry looked at his hands. There was no sign of the fire, nor any brands. "I transfigured the wrapping back into a shield, but my hand slipped. Nicked it with my little finger."
"What was the book called? Do you remember the sensation of it touching you?"
Hermione, thank you… Harry thought. Maybe she could pick up the pieces, sort through it all. "Didn't quite see." Harry lied. "Green leather, old pages. No card or return address."
Hermione hummed softly. "How did it feel? Why did you know to put up a shield at all?"
"A feeling. It felt hot, is all." He winced. "Did you figure out the curse? How long 'till I'm better?" This little question brought on an immediate rush of hasty assurances, pleas to 'take it easy,' and a long, complicated explanation that Lancelot and Hermione only bothered participating in.
"How's it feel?" Ron asked sympathetically. "Do you reckon it was a poison, or a curse? The papers went on and on about those bloody footprints, you know. Something about a Savior's Curse."
Harry's consciousness began to slip. He couldn't follow the words any longer.
"—will send you sweets, mate."
"Let him rest."
"Please do inform me if—"
When he closed his eyes, all Harry saw was black, and a ghostly imprint of fire.
o0o0o0o0o
Harry woke in the dead of night. Harry threw back the covers and crept out of bed. His feet no longer bled, but he tread lightly. Sneaking out of St. Mungo's was easy, with all of Harry's practice. The wards couldn't be set right, if they let possibly dangerous patients wander about like that, so out he was with hardly any effort.
He walked into the darkness with nothing more than his wand. One step, and he apparated to –his home. To get what was his The cloak, the only Deathly Hallow he'd kept. He was a ghost in his own house, drifting in and out without looking at anything. The cloak and his own version of Hermione's beaded bag—a simple non-detectible, expansion-charmed-bag was all he'd need.
As Harry hunted for a spot to hide, someplace to stay while he did his own research on his unknown passenger, he felt uneasy. A cold wash of anxiety overtook him, and he almost thought he couldn't do it.
Was he afraid to be alone? Or was he afraid of what Dark Magic he might get up to with no one to put the stops down for him? He touched his forehead lightly with two fingers, and returned to the books from his bag.
He'd find an answer to this. He had to.
o0o0o0o0o
'He's paranoid. Thinks he's been possessed, and doesn't even trust us to notice what he sees as symptoms. Just what are we supposed to do?' The sounds from his house were disconcertingly clear.
Harry sat with his knees drawn up, listening stoically to the wireless. He'd set the frequency himself, left the thing in his house, knowing that he could use it to listen in on anyone sent to search for him there. The Horcrux hunt taught him how to set wards, and Harry knew how to keep even Ron and Hermione out, so he was secure enough in his tree, listening to them talk.
'He's just taking some space. You know how rumors and accusations get to him! He's just trying to prove…' then Hermione stopped, rustled with something for a bit. 'But what if he is afraid of himself? You don't think he'd try to…'
'To top 'imself? No. Not after all we've been through. He'd've done it by now, don't you think?'
Hermione put the thing (probably a book, Harry reasoned) down. 'I don't know…I've been reading up about depression. They say that suicide doesn't usually happen when disabling depression is at its worst, you know, but when the depression begins to lift. That's when the person can regain more of their energy. But they don't always recover from the feeling of hopelessness, and without the lethargy to hamper them…' she sounded troubled.
'We'll find him. Talk him out of it.' Ron said, and after a long silence, they left.
o0o0o0o0o
Harry sank into a feeling of nervousness. He raked his mind for recollections of Snape and Dumbledore's last lesson from the Pensieve, tried to see if he was really any different. Wouldn't he know if he was alone in his mind? Wouldn't it feel different?
But Harry felt the same as he always had, only worse. He got angrier, and the murderous thoughts just wouldn't go away. Life was supposed to get better. I'm supposed to help people, he thought uselessly.
Was he standing outside Hermione and Ron's place because he wanted to talk, or because he knew they were a threat? Ron and Hermione. Horcurx experts, if there were such a thing. They would be a danger to whatever was possessing Harry.
There's always the Skin Flaying Curse. The merits, of course, being that the victim can live for hours with the right application. Feel horrendous pain, knowing that it would be the death of them, but be made to linger in torment knowing that they could never, ever walk out of the situation alive.
Or he could suck out the oxygen from their house and suffocate them…who would ever know? Or better—fill the house with pure oxygen so their own cooking fire would set everything ablaze. Even static electricity could set off a fire storm to rival Fiendfyre.
Harry cringed away from the thoughts. He didn't want to murder his two best friends.
Why not? They deserve it…abandoning you for each other. You never talk anymore. Not like old times.
Harry turned around, half-expecting to see the memory of Tom Riddle, or the hazy figures produced by the locket. But there was nothing to see…just a trail of bloody footprints in the snow.
He closed his eyes.
Harry waited for Hermione to step away for a bath. Ron would be alone in his study, playing a game of chess or looking over the Joke Shop's earnings. He'd be dead in a matter of minutes, giving Harry plenty of time to set a trap for Hermione.
No. He'd find Ron, take him by the shoulders, and tell him everything. Ron wouldn't panic—he'd help. He could make the anxiety go away…and Hermione would come back and-
Hermione, who wouldn't suspect a thing, coming out from a relaxing bath. She might not even have her wand. Just as Harry's mother hadn't, fleeing into his nursery all those years ago….But then again, Hermione might prove more of a challenge than that.
Harry let himself in, tip-toing through the house before slowly— oh-so-slowly— pushing the door to the study open. He was about to call to Ron, who was sitting just where Harry had—
But Ron wasn't at the desk. His back was to the door. He was…what was he doing?
"Tell him we've found Harry and to bring backup." Ron told his Patronus, a friendly-looking Otter.
It's changed to match Hermione's, Harry had time to think, and it made him smile.
The animal blinked, and Ron gestured for it to leave. "Come on."
Ron.
Harry did a wordless locking spell, and held Ron at wand-point in the blink of an eye. His Auror training kept him sharp, faster than his old friend. It would be ridiculously easy to take him down. Two words, and it would be over; a compromise, even…not a lingering death, not a painful one. Quick and easy.
"Harry, don't!" Hermione's voice carried through the door, and Harry wavered.
He felt sick, like the whole world was spinning.
Ron had his wand raised. His eyes were wide and afraid, but his jaw was set.
Harry wet his lips. He'd tell them everything. He thought. Then his stomach squirmed again, rolling and hot. Is it really so bad to never be alone? Harry wondered. The presence stirred, and once again, Harry felt the pain of being sliced open again and again. His feet, his hands…his forehead, too. He bled. Pain, anger, and adrenaline mixed.
(he felt drained. all emotion seeped out of him, and he was empty. alone.)
"Good evening, Ron. Bow to death." He smiled sharply. "The Boy Who Lived is mine."
Ron and Harry cast their spells.
Never be alone again… Harry thought, and everything went black.
(end)