A/N: This chapter was surprisingly easy to write, and again, I apologize that the first half is a bit slow—but, hopefully the end more than made up for it. On the plus side, the next chapter should be quicker. (:

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

Saved

by MagickBeing

&.Chapter 5

X

If there's one thing I've learned,
it's that we never feel the heat
until we get burned.

But we try so hard not to die,
sometimes we forget
to appreciate life.

/ / Appreciate by The Spill Canvas

X

There was something a bit off about Mr. Muller. Harry had decided this before Professor McGonagall had even properly introduced them. He appeared to be in his mid-forties or early-fifties, with shortly cropped black hair and dark, unblinking eyes. There was something about him that seemed familiar or should jog Harry's memory, but as he met Mr. Muller's intense stare with his own, he was unable to place what. Professor McGonagall lingered near the back of the room, acting as Harry's guardian, while Mr. Muller sat at her desk, his hands folded neatly on its surface. He was stiff, tense, and Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

None of his questions were what Harry had expected. He had expected the man to delve right into why he was there and diagnose Harry within minutes, but for the good part of an hour, he asked Harry simple questions: who did he grow up with? How was school back then? Did he like Hogwarts? What was his favorite class and why? Did he like Quidditch? Who was his favorite professional team? Harry imagined he was trying to build reprieve and make him more relaxed, but it was only managing to make him more uncomfortable. Pomfrey's potion was wearing off and Harry's anger and confusion were starting to show through; his replies were brief, vague, often one worded, and he felt very much like a loaded coil, set to snap at any moment. Finally, Mr. Muller got to the meat of the matter and began asking Harry how he had been feeling lately.

Harry tried being as vague as possible, but Mr. Muller caught his act and reminded him that dishonesty would only hurt him further. Still, his replies were brief. He despised being put on display like this. He had always been told that he kept his heart on his sleeve, bared for the world to see, but discussing it was a much different matter.

Finally, Mr. Muller pushed himself from Professor McGonagall's chair and approached him, wand in hand.

"I'm going to need to do a few more tests, Mr. Potter," he said, offering Harry what he assumed was supposed to be a reassuring smile, "and then we'll discuss the results and possible treatments."

Harry simply nodded and did as he was instructed.

Déjà vu washed over him as Mr. Muller preformed the first test—it was the same one that Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall had preformed—but there were three more afterward. Mr. Muller and Professor McGonagall stepped just outside of her office and transfigured a window in the door so that Harry was within view. He watched them for a long minute before turning, shifting back into his seat and letting his eyes flicker around her office. There were surprising similarities in her decor and what had been Dumbledore's; his eyes lingered on the crystal dish of candy on her desk and he thought of things he usually avoided. He thought of Dumbledore and what he would say right then, how he would comfort Harry, and he could practically see the twinkle in his eyes. Harry's eyes slipped shut and Dumbledore's darkened, the twinkle fading until dull, lifeless eyes stared back at him—Harry's heartbeat quickened and Dumbledore's eyes changed, morphed into the lifeless brown of Mrs. Weasley's. Harry's eyes snapped open, but the image was burned into his retina—they changed again, shifted into a blank green, and his hands tightened around the edge of his chair.

So many had died and it was there, in that room, that they peered back at him, accusing and angry.

Harry let out a slow, shuddering breath, his chest tightening, and then the door opened.

He hated the bit of relief that flooded over him as Mr. Muller and Professor McGonagall returned.

He hated that he was unable to face his demons, as Professor McGonagall had put it.

And he hated the clear look of pity written across her face as she carefully avoided his eyes.

It was Mr. Muller that spoke, perching himself on the edge of the desk closest to Harry. Suddenly, Harry couldn't breathe.

"As far as I can tell," he started, his eyes firmly on Harry's, "Madame Pomfrey's diagnosis was correct."

His chest tightened and his eyes dropped to the floor. He shouldn't have been surprised, but, foolishly enough, Harry had let his hopes soar—he had hoped, with every fiber in his being, that it had been some sort of magical fluke. He didn't know how to handle this. He wasn't strong enough—he had been through too much already, endured too much, and now he felt as if the world were crashing down, directly on top of him. He managed to take in a breath, but it was shaky, pathetic.

Mr. Muller continued.

"You have several options available to you; the results were a bit.." he paused, searching for the right word, "..unusual. Do you have a history of mental illness in your family, Harry?"

Harry barely managed to shake his head, his fingers scratching at the underside of his chair. Of course he considered his aunt and uncle to be completely bonkers, but as far as he was aware, they weren't officially diagnosed.

"As expected," Mr. Muller said, with a slight nod. "I've been told that Madame Pomfrey mentioned this before, but it appears your magic is interfering, Harry. Do you know what that means?"

He shrugged, his shoulders tight. He was finding it increasingly difficult to focus on what Mr. Muller was saying—his voice seemed to fade in and out and the air was too loud in Harry's ears. He swallowed, hard, and tried meeting his eyes in an attempt to steady himself.

"It's uncommon, but not unheard of in a Wizard as powerful as yourself; what it means is that, because of stress and poor coping mechanisms, your magic is becoming too much for you to handle—it's breaking you, slowly, causing severe mental strain and probable schizophrenia."

Harry's forehead wrinkled. His magic was making him mad? He remembered how delighted he had been when he found out that he was a wizard, that he was special, wanted, coveted even—it had finally given Harry a home, friends, family, people who he cared about and cared in return—but it wasn't all good. It had cost him a lot. It had cost him his parents, his Godfather, and many others he had come to love—no, Voldemort cost me that, he corrected. Not magic. He could feel his eyes burning as his thoughts turned back to those he had lost and he tried blinking the sensation away.

"I cannot imagine the stress you've encountered, being who you are—judging by what little you've said of your Aunt and Uncle, you were never taught proper coping strategies. You were thrust into this life and the weight of our world was placed on your shoulders; you dealt with it the only way you could, and now you've succeeded," said Mr. Muller, his voice gentle, sickly sweet. There was something about what he was saying that knotted Harry's stomach and made his chest tighten. Harry took in another shaky breath, trying very hard not to give in—he could feel the anger pulling at him, pushing him into that dark place again, and he tried as hard as he could to focus, to stay there, in that room and in his mind. "You don't need to be as strong anymore, Harry—you need a break, and while it's ultimately your choice, I suggest taking a serum to inhibit your magic's interference."

His anger intensified, burning hot near his heart, and he opened his mouth but no words came out. Mr. Muller couldn't be suggesting what Harry thought he was—he couldn't be suggesting that he rid himself of his magic, turn his back onto the life he knew—no. He couldn't. Harry felt as if he were balancing on an edge, then, teetering precariously from one side to the other, his feet breaths away from slipping. He tried speaking again, but all that came was a sharp, shuddering breath—his words were caught in his throat, hard and unmanageable.

Mr. Muller placed a hand on Harry's shoulder—his touch was cooler than Harry had expected and he could feel the lines in Mr. Muller's hand through his pajama top. Mr. Muller's skin was a dark brown, cold, wrinkled, and thick, like leather. Harry visibly flinched.

"Relax, Harry," he instructed gently, "it won't take your magic away—not exactly. The best I can word it is this; the serum will simply make you less powerful, deactivate a portion of your magic until you're better equip to handle it, or what ever life, throws at you. Over a course of time, and with much practice, you may not need the potion—at which point, your magic would return, uninhibited and complete."

He may not need the potion—there was no guarantee. There was the possibility that he would never be better, that he would have to rely on it forever and this sickness would never leave. Harry couldn't breathe. He felt as if he were suffocating, as if the air in his lungs had betrayed him like his magic had—he looked away and focused on breaking through it, taking another long, shaky breath.

"What are his other options?" Professor McGonagall asked, her voice strained. Harry's eyes flicked to her—he had almost forgotten she was there. Her arms were folded carefully across her chest, shielding herself from the psychiatrist, and her mouth was set into a frown. Her age was apparent, again, the lines on her face amplified from worry.

Mr. Muller's hand retreated and Harry's shoulders relaxed a bit. He found it easier to breathe.

"There are other potions or serums to treat the disease itself, of course, but it would be foolish to do so without first addressing the possible cause. Treating the mental illness itself would be but a temporary solution," he replied, his eyes switching from Professor McGonagall and back to Harry, "you may feel more like yourself, Harry, but over time, your body—and magic—would become immune to the treatment and your mental fissures would resurface. Of course, neither treatment is full proof; there will still be remaining symptoms, but either form of treatment would make it more manageable. The former simply has an increased chance of curing, rather than just treating, the mental illness."

He paused, and Harry could feel his eyes, but he focused hard on Professor McGonagall.

"Of course," he said after another moment, "the choice is yours."

Silence blanketed the room and Harry knew he was expected to speak—he was expected to chose between two evils—either loose part of his magic and possibly be cured, or simply remain schizophrenic. His eyes dropped from Professor McGonagall to the floor, and then slipped shut. He swallowed, his eyes aching again, and he could feel his fingertips burning from digging at his chair—he focused on that sensation, embraced it, even, and opened his eyes. He let that burn overwhelm any other emotion or thought—he let it fill him up, strengthen him, and his heart quickened.

Finally, he opened his mouth, surprised at how easily the words came.

"The serum."

Mr. Muller smiled and Harry was reminded of Draco.

He shook his head slightly and then Mr. Muller's smile was normal, gentle and approving, and Harry vaguely wondered what else he had imagined.

X

Harry could only remember bits and pieces of his remaining session with Mr. Muller.

Voicing his decision out loud had felt like a betrayal to himself. He felt drained, and his anger had dissipated, as if it had given into his disease and his will to fight had faded. He frequently found himself fading in and out of awareness, and while he had tried listening to what sounded important, Harry couldn't be certain he had succeeded. Before Mr. Muller had given Harry the serum, he had made him aware of its side effects; it was very likely that he would have increased depression, mild to severe mood swings, stomach cramps, and head aches until his body adjusted to the treatment. He also informed Harry that his magic would suffer a greater loss during the first few weeks or until his hormone levels had balanced themselves. Once his body adjusted, the symptoms would pass, but until then, Mr. Muller had advised against lifting supervision. In addition, Mr. Muller would be traveling to Hogwarts every other day to have another session with Harry and ensure his treatment was progressing properly. Harry thought it brilliant that Mr. Muller hadn't informed him of any of this until after he had decided—weren't doctors supposed to make a person aware of their options before asking them to choose? There was that small part of him that entertained the idea he would have chosen differently, then, but deep down, he knew he wouldn't. If he really thought about it, his choice was obvious. He would rather be less powerful than powerful and mad. After all, didn't that describe Voldemort perfectly? Powerful and mad?

Professor McGonagall had managed a compromise on Harry's behalf—a fellow student would be allowed to act as such supervision as long as they promised to report directly to Professor McGonagall in the event of any unusual changes in behavior. He would be assigned his own quarters with this person so that they could better observe him. Logically, Harry chose Ron, and then Mr. Muller handed him several light-blue vials labeled Animi Ignis. Shortly afterward, Harry was escorted back to the Hospital Wing until Professor McGonagall could speak to Ron and, much to his relief, there were no other students in sight. As unhappy as Harry was at the idea of being observed, as Mr. Muller had put it, he was grateful that it would be by Ron. Things would be less strange, then, and he appreciated the fact that it would be someone he knew he could trust, wholeheartedly, no matter what.

Harry was left in Pomfrey's care as Professor McGonagall left to fetch Ron and, with surprisingly little insistence on Pomfrey's part, Harry collapsed onto a bed and fell into a restless sleep.

X

He was running.

His lungs were dry, aching, heaving with each step, but he was unable to stop. Something invisible propelled him, a sense of urgency that he was unable to ignore. The treeline passed him in a blur of color until he neared a clearing, a brightly lit valley and a hilltop covered with sunflowers. He came to a screeching halt at the end of the forest, his feet hesitating as he stepped into the field.

He looked around, frantic, until his eyes caught on a dark figure just meters away. The person was on the ground, their body twisted into an unnatural angle.

Harry's feet moved on their own accord and he crouched down, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

A black, formless mask covered their face and their hood was drawn tightly around their head.

Harry reached out and unsecured the mask with a light touch of his hand—it fell to the ground and cracked. Lifeless gray eyes stared up at him and he fell back, unable to break their stare. There was laughter in the distance, sharp and maniacal, and the shadows edged out of the forest and into the clearing. Harry wanted very much to run but he was immobile, statuesque, as Draco's robes began shredding themselves, disintegrating around him. He was so pale, too pale, and there was a slight blue tint to his unnaturally translucent skin—Harry's eyes moved to his forearm and lingered, caught on black ink which was a startling contrast.

There was a hand on his shoulder then, cold like leather, and Harry awoke with a start.

He darted up, out of bed, and his eyes caught on gray. He blinked furiously, withdrawing and scooting away, his back pressed against his headboard. Gray eyes morphed into brown as the person shifted, and Ron gave Harry a slight frown, his hand dropping to his lap. The light from his wand shifted as well and Harry swallowed, hard, his body relaxing against the wooden frame.

"You were screaming, mate," Ron explained, his voice hoarse from sleep. Harry frowned, adverting his eyes. He had started taking the potion but a day prior and, as Mr. Muller had warned, its effects were strong—so strong that Harry wasn't even capable of casting a decent silencing charm, apparently.

"Sorry," he mumbled, a shiver racking his body.

Ron shrugged.

"Don't be," he said simply, slipping off of Harry's bed. He could only imagine what Harry saw when he closed his eyes—and it wasn't something he liked to picture often.

Harry watched, through a parted canopy, as Ron returned to his own bed. He offered Harry a stiff, tired smile, and the light from the tip of his wand faded as he banished it, tucking it securely under his pillow. Nearly as soon as his head touched it, Harry was aware of his breathing deepening. The corner of his mouth twitched and Harry reached for his wand, conjuring the time. It appeared out of thin air in front of him, but its numbers were weak, faded and sloppy. He exhaled sharply, suddenly, frustrated at his sudden incompetence, and swatted the light away with his hand. Class would be starting in a few hours, and while there was plenty of time to sleep, Harry didn't want to wake Ron again. His nightmares were his problems and his alone. He slipped from his bed as quietly as he could, dreading the day to come; yesterday he and Ron had both been excused from class. He had been able to keep up in their quarters playing games and reading—Hermione had even offered to bring them food so that Harry didn't have to face the other students. Their hiatus was short lived, however, and Professor McGonagall insisted that they return to their daily routine. Mr. Muller said it would be good for him—but Harry didn't understand how enduring the poorly concealed whispers and curious looks could possibly be of any help.

Grabbing his glasses, Harry weaved gracefully through the darkness, guided only by a light stream of moonlight, and into their shared bathroom. He shut the door quietly behind him and it lit up automatically. Harry squinted, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand until he saw stars. Blinking them away, he put his glasses on and, gradually adjusting to the light, moved toward the sink.

He wasn't entirely sure why he had to attend classes anyway—it would be rather pointless, really, especially the ones that required active participation. He couldn't even conjure the time—how was he supposed to transfigure furniture and ward off monsters three times his size? His heart ached and he tried not to think of everything he was loosing. Instead, he grabbed one of his vials from its case on the counter. It slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor, its glass shattering on impact. Its contents swirled across the floor in a dizzying design, the potion reflecting the light and turning into a murky puddle of colors.

Cussing loudly, Harry crouched down to clean up the mess. He thought of using his wand, but knew that it would be pointless—might as well get used to doing things the muggle way again, he thought bitterly.

He set a few of the larger pieces on top of the counter, pulling back as a sliver of glass worked its way into his hand. The remnants of the potion burned and Harry let out a hiss of a breath, pulling the glass from his skin with clumsy fingers. He dropped it back onto the floor and rubbed at his wound—it was but the size of a quill's tip but it burned, itched, and Harry swayed back, moving to sit onto the floor.

His skin darkened, turning from a light tan to a gruesome purple, and the veins in his skin were apparent—he could see the potion working its way into his blood stream, like liquid metal, and he clawed at it, his breathing frantic—and then it was gone.

His skin was its normal color and there was but a smeared spot of blood.

He let out a shaky breath and confusion blanketed his mind.

So pathetic, a voice taunted. Is this what you've amounted to?

He pressed his hands against his forehead and tried steadying himself, applying copious amounts of pressure to his temples—his vision wavered and his hands fell, his skin scraping the glass beside him. There was a familiar burning and Harry quickly looked at his skin, worry written across his forehead, but the burning quickly subsided and nothing else happened. There was simply another cut, a hair's length, with tiny droplets of blood passing through.

His expression melted and he simply stared at it, the color entrancing.

This was it, then.

What his life had amounted to—a mental break down on the cold bathroom floor—the desire to act as pathetic as he felt. He thought of Voldemort, then, his blood mirroring his eyes. Red. Empty. The color of passion, fire, and life—and, ironically enough, the color of nothing. The color of madness. Harry let out a slow, even breath, and glanced at the door. Straining his ears, he could hear Ron shift—he could hear the mattress groan and then there was a loud snore. He swallowed and glanced back down at the palm of his hand.

Carefully, and with surprising steadiness, Harry picked up another shard of glass.

Slowly, deliberately, he dragged it across his skin.

So pathetic, the voice echoed.

And Harry silently agreed.