Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry undid the wrappings around the gift Hermione had sent. It was shaped like a book. He opened it, expecting it to be just that. It wasn’t. It was a journal. Harry placed it on his bed and opened her letter.

Harry,

Happy early birthday.

An old witch sold this to me yesterday. It is one out of thousands of journals created by Quillias Pen.

Yes, I do suppose that is a fake name.

Every journal has only one counterpart and they are connected magically. If you are lucky, someone will own the journal connected to yours and you will gain a pen pal. If not, you still have a journal to write down your frustrations.

Harry rolled his eyes at that, but kept reading. I saw that, were Hermione’s next words, towards which he smiled. She knew him so well.

Before you decide to throw the idea away, at least give it a try. Perhaps someone will reply. Sometimes talking, or writing in your case, to a stranger can be helpful.

Hermione

Harry had to admit that it was tempting to see if someone would own the only other journal in the world that was connected to his. The chances of that were slim, but that made it all the more appealing.

Having opened her mail last, Harry had nothing else to occupy his mind, so he took the journal and placed it on his lap. There was a beautiful and exotic green feather sticking out of the pages that had been bent to the back of the book because of the wrapping. Now that Harry noticed it, he opened to that page. A flattened quill became three dimensional the moment it was freed from being squished by both sides of the journal. Harry smiled. Even the smallest magic brought him happiness.

He took the quill, only intending to examine it, and it immediately began to produce and leak ink. His eyebrows rose in surprise. Why couldn’t they have these in Hogwarts? A self-inking quill was brilliant!

His smile disappeared when he focused on the sight before him. Although this journal looked nothing like Tom Riddle’s diary and the green extravagant quill in his hand was nothing like the plain, black one he'd had during his second year, the blank pages spread out on his lap made goosebumps cover his arms. Shaking the feeling off a moment later, he lowered his hand to write.

But he had no idea what to say.

If no one was on the other end, asking for them to answer felt silly. If there was someone reading what he wrote, writing personal things felt too...personal. The first option seemed safer. Feeling silly for writing to no one was better than feeling embarrassed for writing a private entry and garner a reply.

Hello, he began. He had planned to write his name, but the sudden wave of a deep sense of déjà vu—making him more than a little nauseous—hit him like a brick and he thought better of it. He waited a few moments, holding his breath to make sure the ink did not sink away into the pages. When it didn't, he continued: I have just received this journal. I was told another person may have the connecting one. If so, I hope you will reply.

Having nothing else to say and too shaken up by the memories of the boy in the Chamber of Secrets, Harry placed the open journal upon his nightstand and lay down. He did his chores throughout the day, quietly avoiding Dudley and Vernon and taking his Aunt Petunia’s insults in stride. By the end of the night, he'd gotten too wrapped up in his own stress to remember to check for a reply. The next morning, he remembered, but there was nothing to be seen—no hint of another quill at the opposite end. He shrugged it off and tried again.

1997 21 July

Hello again.

I plan to try for a few more days. If I do not receive a reply, I will assume no one has the connected journal. If you are there, feel free to reply at any time.

There was no sign that anyone was reading his greetings for the next couple of days. He had given up by the third day and had gone to bed with the journal closed. A week later, he had opened it, planning to take Hermione’s advice and write down his thoughts. Vernon had gotten ahold of him today and knocked him about. Because of that, Harry was feeling very…

“Vengeful” wasn’t a word he should use, was it?

That was why he had decided to write. Perhaps, if he couldn’t say such a word out loud—or even bring himself to admit that was exactly how he was feeling inside his own mind— writing it down might help.

1997 28 July

I am feeling, he hesitated for a few minutes, his morals battling against his true emotions, vengeful. My Uncle was as harsh as usual today. I wanted to hurt him. Just once. He deserves it. I will be 17 in a few days. I will be able to use magic outside of school. Maybe I could finally

He stopped.

Panting as if he had just run a marathon, Harry straightened his spine. He had been standing, leaning far forward over the journal on his nightstand. Now that he was finished, his mind began to clear and the rage inside him started to subside. He had never felt this before: instantaneous relief. Knowing that no one would read his words was freeing. He would write all summer until school, he decided. He would write all of it down, free himself from his negative thoughts, and burn the journal when he was done.

No one would ever know.

1997 29 July

I woke up at 3 A.M. again. I keep reliving his death. Their deaths. And deaths that have not happened. I feel like I am going mad. Why do I have to be in this war? Why am I the Chosen One? I never wanted it. I did not ask for this. I do not want to kill anyone. Not even Voldemort. I want him dead, I guess, but I do not want to kill. Not really. I get angry, but

He stopped and moved his hand down to a fresh spot on the page before writing the hateful thoughts that were clouding his mind: Just shut it, Harry. No one cares.

He stared down at the journal, feeling the weight of his own words. A drop of liquid fell onto the page and, realizing it was a tear, he sat back to allow himself to cry. It did not take him long to fall asleep now that he had released those thoughts—his clothes and foggy, wet glasses still on.

1997 30 July

My birthday is tomorrow. I have decided to get on the Knight Bus. I will be of age. I can finally leave this place and no one will stop me this time. I just want freedom. Voldemort will always try to kill me. It doesn’t matter where I am. So why do I have to stay with my relatives? The blood wards will disappear as soon as I turn 17 anyway. I think. No sense staying.

1997 31 July

Another year. Happy birthday, Harry. Maybe this year Voldemort will kill you.

As the Knight Bus rocked this way and that, Harry frowned down at the journal in his lap, wondering if it was normal to want death. Not everyone he loved was dead, but most of them were. It would be nice to join them and be free of this...cage. This cage that was “living.”

1997 1 August

I told the Knight Bus to take me to the Leaky Cauldron, but I decided to go somewhere alone as soon as it dropped me. If no one knows where I am, I am safer, right? I will visit Fred and George tomorrow. They can keep a secret.

I do not feel any different. Somehow I thought leaving would have felt more freeing. I do not feel any less trapped. When I close my eyes, I see the cupboard.

—

Harry put the hood of his black robe over his head to shield his face from onlookers. He walked at a leisurely pace, heading for the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes that was a long walk away. He was in no hurry. He wanted to enjoy his freedom. Of course, he didn’t feel quite free. He still felt trapped and anxious. He hoped that would fade in time. He could picture himself living in Hogsmeade, or somewhere similar. The picture was simple: he sat with his friends in his small, cozy flat as they talked and laughed about nothing.

That was all he wanted. Harry was a simple man. Sure, he could see himself with someone romantically. But nothing like that had really happened to him yet. He liked Ginny a little. Her eyes were pretty and she had a small mouth. And nice skin. But he had no idea what she thought of him.

During his sixth year, nothing had really changed. He had found a mysterious book with notes from the “Half-Blood Prince” inside. He had learned about Horcruxes and gone to destroy one with Dumbledore. Malfoy had been his usual, pompous self and Harry had avoided him. Ginny had dated and then broken up with Dean Thomas…

Nothing too exciting.

Truthfully, it was the waiting that had him on edge. Dumbledore hadn’t said much after their near-death incident in the cave. He had told Harry “Not to worry,” and had shooed him away. Harry had spent the rest of the year studying and fretting. Hermione and Ron had been very little help. He loved them, but their understanding toward his situation was...lacking. At least Hermione attempted to offer as much emotional support as she could. The journal had helped.

The familiar laughter and overall hustle and bustle on the street pulled Harry out of his thoughts. He was almost there. The twins’ shop was just around the corner.

But he would never make it to the Weasleys.

A hand smacked into his mouth and nose, pulling him backwards into an unknown man’s arms. He yelped and drew his wand, but the flash of a red spell was all he saw before he was unconscious.

When he came to, it was to find himself lying on his back on the dirty floor of a room that looked to be made of concrete. Turning his head left and right, he saw that there was a random assortment of dusty, broken things all around—vases and mirrors and antique furniture. He attempted to sit up, but it hurt to do so. It was agonizing enough that he flopped back down immediately. He looked around once more, panicking quietly. Something black, very close to the right side of his face caught his attention. He frowned at it. It looked as if it could be the tip of someone’s black shoe.

Someone was standing behind his head, just out of view!

He stretched his chin and neck to look up and found a man grinning maliciously down at him with a sinister glint in his eye. Harry made a surprised noise and tried to sit up again, but the pain reminded him that it was impossible to do so. He attempted to use his arms, but they were like dead weights. So were his legs. Looking down at his body, he saw nothing that could be physically restraining him. The only answer was magic. Looking back up at the man, he sucked in a sharp breath to find a wand pointed directly between his eyes.

“Crucio!”

Harry screamed as his body began to writhe. His muscles were working against him. They tensed, forcing his joints to bend, and then they would release too quickly, too painfully, and force his limbs to flail about, smacking into himself, the ground…

After a short while, the man stopped the spell and Harry panted desperately, looking up at him in confusion. He was blond with honey-brown eyes. His skin was very dark brown. He had a wide nose and cleft chin. Most importantly, Harry did not feel even the slightest hint of recognition toward him.

“Who are you?”

The man’s grin disappeared. “You wouldn’t know,” he snarled. “Crucio!”

Chapter Text

Harry was immensely thankful for the cold water that was being forced down his throat. It was a terrible way to awaken and he coughed most of it up, but he desperately needed it. His lips were chapped and painful. His throat was so hoarse from all the screaming that he could hardly speak. The hair framing his face was wet with perspiration and matted against his skin.

After a moment, the water stopped invading his trachea long enough for him to attempt to gasp for air and relax as much as possible. That way, when the second round came, his gag reflex wouldn’t disrupt his only source of hydration. After the water was gone—most of it on the floor around his head, creating mud in the dirt—then came the bread. Stale, disgusting bread with a sour aftertaste that Harry had come to ignore entirely. His captor would shove large chunks of it in Harry’s mouth, usually too quickly and too forcefully. Harry almost always choked and had to swallow what he could with his nose burning and his eyes watering.

It must be morning , Harry thought.

This was their daily morning routine that Harry only assumed was happening in the morning. There were no windows in this room, so he couldn’t be sure. Not to mention, his internal clock wasn't trustworthy due to the fact that he was always exhausted. Assuming it to be morning made sense because the man would retire each day—his feet travelling up a creaky set of stairs above Harry’s head that he couldn’t see—and return hours later. He had to be leaving to sleep and returning at dawn.

During the night, much to Harry’s horror the first few days, Harry would have to soil himself. He was unable to move from lying on his back, so there was no other choice. The man would return each day and the mess in Harry’s robes would be magically (most likely magically in the literal sense) gone and he would be force-fed. Harry had been absolutely livid and humiliated beyond repair too many times for it to completely faze him anymore. He no longer screamed or threatened the man. He had resorted to silence until he would be tortured.

At first his torture had only been through means of magic. Now it was through physical methods. The man would not punch him. He would simply pinch him or lean his weight on his knuckles that were pressed down on a body part of Harry’s. Usually his arms and legs. Harry had realized it was because the man wanted to see the bruises on Harry’s body when he lifted his robe or sleeves, but he didn’t want to kill Harry too quickly and his fists in Harry’s face would do just that.

Of course this was all theory. Harry did not know for sure. Perhaps he was wrong, but it made sense and kept him distracted. By studying the man’s habits, he could divert his thoughts from his physical pain and the mental torment that being trapped was doing to his mind.

The day passed by as it usually did. Every few hours the man would stand from wherever it was he would sit above Harry’s head, out of view—sounding as if he were writing and flipping through papers—and find another sensitive spot on Harry’s body to inflict pain. It was only near the end of the night that he would use magic.

Right now, the man was flipping through papers.

Sometimes, Harry imagined him to be a businessman that had been hired by the Ministry. Other days, he imagined him to be a low-ranking office worker that everyone overlooked, while his side business was to track down and kill whomever he had been hired to kill.

At first, Harry had only blamed Voldemort. He had assumed that no one else could possibly be behind Harry Potter’s capture, torture and eventual death. That was, until he had finally received a reply from the man on the fourth day—or was it the second day? Time was a foreign concept to Harry. There was no sunlight or moonlight. There were only artificial lights and those switching off when the man would retire to sleep.

On the fourth day (he assumed) that he had been down here, Harry had screamed about his hatred and disdain for Voldemort for the final time. The man had had enough. He had stopped what he had been doing—using a spell Harry had never heard of to repeatedly and slowly break and repair his arm—to shout, “ You are the reason the Dark Lord has decided to attack Muggles. Once you are gone, Harry Potter, everyone will be safe. He will stop tormenting everyone and return to wherever he had been before you showed up. He was gone for thirteen years. You brought his wrath. I am going to purify your body and kill you. I am being kind. I could have killed you in the alley, but I have decided to purify your darkness and set you free!”

Harry had realized two things.

One: this man was not working for Voldemort.

Two: this man was insane.

Ever since that day, Harry had quieted, choosing instead to only ask questions occasionally. The man hardly ever answered him. When it was too deep a question, the man would inflict a painful spell upon him, but lighter questions had been relatively safe. After what felt like a month to Harry, he had finally learned his name.

Theodore.

“Theodore,” Harry chose now to ask his first question of the day, his voice hoarse, “what are you writing?”

“My book,” came the quick and easy reply.

Harry’s eyes widened. “You are an author?”

The man chuckled. “I will be after I kill you.”

The threat toward his life hardly bothered Harry anymore. He had thought to ask, “What is your plan?” but realized very quickly that phrasing it that way sounded too personal, too probing.

“How come?” he asked instead.

“ You won’t have to worry about it, as you will be dead ...so there is no use telling you.”

Harry knew that was the end of the conversation and didn’t push it further. He waited an adequate amount of time, listening to the sound of words being scrawled, before trying to converse again.

“Why do you—”

“Enough!” the man bellowed.

Harry kept his mouth shut for what felt like an hour, until Theodore stood and walked over to inflict physical methods of pain upon him. Today it was enough to make him scream out in agony, while other days he was too numb to make a sound.

Once the man returned to his writing, Harry retreated inside his mind. He hated doing so. Lately, his head was filled with only one voice. A familiar voice. A voice that continuously repeated the same question. It drove him mad and he only listened to it when he could no longer keep himself awake enough to focus on the physical plane of reality.

“Haaaaaarryyyyyy,” that voice would hiss at the back of Harry’s mind. “Where are you? Sssssspeak.”

It would echo inside his mindscape over and over and, if he focused on any one of them for a long enough period of time, he could feel a cold rush of magic sweep over his body and tingle inside his skull. It would seemingly caress his lungs and throat and, if he allowed it to go on long enough, his tongue. It was trying to coerce him to speak. It was attempting to find his location.

He was attempting to find Harry’s location.

For the first few days of hearing it, Harry had been too stunned to listen to Voldemort’s hissed whisperings for too long. He had thought it had been a dream for a while, but, when it hadn’t disappeared even while he was fully awake, he had had to force himself to accept the incomprehensible fact that Voldemort was looking for him.

The second stage after his denial of the situation had been anger. He had been so mad that he had closed his eyes and focused on the location in his mind that the whispers had been coming from. When he had pinpointed it, he had somehow found himself standing inside his mindscape.

He had been furious that Voldemort had had the audacity to search for him when he, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was going to die at the hands of someone else because of Voldemort. He was not going to die by Voldemort’s hands, but because of him. Once Harry had realized that being angry about that made no sense, he had changed his reason. He had decided that he had been angry because of the fact that everything bad that had ever happened to Harry had been because of Voldemort.

That had sounded better to his ears, but the former explanation for his fury never really left his mind. He simply ignored it.

His temper had overtaken him and he had felt the building of something—maybe it had been his magic—inside his mind. As soon as it built up enough, he shouted into his black, nothingness of a mindscape at the top of his lungs, “How dare you look for me. How dare you! I am going to die at the mercy of someone else . How dare you beckon me as if you deserve to be here when I go. You said I would die by your wand. You lied. How dare you!”

After he had finished his rant, he had dropped to his knees and sobbed. A short time later, he must have fallen asleep, because he knew only blackness. He had awoken to another set of torturous spells and had immediately returned to slumber. For a while, the whispers had stopped.

But they had returned some time ago.

He found himself back inside the black nothingness that was his mindscape. The whispers were loud and they reminded him of the first him he had heard the Basilisk hiss to him from inside the walls of the castle. The words were muffled, but clear enough to understand, and they moved. It was as if they were snakes, slithering on the outside of his mind, travelling from the left side, to the right and growing quieter as they went. Harry decided resolutely that he would not walk to the left. If that was the source of the whispers, then Harry did not want to know what would happen if he drew too close.

Since he had never previously taken the time to explore his mindscape on foot, he turned to the right, expecting to see the same as what he could see in front of him and to his left: nothingness.

But he was wrong.

There, far, far away, standing still and silent, was a human figure with their back toward him. They were surrounded by a small spotlight that beamed down from the nowhere that was above them. Harry knew they had to be a magical person because they wore a hooded robe that draped over the entirety of their body. It was purple and plain, but had ruffles at the bottom of it and a lighter design around the edges that Harry couldn’t make out.

The moment he’d spotted the stranger, Harry’s heart had skipped a beat. If Harry was inside his own mind, this couldn’t be real, could it? But then what about the whispers? They felt real. The magic emanating from them felt authentic as well. Almost tangible even. So maybe this figure wasn’t due to his imagination.

Harry had taken a few excited steps forward before stopping. He frowned and tried again. It was as if he were stuck in place. His steps weren’t getting him anywhere. The person did not grow any closer no matter how many steps he took toward them. Desperate now, Harry ran.

“Help!” he screamed, expecting the mysterious stranger to whirl around. “Help me, please!” They did not budge. Because Harry was so transfixed on the person, he did not notice that the whispers had begun to quiet at the sound of his voice. “I am behind you!” That seemed to do something. The person’s head turned slightly to the left, as if positioning their ear to hear Harry. “Turn around. Turn around!”

Harry’s green eyes snapped open and a few seconds later, the loud sound of a chair scraping against the floor and toppling over, filled his ears. He was panting and his throat hurt immensely. He frowned, wondering why.

“What the hell are you screaming about?” Theodore demanded as he swept into view, his wand pointed at Harry’s chest and his face full of rage. “Crucio!”

Harry must have shouted “turn around” when he’d accidentally broken his meditation. Of course, he had only just realized that. Theodore was gone, the lights were out, and he was alone. The torture had lasted longer than usual and had depleted Harry’s energy entirely. He had passed out rather quickly and had only just come to.

The whispers were still calling to him at the back of his mind, but they were less frequent and softer. Having noticed this before, Harry wondered if the intensity of the words reflected Voldemort being awake versus resting.

No , he thought, because that would mean he looks for me even while asleep.

But he realized that he was talking about a madman. Of course he would search for Harry even while asleep. Voldemort was determined to murder Harry Potter. And while he knew that, Harry still felt a trickle of hope inside himself. He had long given up on The Order. It was obvious that they would never appear. If Voldemort was the one to burst in and...heaven forbid... save him—

He blushed at that word, “save,” because he was not feeble even if he was in distress.

—what would happen?

Harry pictured a few scenarios, but couldn’t see the how they would be plausible. The most realistic one was that Voldemort would burst inside, kill Theodore, crouch down next to Harry, laugh mockingly, and kill him. Just like that. After a moment of consideration, Harry stomped on the hope he had felt rising and decided to replace it with resignation.

Wait.

There was still the stranger that had appeared inside his mindscape. If Harry could just reach them or shout loud enough for them to turn around, he might be able to pass along a message for Dumbledore.

Wait.

What would he say?

I’m trapped? Get Dumbledore? I have no idea where I am? Send help immediately?

Harry took a deep breath, intending to sigh, but the action burned his lungs before he had been able to do so and he screwed his eyes shut in pain. The rest of his muscles tensed at the unexpected sharp fit of agony inside his chest, forcing their aches and soreness to come to the surface. It hurt so bad that he began to sweat. It couldn’t have been long before he passed out again.

That morning, after his forceful meal and fresh round of extra-excruciating torture, Harry found that he wasn’t able to speak at all. His vision was barely there. His breathing was shallow and he fell in and out of sleep constantly. Theodore had screamed at him a few times, but Harry’s eyes were just too heavy to open. When the pain was gone for some time, Harry wondered if it was night. He couldn’t lift his eyelids to check. His body felt warmer than usual. His spine had a strange tingling sensation traveling down it. His stomach felt as if it were being split open. It always felt that way, but now it was worse.

As he tried to slip back into unconsciousness, his stomach was what kept him from being able to do so. It had to be cut open. It had to be. As he worried over this for a short while, he found Voldemort’s hissing even more alluring than usual. Unable to think properly, he decided to listen to them. They were so…

...gentle.

“Haaaaaarryyyyyy…”

Harry smiled softly. His stomach didn’t hurt anymore. It was becoming warm and numb.

“Haaaaaarryyyyyy…”

He found himself standing in his mindscape again. The familiar rope that always lead him back to reality seemed...slack. He wondered if he was dying. That made him frown. His movements were very slowed as he turned, looking for the stranger again. They were there, but the cloak they wore was a different color today. It was a dark green with an pattern all over it that Harry couldn’t see well enough to decipher. He took a step forward and then another. The person was closer now. Harry looked down at his feet in relieved surprise.

He had moved!

The weight of his situation made a tidal wave of panic crash through him. The rope to reality tightened. Something inside his stomach built up and sent pulsating waves throughout his body.

He was not going to die before he reached this stranger!

He knew now exactly what he needed to say. The message that he needed pass along to this person with instructions to relay it to Dumbledore…

His legs and arms were pumping before he realized it. The person was far away, but Harry was growing impossibly closer with each passing minute. He was running faster than humanly possible. He reached his hand out to the mysterious figure.

“My name is Harry Potter,” he shouted. The green hood snapped upwards to attention and turned slightly to the right this time, over their shoulder, as if to listen to Harry’s words. “I need you to find Dumbledore!” Harry was almost there. He saw, but didn’t register, that the details of the robe were that of a snakeskin design. “Give him a message!” He slowed to a stop and his hand grasped the silk at the person’s shoulder. “Tell him—”

The stranger turned and the words died on Harry’s tongue. Wide, red eyes were staring down at him and, although his face was shrouded in the shadows of his hood due to the fact that the light was above him, Harry could see his ivory skin.

“It’s you… ” Harry heard himself whisper.

The energy he had just derived from deep within himself disappeared along with the last tendril of hope he’d had. He fell forward and Voldemort’s arms wrapped around him.

Harry’s mind was slipping, but he managed a delirious smile up at his enemy. “Did you know—” he asked, his voice shaking, “—that death is warm?”

Voldemort’s face morphed into the greatest amount of rage that Harry had yet to see him display. That was the last thing he registered before he succumbed to the darkness.

Chapter Text

When the water was poured down his throat the following morning, Harry barely felt it. His eyelids drooped and he was able to swallow more than any time previously because his body was numb and his muscles weren’t reacting as quickly or as strongly as they had before. Theodore was angrier than usual and had only cast two spells at him so far. Harry hadn’t reacted and that had made the man shout louder while he paced the room.

There were no whispers inside his mind. It was silent. In fact, a prodding against his skull that he hadn’t realized had been there, was gone as well. He missed it. As his captor shouted words that he couldn’t understand in his delirium, Harry retreated into his mindscape.

“Where are you?” his whispered into the darkness.

He scoured the nothingness in every direction.

“Come back,” he pleaded quietly, warm liquid filling his eyes. “They need to know. I need you to tell them. Please...come back.”

Silence.

“Voldemort,” he tried to whisper louder. “Voldemort!”

He waited.

But there was nothing.

He must have fallen into slumber again because he woke up to the concrete room around him. There was no yelling now. There was no writing or paper rustling. The lights were on, but Theodore seemed to be missing. Harry immediately retreated into his mindscape.

He was so weak now that he was on his back…

...even here…

...within his own psychological domain.

Voldemort, dressed in his familiar black robe, walked from behind Harry’s head and stood at his side, looking down at him with an impassive expression. Harry smiled in relief.

“You know what I figured out?” Harry asked. His voice was smooth here, where it would have been hoarse if this were real. “I have been hallucinating.” After a moment of silence, Harry continued. “All of this,” he gestured weakly with his eyes, looking left to right to indicate the nothingness they were in, “was to help me cope.” Harry waited, wondering if his imaginary version of Voldemort would reply. After a while, he came to the conclusion that he would have to do all the talking. “I have a secret, too.” Harry’s smile returned when Voldemort’s eyebrow rose in what had actually looked like genuine interest.

“I wish you were here.”

The darkest Wizard in all of Britain lost his composure, looking quite shocked. Harry laughed, although it was a weak, pitiful thing that didn’t last long.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he confessed another secret, if only to keep that expression on his enemy’s face. “I don’t even want my murderer dead.” Harry was disappointed to see the shock disappear from Voldemort’s face. It was replaced with a dark, angry, overwhelmingly terrifying look that Harry recognized, but had never feared. “The truth is, I never wanted this. To be the Chosen One. The fame. Any of it. I didn’t kill you all those years ago as an infant. My mother did.”

He paused to gulp down the emotion in his throat and close his eyes. Thinking of his mother made it difficult for him to look at the Dark Lord, the one who had murdered her. If he confessed these things, would she still greet him happily on the other side? Would she hate him? It was then that he remembered that this was all part of his imagination and opened his eyes again. Voldemort’s mask had returned, but his eyes still blazed.

“If you were really here, you would mock me,” Harry said. The man made no move to do so, further confirming Harry’s belief. “‘Harry Potter,’” he tried to say in his best ‘Voldemort voice’ which made him have to stop and laugh at himself and how terrible his impersonation skills were. Even so, he tried again, still sounding ridiculous. “‘Harry Potter, you are so weak.’” He laughed again, harder this time, but his lungs burned and he frowned, wondering if his real body laughed when he laughed inside here.

That reminded him. “No one will find me,” he sulked, allowing himself at least a few moments to feel self-pity. “I’m going to die.”

He looked up at the blackness above him and wished he could see the stars right now. They began to appear and he smiled weakly. When he returned his gaze to the dark Wizard, it was to see an expression that Harry completely ignored: sympathy. Because it wasn’t real.

“That’s how I know this is all fake,” Harry informed him. “Voldemort would be happy to watch me die.” He paused and looked back up at the stars. “I have another secret,” he confessed, his voice sounding wistful due to the beautiful sight of the night sky that now stretched far and wide above him. “I have been hallucinating for a long time I think… I see you the most. Not my friends. Not Hogwarts. I see you.” Voldemort’s expression conveyed confusion and his eyes were searching Harry’s as if he were trying to determine the truth. “I picture you killing me.” The man’s face hardened to stone, for all that he still seemed rather passive.

“Take out your wand,” Harry ordered. After a moment, Voldemort obeyed. “Point it.”

Slowly, the man brought that familiar white, yew wand up and directed at Harry’s face. Harry smiled, even if it was filled with a bit of contempt, a bit of self-hatred, and a bit of sorrow. He looked into those red eyes before looking back down at the wand. He was debating whether or not he wanted to confess another secret. After a short time, he decided that he was dying, delusional, and irrational, so telling the Dark Lord that he, the supposed Savior—

“—Always imagined that you would be the one to kill me.” He swallowed his pride. Hard. “If you were really here, you would mock me for that, too. But—” He closed his eyes and couldn’t stop the tears that overwhelmed him, streaming down his temples and into his ears. “—you aren’t here.”

He opened his eyes, glaring angrily at Voldemort whose wand was now nowhere to be seen. “That isn’t even the worst part. I am happy—” his voice cracked on that word, but he still managed to emphasize it in a furious way, “—that I can say goodbye to you. Even if this isn’t real. Not because of you, but... If you were here, I would be able to ask you to spare my friends and all the students at Hogwarts. I would be able to ask you to tell them I love them. You would laugh in my face and do the opposite, but I would be able to ask you.”

He closed his eyes and turned his face back up to the false night sky, pretending his closed eyelids would prevent the impact his next words would have upon his self-worth.

“I would ask you to tell them that you had been the one to kill me.”

His eyes snapped open and he somehow managed to pull himself up onto his elbow and screamed furiously up at the evil Wizard that was staring at him with wild eyes and an unreadable, dark expression. “How dare you show up just to watch me die by someone else’s wand. Everything you did to me was for nothing. How dare you!”

Unexpectedly, Voldemort lunged down at him and agony split Harry’s skull in two. He screwed his eyes shut and screamed at the top of his lungs.

“You are mine!” Voldemort’s snarled viciously.

Chapter Text

Harry recognized this feeling. He could recall this excruciating pain. This was far worse than torture.

This was possession.

Harry fought Voldemort as hard as he could, but the man was relentless. Not to mention, Harry was very sure that he was near death. His body and magic were not strong enough to resist. Just as he lost all motor control of his body, Harry heard the thundering sound of footsteps running down the stairs above his head.

He could still see out of his own eyes, but it was as if it were at a distance. Around him was his black, vast mindscape. He stood inside it, staring up at the picture before him of the outside world as Voldemort controlled his body in its entirety. Terrified and shocked, Harry watched as Voldemort sat his body into an upright position and turned his torso to see Theodore standing at the bottom of the stairs. His stance wide and on the offensive, his eyebrows drawn deeply downward in anger, and his nostrils flared outward.

“I knew you wouldn’t die so easily!” he shouted and pointed his wand. “Look at you. Red eyes for all to see. I knew there was darkness in you. I will cleanse you—”

Harry had never heard his throat make such a noise. It was inhuman. Monstrous. It ripped out of his mouth as Voldemort sprung from the floor and ran toward the man. Theodore jerked back in a moment of surprise, obviously expecting Harry’s body to be feeble, and that was all Voldemort had needed.

Harry watched his own hand jab into the man’s throat, not having been opened wide enough to grip it as if to choke him, but still having closed around a small amount of it. He felt entirely detached and too fiercely disturbed that his own body was being used to do such horrifying things to think properly.

The man’s head was the first to collide against the steps, then the rest of his body. Voldemort was looming over him. The view changed from the man’s desperate and pained face to his hand. Voldemort snatched the wand there and immediately pressed it into the man’s cheek.

“He is mine ,” Voldemort used Harry’s mouth to whisper sharply, hoarsely. “Avada—”

Harry gasped from within his mindscape and pushed as hard as he could against the overbearing weight upon his mind.

“Don’t!” he shouted desperately.

Voldemort choked and faltered, but pushed Harry’s resistance back roughly, excruciatingly. As soon as he did, he realized that Theodore had nearly gotten up. He tightened Harry’s fingers around the flesh of his neck, pulled him a few inches toward him, and then slammed his head back into the steps.

“Don’t!” Harry shouted again, unsure if the Dark Lord was even able to hear him.

After a few long moments, during which Harry nearly slipped into mania while watching the tip of the wand his hand held, Voldemort whispered hoarsely to Theodore once more.

“Your life will be spared.”

Harry, too elated to feel shocked, was immediately brought back down into the depths of terror when he followed up with a spell that Harry didn’t recognize.

“Totum nervorum perde!”

A blindingly bright, sickly-yellow light shot from the tip of the wand. The man sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes wide and staring at the ceiling. Having only a vague idea what the spell meant, Harry listened adamantly to the Dark Lord’s next words.

“Know this,” he whispered, chuckling darkly, “you will wish it had not been.”

Harry felt his heart sink like a brick.

Voldemort released the man’s throat and continued to chuckle as he stepped over him and ascended the stairs to the door. Shock numbed Harry as they emerged from the room he had been held within. The door had opened to an abandoned house. It was moldy, gray, dirty, and littered with rat droppings, holes in the walls, boxes stacked upon boxes, and barely any light from the filthy windows.

Voldemort's gaze zeroed in on the table that was in the adjoining room. It was the only piece of furniture that was not packed with layers of dust. Papers and things were cluttered atop it. He walked them toward it. They both spotted Harry's wand at the same time. Harry watched as his hand reached out to grab it.

He then turned, ignoring the papers entirely, and walked toward the door that they both assumed was the exit. It was. Harry began to worry as the bright sunlight from high above momentarily blinded them to a stop. About two things.

One: his sense of time, as he had previously thought it had been night.

Two: what Voldemort planned to do with him now.

Harry's head turned slowly from the right to the left side as Voldemort examined their surroundings. People, Witches and Wizards to be exact, were walking about from here and there. This was a rural housing area it seemed. Children were flying broomsticks in the distance, parents were laughing and talking. Harry had only been allowed a few seconds to wonder where he could be when something unexpected happened.

Abruptly, with absolutely no warning at all, the weight of Voldemort’s presence inside his mind disappeared.

Harry collapsed onto his face in the dirt. The sharpness of his injuries returned like vomit in the back of his throat. He could barely move without immense pain stabbing mercilessly at his muscles. He had just barely lifted himself onto his forearms when he heard people gathering around him, speaking quickly and loudly.

“Harry Potter,” they were saying. “It's Harry Potter!”

The sound of apparation filled his ears multiple times. A warm hand found its way to the area behind his shoulder blades and he wanted to jerk away from it, but was unable to.

“Are you alright?” the man that was now trying to help Harry up was asking in a gentle tone.

A woman shouted from behind him, “He was in here. Ruljov, Cophner, come with me.”

The most the man had been able to do was get Harry sitting up, but Harry quickly fell over. The man had then simply allowed Harry to lie down on his back, propping his head up on his own lap.

Harry saw a few bursts of light that he recognized to be arriving individuals. He looked that way just as the people around him began to scream.

“It's him!” a woman shouted.

“Run!”

“The children!”

A black hooded figure was approaching. The kind man that had only just gotten his wand out to defend Harry was blown backwards by a quick flick of the figure’s wand. Harry's head hit the ground painfully. He watched Voldemort’s face come into view above him, but this time, unlike inside his mindscape, he knelt down.

Flashes of spells and shouting were all around them. More apparation sounds were heard. Voldemort was quickly and skillfully rebounding, absorbing, and shooting spells silently from his place above Harry. It was aggravatingly awe-inspiring just how quick the man was.

“Harry!”

Harry jerked, trying to lift his head, when he heard Ron’s voice. Voldemort scowled in Ron’s direction and Harry lifted his tingly, almost-numb hand up to grip the Dark Lord’s robe.

“Not Ron,” he pleaded. “Not Hermione.”

Too busy casting and blocking spells, Voldemort wasn't able to look down at him. Harry assumed that was why he also hadn't apparated away yet. It was too dangerous and his hands were busy.

Suddenly Voldemort stood. Someone must have gotten too close. He was scowling, seemingly watching someone run to Harry's left, but unable to shoot anything at the person because of the rapid spells coming at him from the front.

“Grab him!” he heard Hermione shout.

An unknown hand gripped his shoulder, sending pain rippling through his left side. He screamed at the same time Voldemort's voiced rage also made itself known. The familiar discomfort of magical transportation overtook his senses until he was suddenly blinking up at Ron’s concerned face.

“Saint…” Harry choked and coughed a few times. “Saint...Mungo's…”

He promptly passed out.

Chapter Text

Harry had awoken to find himself in St. Mungo’s more than once already. He knew where he was and what had happened. However, this time, he awoke and felt as if he was finally able to remain that way long enough to speak to the others and answer their questions.

The problem?

No one was around. Normally he would find Hermione, Ron, Dumbledore, or even Snape watching over him. But no one was here. He frowned.

After a while, he drifted back to sleep. When he woke again, Hermione was sitting in the chair not far from his bed, reading a small book and frowning down at it, deep in concentration.

“Good book?” his hoarse voice croaked out.

She gasped and looked up, standing and leaving the unknown paperback on her seat at she made her way to him. Her eyes were instantly teary as she smiled down at him, sitting beside him on the bed.

“You're talking,” she said.

Harry could feel his warm smile at the sight of his best friend. “Thank God,” he joked.

She laughed wetly. A beat of silence passed before she asked, “How are you feeling?”

Harry wasn't sure. He felt heavy like he usually did when waking in a hospital bed, but he couldn't feel any pain. He frowned and began to inspect himself as best he could. He closed and opened his fists. He wiggled his toes and moved his feet. Lifting his knees hurt, but they obeyed. He moved his shoulders a bit.

Other than feeling dull pain afterwards, he was just happy to be in one piece. He told her that and she let out a relieved breath.

After a while of meaningless conversation and hand holding, Hermione stood.

“I'll get Ron,” she said. “He has been worried sick.”

“I'll wait here.”

She laughed softly and Harry knew she would have rolled her eyes if he weren't injured. A few minutes after she exited his room, the door swung open and Ron burst inside, just to freeze at the end of his bed.

“What?” Harry asked. “Is there something on my face?”

Ron’s eyes grew even more watery than Hermione’s had. He ran to Harry, stopping just short of hugging him. Instead he took his hand and crushed it to his chest.

“You're talking!” he nearly exclaimed.

Harry flinched at his loud voice and the pain in his hand, but simply grinned at his other best friend. Ron was just being Ron.

“Everyone seems happy about that.” He was sure his searching frown would convey his question.

It did.

“You were mute!” Ron explained in the same boisterous voice. “We thought your throat was damaged. The mediwitch said it was possible.” Harry raised a teasing eyebrow and Ron laughed. “Of course you're alright. You're always alright!”

Hermione walked inside and shut the door. “Ron,” she chastised, still speaking quietly, “you are being far too loud!”

Ron flinched and looked down at Harry apologetically. “Sorry, mate.”

Harry shook his head with a smile, dismissing Ron’s worries. His gaze locked on the door when it opened and Dumbledore came inside.

“Professor!” Harry grinned, his face and eyes lighting up upon seeing the smiling, old Wizard in his bright orange robes.

“Welcome back, my dear boy,” the man said, maneuvering in between Hermione and Ron at the side of Harry's bed. “I am relieved to see that you are awake. We all are. You gave us quite a scare.”

“You all are, sir?” Harry inquired.

“Well…” This was said by Hermione while Ron was the one to seemingly finish her sentence.

“The Order is here,” he said.

Harry's eyebrows rose. “Still? Haven't I been asleep for a few days?” All three of them shared concerned glances, forcing him to ask, “What?”

“Not days, Harry, but hours,” Dumbledore told him softly.

“I mean...it was ten hours,” Ron defended Harry's confusion. “Cut him some slack. He's been through a lot in a week.”

“A week?” Harry was dumbfounded.

Hadn't he been held in that basement for about four weeks—two at least? There was no way his internal clock had been thrown off so spectacularly. Could it? His three companions shared worried glances again.

“Harry,” Hermione’s voice quivered, “what exactly happened?”

Ron added after a beat of silence, “Don't be ashamed, mate. We all know what You-Know-Who is capable of.”

Now it was Harry's turn to look at them as if they had gone crazy. “Voldemort?” he asked incredulously. “You think Voldemort captured me?”

They mirrored his expression, but Dumbledore seemed a bit more open to what Harry had to say. “Tell us your side of the story, Harry.”

“My side… Who else have you been talking to?”

“The man who rescued you,” Hermione nearly chirped in her happiness.

“Voldemort?” Harry asked.

After a moment of silence, Ron laughed nervously. “Funny, mate.”

Hermione didn’t seem to think it was funny and, of course, it wasn’t supposed to be. Harry was serious.

“What are you talking about, Harry?” she asked, frowning at him in concern.

“Voldemort was the one who saved me,” he supplied.

“ No,” she said slowly. “He held you captive.”

Harry couldn’t wrap his mind around this. “ No,” he mimicked her tone. “He saved me.”

“Blimey, Harry,” Ron interrupted. “Maybe you need more sleep.”

“I second that,” Hermione added.

Dumbledore nodded to them and they all headed towards the door at a leisurely pace.

“We will return shortly,” Dumbledore said from over his shoulder. “Get some rest.”

“Wait...what?” Harry nearly exclaimed. “You're leaving?”

Ron looked back at him, his face reflecting his guilt before they all exited his room, leaving him in dumbstruck silence. After a few minutes, the door opened and a mediwitch came in. She greeted him and had him drink a familiar tasting potion. After she left, a few more minutes ticked by as he stared up at the ceiling. Just when he was about to overwhelm himself with anxiety, the door opened again. Ron came in quickly, shutting the door behind him in a way that Harry associated with sneaking.

“Ron!” Harry was relieved he had returned.

Ron shushed him and placed the Daily Prophet on his lap before leaving just as quickly as he came. Harry frowned and brought the newspaper up to his face. This issue was from four days ago.

Dumbledore, A Liar? Is Harry Potter Missing?, the headline read. He quickly devoured the contents of the article. His heart was beating erratically when he finished. To sum it up, when Harry had gone missing, someone must have discovered it. They had sent in their concerns to the Daily Prophet. Dumbledore had been interviewed that same day and had stated that Harry was in his care, strongly implying that he was training him for a faceoff with the Dark Lord. Apparently someone had sent evidence that Dumbledore had lied.

According to this article, the entire Wizarding World was in a panic, speculating that the Dark Lord had killed The Boy Who Lived. There had been no new attacks from the Death Eaters, but this was a four-day-old newspaper. Even if that had changed later, it didn’t seem to matter to many of the public. People were giving up hope left and right. Articles about surrender and the inadequacy of the Ministry littered the pages in his hands.

No wonder Harry was inside an isolated and closed room right now. Usually patients in St. Mungo’s were together and had only a small amount of privacy, much like the infirmary at Hogwarts. He had only just realized that he was being hidden from the Press. They had to know that he had been found. It had been quite a spectacle: a battle in the middle of the day in a Wizarding residential area.

Harry wasn’t sure how long he had laid there rereading the entirety of the newspaper, but eventually his door opened again. Someone he hadn’t been expecting slowly entered, closing the door much more softly than any of the others had. His footsteps were nearly silent, a feat that was impressive on this tile flooring, as he approached Harry’s bed.

“Hello, professor,” Harry greeted him.

Snape inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. He seemed relieved. After a moment, he replied, “Potter.” His eyes locked on the Prophet and Harry slid it under the blanket covering his chest. “The Dark Lord was not your captor,” he suddenly supplied.

Harry’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You believe me?”

It took Snape another beat of silence before he said, “I witnessed him search for you relentlessly.”

The words made Harry feel an emotion he couldn’t identify. He clutched the blanket at his chest, hearing the newspaper crinkle under his hands. Having no idea what to say, he kept his eyes cast downward and to the side. At least someone knew the truth. His belief in his own sanity improved exponentially.

“I am well aware what everyone believes,” Snape continued. “I recommend taking Mr. Jones to court.” He had Harry’s full attention now. “He may be a paraplegic, but it is my understanding that his kidnapping you was out of hatred. Perhaps you could use that to your advantage.”

“Mr. Jones?” was Harry’s first question until he realized that Snape had said Mr. Jones was his kidnapper and his eyes widened. “You mean Theodore? The man that did this to me said his name was Theodore… What is a para...paraplegic?”

Snape was calm and patient. “His name is Theodore Patrick Jones. A paraplegic is a person who is paralyzed from the neck down.”

Harry gasped. “That’s what Voldemort did to him!”

His eyes moved back and forth rapidly as he stared at nothing. His brow was furrowed in thought. He was recalling the spell Voldemort had cast upon his captor after Harry had begged him to spare his life.

“Your life will be spared.” Harry recalled the Dark Lord’s words. “Know this,” Voldemort had whispered from Harry’s mouth, chuckling darkly down at the man’s distraught face, “you will wish it had not been.”

Harry shivered.

Snape pulled Harry from his memories, “I was ordered to give you a message.”

Ordered. Only the one Wizard had the power over Snape to “order” him to carry out a task. Unable to say much of anything, Harry swallowed. His throat was dry. Nodding for the Professor to continue, he listened adamantly.

“‘What is mine will return to me soon,’ was his message. I trust you know what it means.”

Harry shivered once again before simply nodding silently, his chest tightening with emotions he wanted to ignore. He knew Snape had noticed his blush by the look in the man’s eyes, but he politely kept quiet about it.

“Sleep well, Potter,” he said as he turned and opened the door. “You will need it.”

“Professor!” Harry stopped him and he turned. “If he is a para… If he is paralyzed, is he here?” Snape nodded slowly. “Will you take me to him?” When the man said nothing for a while, Harry explained himself. “I want to talk to him. Just for a second. I have...questions.”

His pleading face seemed to do the trick because Snape asked, “Can you walk?”

Harry sat up and Snape retreated back inside the room, shutting the door once again. The mediwitch must have given him a pain reliever because, for all that the dull ache still remained throughout the entirety of his body, he could move more fluidly now. Standing, however? He was unsure. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he slowly lifted himself onto his bare feet, wincing at the chilliness of the tile floor. He lost his balance, but Snape gripped his bicep for only long enough to keep him from falling.

“Thanks,” Harry smiled up at him.

“Try moving,” Snape commanded.

Harry did. Each step sent a stabbing pain up his leg, but he could tell the pain reliever was dulling it. For that, he was grateful. He walked to the door, happy that he was wearing white pajama pants and a long sleeved shirt to match, rather than a strange hospital gown, when he opened it. Snape closed it behind them when they were out in the hallway. No one was around. It was white, cold, and bare.

“This way.” Snape led him to the right. They walked in silence for a short while before the man glanced down at him. “Are you in pain?”

Harry grimaced. “Is it that obvious?”

“Your legs are wobbling.”

Harry blushed. He had hoped Snape hadn’t noticed. “It’s been a while since I’ve walked.”

Snape frowned. “What are you recovering from?”

Harry passed him a confused look. “Theodore tortured me. You didn’t know?”

Discomfort broke through Snape’s mask. “Your stomach was the source of the medical staff’s concern. They never explained why.”

Harry frowned. They hadn’t explained anything to him. He looked down and lifted his shirt. A large, square white patch covered his stomach entirely. It seemed to be made of cotton. A line of blood traveled from an inch below his ribcage to just below his navel. It was relatively fresh and the cotton held it well. Harry hadn’t realized he had stopped to run his fingers down it, just barely touching it out of fear it would bleed through and get on his hand. When he examined his fingertips a moment later, it was to find them clean. They tingled from the lightness of the touch. They were trembling. He was trembling.

“Would you like to return?” Snape asked calmly.

Harry’s head jerked up and he dropped his shirt. “Sorry,” he apologized to the Professor before proceeding to walk forward.

The rest of the travel was quiet until they reached a door at the end of the hallway. Snape opened it and Harry walked in. There were floating devices all around the room. He had no idea what they were or what they did, but Harry could assume they were only meant to help someone who was no a paraplegic. Harry cringed at the word. His guilt was eating at him. It didn’t cross his mind that it was wrong to feel guilty for someone who had tortured and intended to kill him. Harry was so very used to narcissists.

He remained at the foot of the bed, unable to bring himself any closer once he could see the man’s face. His appeared to be asleep, but he was frowning. Under his eyelids, his eyeballs moved rapidly from this way and that. Snape hovered very close to Harry’s side.

Harry looked up at him. “Can you wake him?” He paused, watching the man take out his wand. “Just for a minute.”

“Enervate,” Snape cast and the man’s eyes snapped open.

When they locked gazes, Harry watched Theodore’s face contort into hatred. His honey-brown eyes burned.

“What is the meaning of this?” he snarled, looking to Snape. “Get him out of here!”

Before Harry could say anything, Snape spoke up. “It is my understanding, from what you have told everyone, that you were Harry Potter’s savior.” Harry’s eyes grew wide and his attention zeroed in on the man next to him. “I would think you would be happy to see your sacrifice had not been in vain.”

Theodore said nothing, but his expression did not change. Harry was beginning to realize why Snape had been willing to bring him here with little hesitation. He was showing Harry that Theodore was a liar. He was demonstrating that Harry’s memories were not false, no matter what others might tell him. No matter what this man said.

Remembering why he was here, Harry inhaled and exhaled quietly and squared his shoulders. “Why did you do this?” he asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said through clenched teeth.

“What did you do to me?” Harry asked instead.

“I did nothing,” Theodore lied. “I saved you from the Dark Lord.”

Harry’s voice grew louder. “Why don’t I remember you slicing into me?” He gripped the railing at the end of the bed and hunched forward. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

The door opened and Harry whirled around. Snape turned more calmly. Ron’s head peered in at them before he looked back down the hallway to the left.

“You were right,” he hollered. “He’s in here!” He looked at Snape and his nose crinkled in distaste. “With Snape.” He looked at Harry as he walked inside. “What is going on?”

Hermione appeared then, and Harry recognized that expression. “Harry!” she chastised him, pointing her finger. “You should not be out of bed!”

“We all know how Harry tends to be,” Dumbledore said as he too walked inside moments after Hermione. “What is it? Have you come to thank Mr. Jones for his heroics?”

The look in the old Wizard’s eyes was calculating and suspicious, but Harry decided that he was going to play along with everyone’s assumptions for now.

“Right,” he said. “Something like that.”

Snape said he could take this man to court. That was his best option. He had no proof except Theodore’s hatred. If he goaded him in front of the Ministry, perhaps he would break and spill the truth. Preferably scream the truth like a madman. That would look better.

“Mate,” Ron’s voice was worried and he pinched the material on Harry’s shoulder to get his attention. Harry looked at him and he pointed down. Hearing Hermione gasp just as he peered down to find blood soaking through his shirt made his heart race in fear.

“Out of the way.”

A moment later, to everyone’s shock, Harry was scooped into Snape’s arms and walked out into the Hallway. Harry’s face was aflame in moments as he stared up at his least favorite Professor’s face. He had been about to protest when his hand caught his attention. He had accidentally pressed it against his stomach when he had been lifted. His palm was covered in blood. Any protest he’d had about being carried was thrown out the window. He couldn’t have walked. Not with this. When they reached his room and he was back atop the bed, Snape left to fetch a mediwitch and the other three gathered around him. He was dizzy and their faces were blurring.

“Don’t worry, Harry, we’re here,” Hermione said and he thought her hand was on his shoulder.

He heard nothing else as he passed out.

Chapter Text

Weeks later found Harry partially healed and staying at the Burrow. He had just thrown the latest Daily Prophet in the fire, growling in frustration. Ron, who was sitting next to him, munching on some freshly baked cookies, watched him warily.

Every Prophet spoke of Harry Potter as “unfit to be the Savior,” as he had been “easily captured.” Everyone was curious about the man that had saved Harry Potter. They idolized him. Pitied him for being injured so greatly during his heroic act of saving Harry. Showered him with rich compliments in every sentence. Wondered if he wouldn’t have made a better Savior if he hadn’t been paralyzed. Having your attacker pitied while you were shunned? It was enough to drive any victim up the wall.

“Don’t say it,” Harry warned Ron, his tone clipped.

For a moment, he thought his friend might actually listen, but that moment was short lived.

“I just think—” Ron finally spoke up and Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation “—you might be confused, that’s all. Think about it.” Harry had heard this speech so many times, but he allowed Ron to finish what he had to say. “You kept seeing him inside your mind. That means he was doing mind magic. You don’t remember most of what happened. We found a confundus charm around your head that… Well, it wasn’t a confundus. It was something else. But it messed up your ability to tell time. Harry…” Harry sighed and Ron placed his hand on his shoulder. “...He was trying to drive you mad.”

Harry finally looked at his freckled-faced friend, frowning. “Why would he do that?”

Ron shrugged. “He was already torturing you. Might as well torture your mind too, right?”

Harry shook his head and stared at the fire, lifting his knees up and resting his chin atop them.

Ron patted his shoulder. “C’mon, don’t be like that. Here. Take one.”

He offered Harry a cookie and Harry took it, nibbling it gloomily. It was hard to remind himself that everyone was mistaken when they all made valid points against what he clearly remembered to be the truth. It was irritating, but he had to deal with it for now. He took Theodore… Mr. Jones, to court next month. Once that was over with, everyone would realize that Harry had not gone off the deep end and the right person to blame would be in Azkaban.

“You know what I don’t get?” Ron brought him back into reality and Harry grunted so he would continue speaking, knowing Harry was paying attention. “Why you want to clear Voldemort’s name.”

Harry frowned and jerked his head upright. He glared at his friend who looked surprised by his reaction.

“Clear his name? What do you mean?”

Ron hesitated before explaining himself. “Think about it. Even if he didn’t do it, Voldemort has still done terrible things. Why does it matter if it was Mr. Jones?”

Harry was so appalled and offended that Ron was so rudely dismissing the fact that Harry’s torturer—almost murderer —would be getting away with what he’d done if Harry didn’t defend himself and the truth that he honestly wanted to punch him. Right in the face. In the jaw actually. Hard.

Ron continued, unaware of Harry’s boiling rage despite looking right at him as he spoke. “I mean, blimey, Harry, why do you care so much? Mr. Jones is already paralyzed. He will never walk again. Or do anything for that matter. Isn’t that justice enough? You don’t need to clear Voldemort’s name!”

Harry stood up and stormed away. He couldn’t be anywhere near Ron right now. If he was, he’d attack him and rip open his stomach wound again. This wasn’t about clearing Voldemort’s name! This was about sending his torturer to Azkaban where he belonged. If it just so happened to take the blame off the one person who had rescued him, so be it.

He locked himself in Ron’s room, petting and playing with Hedwig, until it was time for dinner. After the meal—during which he spent talking to everyone but Ron—Harry walked back up the steps toward Ron’s room. He heard footsteps behind him and, since he had retired early, he assumed it was his friend.

“Ron, stay away from me,” he said, his tone more than a warning as his fist clenched.

“Don’t worry,” Ginny’s gentle voice reassured and surprised him simultaneously and he whirled around. “He is.”

“Oh.” He blushed. “Sorry.”

She walked passed him and up the stairs, patting his shoulder once as she went. “No sweat.”

Every time she dismissed him like that, his heart sank a little, but he didn’t dwell on it. He couldn’t force her to like him. She obviously wasn’t interested. He took comfort in Hedwig’s company for a few more hours before falling asleep early.

Screaming. Harry could hear a woman screaming. His mother’s screams always haunted his dreams, but this did not belong to her. He could tell for all that he couldn’t place it.

His eyes snapped open and he bolted upright. Pain shot through his system from his stomach and he groaned, clutching it in his arm as he got out of bed. Other noises filled his ears. Spells. Booming. Laughter—a distinct cackling laughter. Shouting. More booming.

He was hunched over as he rushed to Hedwig’s cage. He let her out and proceeded to open the window to allow her to escape. As soon as that was done, he descended the stairs in a rush. The noises grew louder, but they were still muffled as if far away. He saw that there was no one inside and rushed out into the snowy yard. It was pitch black. The moon was not out tonight it seemed. Everything had quieted the moment he had stepped outside.

The pain in his stomach was only growing worse and he looked down. Blood was gathering into his shirt and soaking onto his arm. He looked around, but saw nothing. Where was everyone? Had he been dreaming?

A blue light—a spell—flashed to his left and he dodged it just in time. A few moments of silence passed before more came. From all directions. They were all the same blue colored spell. After dodging them all, he cast his own.

“Lumos.”

His light illuminated the grounds around him, but he still saw no one. More spells fired at him, still blue, still silent, still from different directions, but he noticed something. They were coming from outside the barrier. That meant the Weasleys had to be outside the barrier as well. Someone must have been attempting to protect him by silencing the area around the house. That way he wouldn’t hear what was happening and rush to their aid. It made sense. He was wounded. But he couldn’t leave them to fend for themselves. He had to help!

He bolted forward, panting and ignoring the pain in his torso. The moment he passed through the protection, he had expected the sounds to pick back up. They didn’t. He froze. His head snapped to the left and right as he scoured for any signs of an attack.

A blue light came at him again from the right. He dodged and ran forward. If he was moving, he was less of an easy target. A hooded figure appeared before him. They wore a Death Eater mask. He skidded to a halt and pointed his wand. Rustling sounded all around him and his frantic eyes realized that he was surrounded. They all slowly lifted their wands.

Harry wasn’t sure how he did it, but outnumbered and wounded, he held his own. The same blue light was being shot at him continuously. He ducked, dodged, countered, blocked, and shot two of the figures down with a well-aimed spell. He continued to back up, trying to find a hole in their defense so he could dart back to the house. Where were the Weasleys? There was no way they had all been defeated!

“Haaaaaarryyyyyy…”

He froze and all spells ceased. A cold, long fingered hand slid between his neck and shoulder, gripping him tightly. He wasn’t sure what had come over him, but he couldn’t move. Goosebumps littered his skin. Another cold hand gently took the elbow of his left arm—the arm clutching his stomach. He felt a chest gently press into his back and kept his eyes on the ground when a hood filled his peripheral vision.

Voldemort was peering down at Harry’s abdomen from over Harry’s shoulder as he lifted Harry’s forearm away from his stomach, revealing the blood there. Harry made a pained noise and Voldemort hissed in his ear.

“He will die, Harry,” he whispered. Harry couldn’t bring himself to reply. “You are mine to kill.”

Harry’s chest constricted, but he didn’t know why. He whirled around and took a step back, pointing his wand at Voldemort’s neck.

“You’re right,” he said and then motioned with his head toward the Death Eaters, “so why are they here?”

The same blue spell shot out at him the same time a familiar female voice snarled, “You little—”

Bellatrix.

Harry was too busy stepping forward to dodge her spell to notice why her sentence had been interrupted. He looked over in her direction and noticed the pale arm in the air next to him. She was a few feet above ground, hands clawing at the invisible force suspending her by the neck. He couldn’t really see her. She was fully cloaked with her mask on. But he knew it was her. The arm beside him dropped the same time she did and she coughed violently on the ground. Harry turned his head forward to see that he was inches away from Voldemort, who was looking down at him with those wild, red eyes.

Harry stepped back as Voldemort ordered his Death Eaters to, “Leave.”

The sound of apparation and rustling filled the night air before it silenced once again. Red and green had remained fixated on each other, neither looking away until they were alone. As soon as they were, Voldemort lurched forward and grabbed Harry’s bloody arm. Harry jerked back, but the man had already lifted his shirt.

“Come,” Voldemort ordered, closing the distance between them and, before Harry knew what was happening, apparating them away.

—

Author’s note:

This is book one.

Book two is titled, “Obsession.”

If you do not see it in my list of written FanFictions, I have not posted it yet.

Thanks for reading!

Amy