I - And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

Harry isn't entirely sure how he finds himself once again lying in the immaculate, sterile sheets of St. Mungo's. He doesn't need to be a seer to recognize the place — and even less the bustling staff around him, swarming like a hive of killer bees. What he does know, however, is that he sometimes hates his life — and he's suffering agonizing pain. Well, that's before he loses consciousness. Total, complete blackout.

He mutters "finally" and "thank Merlin" and probably curses two or three times. Even locked away in the furthest corners of his mind, Harry suffers. He screams, pounds the invisible, ethereal walls of his mind until his knuckles break, and then he screams again.

It's not possible, he thinks.

The day should have been perfect. He planned it all out, from beginning to end, from dawn till nightfall. He bought a splendid three-piece suit, made the effort to visit the barber — and the hairdresser while he was at it. He polished his shoes, fixed everything down to the frame of his glasses that he had broken the night before during a mission.

Everything was calculated precisely like millimeter paper. Hermione would have been proud of him. Ron might have broken both legs before embracing him at the sight of the engagement ring he planned to give his sister.

Harry had the most wonderful girlfriend. A lioness with a fiery temper. They had been together since the end of their studies, had moved in together, and...

And Harry felt ready to move to the next step. He dreamed of starting a family, getting married, and all that comes with it.

He had everything prepared, everything planned — though certainly not to be mugged in Muggle London.

No, Harry had absolutely not planned to take a 9mm bullet between the eyes.

Because yes. Apparently, Muggles swore by firearms, and getting mugged was common. Well, maybe he was exaggerating slightly. But that was his feeling.

Harry was disgusted. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so devoid of any survival instinct, he who had spent his life fighting as if it depended on it?

A few hours earlier, he had thought he would walk to the restaurant where he was supposed to meet Ginny. It was a habit they had developed, dining in Muggle London. Sometimes it was simpler. A matter of fame and all that went with it. Harry appreciated his private life enough, and outings in wizarding pubs usually ended in a signing session that he found himself hastily fleeing, slightly tipsy. Generally, the next day, the images appeared freshly printed in the Daily Prophet — because even four years after the war, life was not as peaceful as he would have liked.

So he went to the restaurant on his own. Fifteen minutes' walk couldn't possibly kill him, could it?

Apparently, it could.

Taking a shortcut down a poorly lit alley, Harry was accosted. Too absorbed in his thoughts and his anxiety about the upcoming proposal, he didn't react in time. A man grabbed him by the arm, and he found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol before he had time to say Quidditch.

He was asked for his wallet and cellphone, and Harry stared at the thief open-mouthed, thinking it was a first and that Ron would probably make fun of him. His reaction time — his stupor — didn't go down well. The next moment, the man pressed his Beretta against Harry's forehead, and before Harry could make any move, the shot was fired.

Dead on arrival. That's what the Muggle police accompanied by the medical examiners would have declared. Harry knew because he found himself floating like an idiot beside his still warm body. He was in shock, utterly unable to form a coherent thought.

When the officers left, Harry was still there, arms dangling. As the night progressed, he didn't move. Not even when the moon reached its highest point, not even when it gave way to its sister, at the dawn of a new day.

"Damn it," he finally muttered long and endless hours later.

A laugh was heard, and Harry Potter finally regained control of his body and turned around.

"Damn it," he repeated upon seeing the hooded figure.

It was draped in a cloak and black wizard's robe as dark as the night, moving with the shadows, as if drawn by darkness. Instead of a face, there was a skull devoid of skin with hollow sockets where Harry almost got lost — drowned. Two bottomless black pits that almost swallowed his soul.

Harry inhaled, then exhaled and swore a bit more.

The creature was akin to a Dementor. Yet, he knew it was nothing of the sort. And when it moved, Harry jumped in horror.

He was dead, and the Grim Reaper had come to snatch his soul — or what was left of it.

"Not quite," it said, and Harry stared dumbfounded as if facing a hippogriff capable of speech.

It voice was hoarse and grating, like chalk scraping a blackboard. His hair stood on end along his neck, and he had to remember to breathe — although honestly, was it still useful?

He said, "What?" and "What the hell?"

And the creature laughed — or something like that.

"It seems Death has called you back to her," it said.

Harry didn't have time to protest — which was starting to happen a lot in one night — because the creature waved it staff, from which hung a lantern emitting a disturbing green light. The next moment, his body, as ethereal as smoke, was trapped in a prison of glass.

Then the blackout.

No why, no how, no follow-up. He wasn't granted King's Cross, nor Dumbledore and his perpetually enraging double-meaning phrases. Just nothingness.

Yet...

Yet he found himself lying in St. Mungo's now. He could have recognized the place blindfolded and deprived of his other senses, so much had he spent his adult life wandering the corridors — whether as a patient or close to one.

Harry pursed his lips, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

Fuck, he thought.

He couldn't do better than that. He couldn't understand what had happened. One moment he was going to his engagement dinner, the next he was hospitalized. It made no sense. Had he dreamed of this attack? No. Probably not. If that had been the case, he would have woken up in his future wife's arms, not in the intensive care unit of St. Mungo's.

Harry sat up as best he could in his bed. A migraine pounded his temples, and his body, in general, was sore. He felt like he had been trampled by a herd of enraged Thestrals, and it was rather unpleasant.

A movement in his peripheral vision made him raise his head, and he sighed in relief to see it was a Healer. A tall, slightly chubby man, with a head of unrivaled blonde curls scattered randomly around his head and chocolate eyes full of kindness and softness. Harry grimaced, attempting a smile, and the man returned it. His lips moved, but no sound came out, and Harry frowned, intrigued.

"Is everything alright?" he asked.

There was a moment of hesitation during which the realization of what had just happened dawned on the Chosen One. No sound had been heard again, right?

The Healer spoke again — a certain Barnaby Golding, indicated by the badge around his neck, adorned with cute, animated creatures — but once again, Harry didn't understand what he was trying to say. It was as if he had cast a Silencing Charm around himself.

"I think there's a problem," he tried to convey to the Healer.

The latter only frowned, a worried crease between the two. He drew his wand and proceeded to cast a battery of spells that Harry guessed were diagnostic spells (because he was in a damn hospital, and that's what people did in a damn hospital). It wasn't difficult to guess that something was wrong as the wizard suddenly paled. He conjured a Patronus messenger that hurried away while the Healer refocused on a panicking Harry.

In his bubble of silence, the young Potter felt his heart start beating faster. So what, was he under a curse? If that was the case, it wasn't serious, was it? There were curse breakers at St. Mungo's... Right?

Before him, Golding approached until he placed his hand on his shoulder. His mouth moved and moved and moved, but no sound was heard once more, even after Harry himself tried to concentrate his magic to cast a Finite (just in case, you never know).

Finally, the Healer waved his wand.

Everything will be fine, Mr. Black, we'll solve this problem quickly, okay?

And Harry thought, what and what the fuck ?