There were a lot of things running through my mind at the moment; a category five couldn't compare to the shitstorm running through my mind right now. The first thing I noticed was the smell. Losing the ability to hear sucked, but smell, the sense of smell, was different. Stuck there, then, in that place, the only thing I could do was hide in my mind. Memories became my refuge for a while, at least, but once I forgot how things smelled, everything began to fall apart. From food, the wind, the trees, people, everything started to dampen. And without smell, I lost taste, and from there it just spiraled; my memories became mush in my mind.
So the first thing I noticed was how much it reeked; it was like swimming in the Thames, then deciding to take a shower in one of New York's many sewers. Honest to God, if I wasn't so elated I could finally smell something again, I would have thrown up right there, which quite frankly I did. Suddenly, the taste of bile was in my throat; I could hear water dripping, someone speaking muffled far away yet close enough I could barely make out the words; it was dark, and yet I could see the outlines of two, no, three people. Two seemed to be facing one another, the other lying on the ground sprawled much like I am. I tried to reach out, to move an arm, move my legs, my feet, even a goddamn pinky. With that came pain, my shoulder screaming in agony, as the fires of hell had finally consumed me. But I was feeling, smelling, seeing, tasting, hearing. I was free. And that was the best feeling in a long time. So much so, I started laughing, laughing like a madman, my own laughs echoing around, crowding my ear, burning them from the overload of all these old senses reawakened. And yet, even in that pain, that agony, joy was the only feeling in my heart.
As each sense clawed its way back to me, I relished every excruciating moment. The pungent stench that I once would have despised now became a cherished symphony of odors, marking the return of a world I thought lost. Shadows moved and morphed in the dim light, painting a grotesque ballet of forms I could barely understand but was overjoyed to witness. Every sound, even the dripping of water or the distant, muffled words, was a melody to my starved ears. Each new sensation was a piece of myself returned, a fragment of life restored. This cacophony of senses, this riot of pain and pleasure, was the most beautiful chaos, a reminder that I was irrevocably, gloriously alive. I could feel unconsciousness taking me forcing me back into the void, but I missed that feeling of rest and welcomed it with open arms.
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Of course, if only it could end with that. The next thing I felt was what can only be described as a solid kick to the gut. I reached my arm out lazily, slapping away whoever decided to wake me up. "Five more minutes," I groaned, my voice hoarse and pleading. "Just give me five more minutes... Ow! What the fuck is wrong with you?" I looked up, my vision blurred, trying to focus on the almost familiar face looming over me. Raven-haired, locks dark enough to compare to the night sky, eyes like emeralds with an almost sinister sparkle, his pale skin more befitting a model than anything. He scowled, the lines on his face deepening with irritation. "Get up, you dunderhead." Infuriated, I shot back, "Who the fuck are you calling dunderhead, you... you...dumbass!" He just stared at me pensively, his confusion palpable as if he were questioning what sort of creature he was dealing with.
Struggling to my feet, I stumbled almost immediately. He caught me, our eyes locked in a tense gaze, but the moment our eyes met, he abruptly dropped me onto the cold, hard floor. "You absolute asshole, what was that for?" I exclaimed, anger flaring as I felt the chill of the floor seep into my bones. He rolled his eyes, turning away as I managed to rise once again, this time more steadily. He then moved towards another person in the room, lifting her with surprising gentleness. As he walked off, her voice trailed back, "Grab the sword, you idiot, and follow me." Sword? My gaze swept the room until it rested on a shiny blade, rubies glinting from the pommel and crossguard. "Neat," I muttered, picking up the sword and brandishing it with a dramatic flourish. "Vrrrrr, Vrrrrr," mimicking the sound of a lightsaber, swinging it around playfully. "What the fuck are you doing?" His voice echoed from ahead. "Nothing," I mumbled, awkwardly adjusting my grip as I followed him.
We approached a long tunnel sloping upwards, and as I stared at the stranger's back, realization dawned—I knew him. He hissed sharply, the sound slicing through the silence as stairs cascaded down the tunnel walls like a perfect stack of dominoes. We climbed in silence, the tension between us thick enough to cut with a knife. Reaching the top, light blinded me momentarily as we emerged into what appeared to be a very fancy-looking bathroom. People around us stared in awe, confusion, and even fear. "Fleamont, my boy, are you all right?" an old man with an impressive beard inquired, his voice echoing slightly in the spacious room. I glanced around, slowly realizing he was addressing me. "Uh, I couldn't be better, why? What's up?" His eyes narrowed in confusion, and I sensed that misunderstanding would be the theme of the day. "And you, Mr. Potter?" he added. Wait, what. I spun around, taking in the boy beside me—the dark hair, the emerald eyes, and the famous lightning bolt scar previously hidden by his hair and the darkness. "Holy Shit," I exclaimed, stunned. I was face to face with the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Fucking Potter.