A/N: Thanks to those of you that reviewed—your encouragement is appreciated and much, much needed. Once I had a bit of encouragement and input, this chapter became so much easier to write. So please, if you read it, review it. Thanks!

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. The Truth is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

Saved

by MagickBeing

&.Chapter 3

X

There's a part in everyday,

where I lie to myself and say that it's okay.
'cause if I don't I think I'll go insane.

But the truth is, I only have myself to blame.

/ / The Truth by The Spill Canvas.

X

When Harry awoke the next morning, he was aware of two things—he would never, ever be a morning person, and, his entire body ached.

He squinted up at the ceiling, blinking away his grogginess. He recognized the white curtains of the hospital wing almost instantly—stretching a bit, he winced, wondering why Pomfrey's potions weren't working. He was too warm, unpleasantly so, and his hands and arms ached. He shifted and reached out, past the curtains, and for his glasses. Putting them on, everything came into focus and the curtains sprung open. He startled, meeting the blood-shot eyes of Pomfrey.

"Err, 'morning?"

Pomfrey said nothing and instead stepped back. Harry's eyes moved past her and to Professor McGonagall. The bed beside his had been replaced with two wooden chairs. Professor McGonagall inhabited one and Pomfrey collapsed into the other. Harry tried shrugging off his grogginess and sat up, eyes flicking from one person to the other and back.

"Mr. Potter, I do believe we need to talk," said Professor McGonagall. She leaned forward, her eyes dark. There were lines around her eyes and her skin was slightly darker, sunken, amplified by the thin rims of her glasses. She looked much older, then, tired, and there was a touch of concern in her voice. Harry eyed her carefully, curious, a knot forming in his stomach.

"Okay," he said quietly, not quite meeting her eyes. His stomach flipped and panic gripped his heart, hot and cold at the same time. Professor McGonagall was tense, too tense, and Pomfrey kept shifting beside her. Something had happened—he could feel it and the dread was building, intertwining itself around the panic and working its way up his throat. He looked down at his lap and at his hands. They were blotchy, spots of white covering his hands, wrists and forearms—he rubbed them absently, his words rough, choked. "What about?"

Professor McGonagall exhaled slowly, deliberately, and her voice was gentle.

"How have you been feeling lately, Harry?"

The use of his given name made his eyes flick up and he met her worried gaze with one of his own.

He thought carefully. The way she was looking at him—it was clear she wasn't inquiring about his bout of flu. He didn't want her to be worried about him, or worse yet, pity him. He had grown to despise pity. Pity lead to people getting hurt. People got too caught up, too protective and concerned, and then, people died. Harry didn't want anyone's pity and, unfortunately, he had been getting it in abundance since he had conquered Voldemort. He had half-hoped that he would fall out of the spot light, that people would thank him and rebuild their lives without interfering with his, but he wasn't that fortunate. The Daily Prophet ran weekly, if not daily, articles on him—what would he do now? Where would he go? Would he continue to defend people and become an Auror? Would he become power hungry and become the next Dark Lord? Did he feel useless, now that he had fulfilled his purpose? The questions were never-ending and Harry hated them.

He decided on a half-truth, hoping that it would placate Professor McGonagall and she would get to the point, his dread gripping his heart.

"Tired," he replied, his hands stilling.

Professor McGonagall nodded and her mouth was a thin line.

Harry looked away again.

"Have you felt anything else, Harry? Sad, angry?"

Harry swallowed, his eyebrows puckering ever-so-slightly. Out if his peripheral, he could see Pomfrey twisting a piece of her robes, wringing it in concern. He tensed, and before he could think of a lie, Professor McGonagall continued.

"We need to talk about what happened last night."

Harry glanced at her, searching her face. Here it was, then—maybe it was Ron or Hermione. Maybe something had happened. Maybe the rumors had been true; maybe he hadn't won, maybe Voldemort had survived, again, and had sought vengeance on his friends, those he loved and cherished. He licked his lips.

"Okay," he said with a shuddering breath. His words came out in a rush, his fear obvious. "Please, just tell me—is it Hermione? Ron? His family?"

Professor McGonagall visibly straightened, her eyebrows shooting up.

"No, no," she assured, too quickly for Harry's liking. She paused, her eyes surveying his face, and she pursed her lips. Before she could speak, Pomfrey did, her voice unusually quiet.

"Tell me, Harry," she said gently, startling Harry with the use of his given name—why was everyone acting like this? He looked at her, unable to feel the relief that should be accompanied with Professor McGonagall's reply. Naturally, Pomfrey had always been a bit of a mother figure to Harry, and other students. She tended to their wounds when they were hurt, or ill, and she had a sort of strict gentleness about her that mothers often carried—or so Harry had assumed when observing Mrs. Weasley or Granger—but looking at her right then, Harry could see none of the strictness. She had always been a take charge sort of woman, especially in the Hospital Wing, but she seemed resigned, tired and worn, just like Professor McGonagall. "Do you remember what happened last night, with Mr. Malfoy?"

Harry pulled a face, eyebrows raised, and shook his head. What on earth was she talking about? What did he have to do with anything?

"Oh, oh dear," Pomfrey replied, the words more of a sigh than anything else. She shared a look with Professor McGonagall that Harry didn't like—it was the sort of look that parents gave each other in front of misbehaving children, children who had been caught playing in the street or something of the sort. It was reprimanding and worried at the same time.

Harry's dread was turning into exasperation and he bit out, "Will someone please just tell me what's going on?"

Professor McGonagall looked at him first—Pomfrey wouldn't quite meet his eyes and her lips were pursed, trembling, and Harry quickly looked away, focusing instead on the Headmistress.

"It appears," she started, her mouth twisted into a slight frown, "that you tried committing suicide last night."

Of all the things that Harry had expected to come out of her mouth—well, that was most certainly not on the list. He audibly scoffed. Dread and panic were quickly replaced with something else. Disbelief. He would definitely remember trying that—a dozen things rushed through his mind at once. He thought of his sadness, his anger, his guilt pulling at his heart. He thought of the last few weeks where there were hours, even days, that he couldn't remember—he thought of the distant look in Hermione and Ron's eyes, the hushed tones, whispers and secrets when they thought he wasn't looking—he thought of last night and tried hard, so hard, to remember something, anything, that would reinforce his disbelief and prove that she was lying, making up stories for Merlin knew what.

"No," he muttered, shaking his head, his disbelief darkening as he grasped, scrounged, for his memory, unable to remember anything after Hermione and Ron visited. He peered into his memory but there was nothing but darkness, and his voice was much too hoarse for his liking, too rough and pathetic—always pathetic. "No. I didn't—I couldn't—I mean, I don't—I—"

Professor McGonagall exhaled slowly, swallowing, her frown apparent. A piece of her was breaking, then—she could practically see Harry grasping for a life line then, something, anything to hold him up and keep him sane. What ever the boy was going through, she hoped that he could push through it. He had had a hard life, much harder than many thought, and he had survived more trials than many credited him with. The fact that he didn't remember his obvious suicide attempt—it worried her more than she wanted to let on. She needed to be strong, then, for Harry.

Harry stopped trying to form a coherent sentence and instead settled with, "How?"

He was looking down at his lap again, his eyes burning uncomfortably. He felt so pathetic. If what she was saying was true, then shouldn't he want to die? Shouldn't he feel differently than he did right then? He felt sad, yes, frequently and frighteningly so, and sometimes it was outweighed by guilt or anger—but he didn't want to die. Harry tried reflecting on that thought. Was he unwilling to admit it because too many had died for him, because too many had died in his fight? No. It wasn't his fight. He didn't chose it—it was theirs, and he was a pawn, and he owed them nothing. Not anymore. There was a darkness crawling up his throat, then, and the nothingness was tearing at his mind. There was something inside of him, something that was pushing him down, further and further into that abyss, saying, if only you had succeeded.

"How doesn't matter," Professor McGonagall said, quickly dismissing the question. "What's important is that Draco Malfoy was able to stop you."

Harry's eyes flashed. There was a flicker within the darkness and he looked up, only briefly.

"Maybe he staged it—maybe he—"

"Harry," Professor McGonagall interrupted, "don't. You need to confront these demons. Now—there are several things that need to be done to ensure that you're no longer a threat to yourself or others, and to properly diagnose your condition—"

She continued talking, but Harry had stopped listening. Draco had been there—Draco had to have done something. He must have cursed him, put him under some sort of spell. Okay, so that was a bit farfetched. The only curse Harry could think of that would give Draco that sort of power was the unforgivable, which Harry had resisted in the past. Coupled with a well placed obliviate, however, or some other sort of memory altering charm, or maybe he was just lying, bloody lying, and—there was that small voice, again, laughing, and Harry's sadness and desperation were closing in.

"Harry?"

His eyes flicked up to meet Pomfrey's.

"I'm going to need you to face me," she said quietly. She was standing now, wand ready. Harry was on auto-pilot again, but more aware of it than before. He was somewhere else, outside of his body. He was a passerby, a simple witness, and he shrugged himself out of the blankets. He felt as if he were falling, spinning in dizzying designs, dropping at tremendous speeds with no sign of stopping. He sat on the edge of the bed. His feet were planted firmly on the floor but did little to ease his vertigo. He wanted to object. He wanted to tell her to put her wand away, that she had no right—didn't they need permission for what ever they were about to do? He was grasping at straws again, trying to think of something, anything, to drown out that voice and steady his footing.

Pomfrey straightened in front of him, her hands absently smoothing her robes. When her eyes met his, Harry quickly looked away—there was a slight line between her eyes, her brow wrinkled with concern, and her mouth was twisted into a slight frown. Her gaze was worried, rightfully so, and Harry was desperate to avoid it. He focused on a scuff mark on the floor, tracing it again and again with his eyes. Past his eyelashes, he could see Pomfrey raising her wand. She muttered something he didn't hear, and didn't care to, and slid her wand across the width of his head. She repeated the incantation and made a few more movements—Harry's eyes slipped shut and the darkness lurched.

When she was done, she nodded curtly to Professor McGonagall, and the two excused themselves.

Harry couldn't hear anything from Pomfrey's office, but he imagined the sound of their voices, their hushed tones and worried looks. He imagined all of the horrible things that could be wrong with him—he imagined the white walls of muggle mental hospitals portrayed on the telly. He imagined the straight jackets and the screaming. His eyes opened and he swallowed, hard.

He seriously considered fleeing.

If he could just go away—run away—then this would be but a memory and it didn't have to be real and he could go on as he was, sad, but Harry. Sad, but sane.

He heard the office door open and his entire body tensed. Very deliberately, Harry looked down at the floor again, refusing to meet their eyes.

McGonagall cleared her throat, folding her hands in front of her.

It was Pomfrey that spoke.

"Your results are.. interesting," she said delicately, her voice rough. It sounded as if she had been crying again—Harry set his jaw. "It appears that your magic is interfering, but there are certain things we can conclude."

Harry could see her shift and he focused harder on the scuff mark. If he just kept telling himself that this wasn't happening, maybe it wouldn't. Maybe he would wake up and be in his dormitories and this would all be some horrible dream, like the sunflowers and the snakes.

"I don't know how to tell you this, Harry," Professor McGonagall said, her voice soft. A long pause, and then, "But it appears you have schizophrenia."

And Harry's eyes met hers.