Hysterical
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.
Title: Hysterical
Characters: Harry, Neville, Weasleys (implied past H/N-ish)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5,000
Summary: There's a new resident in the Janus Thickey ward.
A/N: Another fic from before I had an LJ, that I waffled back and forth about posting. It’s a total angst-fest, and of course now it is totally AU as well, but it’s something I kept going back to and thinking ‘should I finish it?’ so I went ahead and finished it today. I first wrote it after reading a little bit about ‘fugue states’, in which people just one day walk out of their own lives. Of course I don’t actually know anything about psychiatry, so take all the tossing about of terms with a block of salt. Also, just for fun, I decided to work in this week’s magic4mula "green, brave, toad, and blooming." I discovered it already had two of them, so I worked in the other two easily enough. :)
Warnings: This does reference Vernon physically abusing Harry in the beginning. It starts in the summer just before 7th year.
Hysterical
fugue: derived from the Latin fugere (to flee)
The last argument to take place between Harry Potter and the Dursleys had occurred at four in the morning in the front hall of the house at Privet Drive, a week before his 17th birthday.
Harry had wanted only to slip away quietly. He’d released Hedwig the night before, and packed what few possessions he’d brought back in his knapsack. But what had started as a secret leave-taking had been thwarted by, of all things, half a leftover chicken, which Vernon had come down to finish off just as Harry was fiddling with the locks on the front door. The quarrel that followed had become a violent confrontation, many years of barely restrained hostilities unleashed within moments of the argument’s start. The lid had finally blown off the kettle and a shouting match ensued that escalated in volume and violence with terrifying speed. Petunia was soon in the fray, screaming at her husband to think of the neighbors, and while her true concern may or may not have been for Harry, she did provide enough of a diversion for him to get loose from the melee.
Once Harry had the door open, flung wide to that all-important entity known as The Neighbors, he knew he would get away. Although instead of the dignified exit out that door that he had originally planned, he found himself shoved through it unceremoniously. It slammed shut moments before his foot made acquaintance with an inconveniently placed brick garden border, and Harry, already overbalanced, fell backwards into the muddy petunia bed, his head thudding against the ground.
He lay there in the crushed flowers for some moments after opening his eyes, stunned and breathless, the smell of close-cropped grass sharp in his nose. He sat up cautiously. The street seemed eerily quiet. The back of his head where he gingerly touched it was wet.
It took Harry a moment to think exactly what he was doing in the Dursleys' flowerbed.
He’d been going somewhere, obviously, he had a light knapsack wrapped around his arm. Something he had to go do. He was in a fair bit of pain to be trying to do anything, but he knew it had been something very important, so he gritted his teeth and climbed to his feet, and set off down the sidewalk.
The Knight Bus doesn’t run anymore. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, or what it meant, except that wherever he was going, he was going to have to hoof it.
There was a pain in the vicinity of his ribs which he hadn’t really paid much mind to until now, as it began to worsen and demand his attention, he reached up to clutch at the slow burn that was just about the same height as the stairway newel in the foyer. As it got worse, he only walked faster, until he was nearly at a jog, with his arm crossed in front of him instinctively. The gnawing sensation reminded him unpleasantly of hunger.
He followed the sidewalk because it seemed to know where it was going, a clear path cutting through the labyrinth of faceless, nameless houses, until at last he reached a park. It seemed like a tiny oasis of wilderness in the middle of this silent and grim civilization. He stood there for a moment, panting, listening to a new host of aches and pains making themselves known as they surfaced in his hesitation. He couldn’t run anymore, whether he was running from, or running to, it didn’t matter. Starting at every shadow, he crawled into small stand of shrubbery to hide, to rest, to catch his breath. In this prickly sanctuary, he felt a wave of black catch up with him.
He was unaware how much time had passed since he’d closed his eyes, but it was still nighttime when he opened them again. It was voices that had roused him. He could hear several people calling, “Harry! Harry!” in the darkness. Two of the voices were male, one was female, all of them sounded frantic. It sounded like a child was lost. That certainly couldn’t be good, not at this hour, he hoped fervently that they found whoever they were looking for.
No, wait. A sudden thought occurred to him. Maybe- maybe I’m Harry.
That couldn’t be his aunt and uncle and cousin looking for him, could it? But no, that didn’t sound right. They wouldn’t care if he was lost or hurt in the dark. The voices continued to call and call.
While he was trying to sort out what was going on, a huge owl landed in the bush above him.....a bright white owl with orange eyes... and it hooted at him loudly. He cried out in terror ~ owls just didn’t do that sort of thing, unless he was disturbing a nest, in which case it was probably going to go for his eyes...
“Hedwig’s found him!” called a breathy voice. “Over here!”
He cringed as a trio of wild-looking strangers, their hair red in the streetlamps, descended on his hiding place. But there was nowhere to back away, the trunk of the bush was pressed behind him and the branches to either side had him trapped like a rabbit in a net.
“Good heavens,” the woman gasped. “Harry, what happened to you?”
The man peered over her shoulder. “Don’t you worry, son,” he began. “We’ll get you to St. Mungo’s right away.”
“No!” he refused them angrily. He did not know what St. Mungo’s was, but he didn’t like the tone of authority in the man’s voice. “I’m not going anywhere with you! Who are you?”
The third stranger was much younger than the other two. His eyes were wide. “Harry, mate, that’s Mum and Dad!”
“My parents are dead!” He flung out the words like an accusation, like he’d just uncovered some clever conspiracy through a brilliant deduction in reasoning.
“Wull, my Mum and Dad, I meant,” the young man explained helplessly. He leaned forward, hand extended.
“Stay away from me! Don’t touch me!”
“Enough, Ron. He doesn’t remember.” The older man drew the younger one aside, and looked at Harry with a blend of regret and resolve. Then he pointed a stick at him and said something in Latin, which Harry found to be quite insane behavior, in the split second he had to consider it. There was a little flicker of light behind his eyelids, and for the third time that night, Harry felt himself slide away.
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
When Harry became aware of himself again, he found that he was sitting on the end of a high bed, in a vast room with lights floating like bubbles against the ceiling. A dark-haired woman in green robes smiled at him benignly; he realized she was wrapping a bandage around his arm and shoulder. He glanced down to see a bizarre watercolor of bruises staining his skin.
The three strangers who had apparently kidnapped him earlier were gathered a little distance away, around a man who was also in green robes, they were all talking in low voices. Some of the words floated to him... possible concussion....perhaps the Obliviatus Charm..... badly beaten.....
Charm? Harry wondered curiously.
“Beaten?” the woman gasped.
“Those people,” he whispered urgently to the green-robed woman beside him, with a sidelong glance at the little group. “They’re not really my family.”
Despite his efforts to be discreet, the red-haired woman seemed to pick up on his voice like a cat, she whirled to face him while grabbing her husband’s arm.
“He said something, dear!” They all turned to him like a pack of wild animals, their eyes full of hungry expectation...
Harry recoiled so violently he would’ve fallen off the side of the bed, except that the woman in the green robes had quick reflexes, and seized him with a squeak.
“Keep them away from me!” he yelled.
Their faces fell, the woman in particular looked so hurt that for a moment he almost felt sorry for her.
“Harry,” she whispered.
To his relief, he heard the other green-robed person telling them they would have to leave for now.
“But...”
The man’s voice was kind. “We’ll take good care of him, Mrs. Weasley, I promise.”
Reluctantly, they left, and Harry was alone in a strange place... a very strange place. There were things floating, and he couldn’t see any cords going to the lights, and people were wearing the oddest hats.
But at least those people were gone. The Weasleys. He shuddered a little. Even the name was creepy.
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
Neville walked between Bill and Ron, a little distance behind their parents.
“Mr. Potter’s been moved,” the woman informed them.
“Moved?” Molly echoed. “Moved where?”
“The Janus Thickey ward.”
Neville felt a cold sensation seep through his limbs at the notion of Harry there.
“But he was injured, not spelled…”
“Acutally, Mrs. Weasley, it was conclusively determined that his condition is caused by neither injury nor magical means, but is a result of hysterical amnesia. We felt the best place for him was the Thickey ward, where things are a little more… secure.”
A flurry of discontent rose in the hall.
“That’s ridiculous! His head was cut...”
“Hysterical WHAT?”
“No way!”
And above all of them, Molly’s strident voice, crying “Arthur! Arthur, they’ve got him in the wrong ward!”
Eventually, after several consultations, they settled in a waiting area to discuss the situation. They had all been informed that due to Harry’s reaction to the Weasleys the night before, they were not going to be allowed to see him until he had recovered some sense of who they were. Mrs. Weasley was not taking this news well. Neville kicked absently at a potted plant from his seat at the end of the bench and listened to Mr. Weasley try to console his wife.
“Now, Molly, my love, I’m sure once Harry’s had a bit of time to rest we’ll be able to go and see him. They said it might only be a few hours...”
“Or days! Or months!”
“Or hours. ” Arthur reiterated gently.
“But not to let anyone visit.... it’s cruel. He’s all alone up there, Arthur, and we don’t know what’s going on!”
“I’ll see if I can find something out, Mrs. Weasley,” Neville offered suddenly, standing up. “They know me there.”
“Oh, would you?”
“Sure.” He started to walk away, but her tremulous voice caught him.
“Neville?” He turned to see that her eyes were full of concern and sympathy... and it was directed at him.
“Are you quite sure you’re up to this, dear?” she asked, voice barely a whisper. “Someone else you care about... not knowing who you are?”
“I’m used to it,” he said, with quiet resignation, and padded off down an all-too-familiar path.
Stepping out of the lift several minutes later, Neville was relieved to find one of his favorite staff-members on duty at the entrance desk. “Mrs. Brighten?”
“Hello, Neville! I’m surprised to see you mid-week, but your parents will be glad.“
“Actually, I’m here for Harry today. He’s my dorm mate at Hogwarts. Could I see him, do you think?” he asked her. “You know I never upset Mum or Dad.”
“I’ll ask the Healer, Neville. Wait here.” She returned a few minutes later, gave him a gentle smile.
“We’ll give it a try, dear, see how it goes.”
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
Harry looked up when someone new entered the room. He was surprised to see it was a boy his own age, in a grey coat with a hood down in back, who looked comfortingly ordinary.
“Hiya, Harry,” his visitor said calmly, and sat down in a chair by the door as if he greeted people under these circumstances all the time. He immediately began fishing through the pockets of his coat.
Harry watched, more curious than anything else.
“I thought I had a chocolate frog in here,” the boy muttered, half to himself. Finally he looked up at Harry. “Do you want me to get you anything from the tea room?”
“Um, no, thank you,” Harry said politely. “Do I know you?”
“Yes, you do, as a matter of fact,” he said. “My name’s Neville.”
This seemed to be a moment that required a response, but Harry didn’t know what to say. He’d already been addressed by name, so there didn’t seem to be any point to introducing himself.
“I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” he said at last, apologetically and sincerely.
“It’s OK,” Neville said quietly. “I’m sure I’ll come back to you.”
Neville visited with him for nearly an hour, which Harry appreciated, as he’d been getting very lonely and pretty bored. Neville was nice, and soft-spoken, and didn’t rattle Harry’s nerves the way everyone else did. Even better, he answered all of his questions (even the ones he was secretly afraid were pretty stupid) ~ very patiently and matter-of-factly, and never looked at him like he was nuts for not knowing already. Some of those answers made little or no sense to Harry, but he was getting used to that by now, vexing as it was.
He had just leaned back into his pillows, when the other boy, apparently taking this as some sort of cue, stood up slowly.
“I’ll let you get some rest.”
“Neville?”
“Yes, Harry?”
“You... are you... maybe you could come back... sometime?” Harry asked in a small voice.
“I’ll come back, Harry,” Neville assured him gently. “First thing tomorrow.”
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
Neville was tired. He closed his eyes and listening to the ticking of the lift as it carried him to his destination. Visits to his parents always left him exhausted, but dealing with three people he cared about in one day who didn’t recognize him - it was a bit much even for the legendary Longbottom stoicism. He didn’t usually visit the chapel much anymore, but tonight he just wanted to sit down and collect his thoughts before going home.
It was some comfort, he supposed, that at least someone had managed to gain a measure of trust from Harry, or at least not incite any more fear.
It was also really scary, being that someone. After all, he’d never been able to reach his own parents, as hard and as long as he’d tried, what hope did he have he could do it for Harry?
Oh, please... he thought fervently, closing his eyes in silent entreaty. Please let me get at least one person I love put back together....
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
“I brought you a plant,” Neville informed him, carrying it across the room and setting it on the windowsill.
“Is it... is it a magic plant?” Harry asked, very carefully. He still wasn’t sure all these people weren’t just having him on about this magic business.
“It’s a geranium.”
Neville went to put it on the windowsill. When he leaned forward, Harry caught a glimpse of two shiny eyes peering out from his pocket.
“Is that a frog?” Harry asked in amazement.
“Oh, that’s Trevor.” Neville pulled out the biggest bullfrog Harry had ever seen in his life. At least, Harry assumed it was the biggest he’d ever seen, perhaps he’d seen amphibians the size of water buffalo and just didn’t remember. “He’s a toad,” Neville clarified. “But toads are actually frogs, so yes, you’re correct.” Neville set Trevor on the bed next to Harry. They stared at one another. Harry blinked first.
“I thought… I thought my aunt and uncle might have visited me by now,” Harry ventured. “Do they know where I am?”
Neville seemed to have to think long and hard about how to answer him. At last he said, “Do you remember much about your aunt and uncle, Harry?”
“Well, I sort of remember the idea of them, more than them. But surely they’re worried about me.”
“You’re almost 17 now, Harry. You don’t live with your aunt and uncle anymore.” Neville turned around for a moment to fiddle with the leaves of the geranium, and Harry thought he heard him mutter something else under his breath that sounded a lot like “Bloody good thing, too.” He started to ask what he meant, but then he thought about something else Neville had just said. Was he really 17? He didn’t feel 17. It seemed like such a responsible, grown-up sort of age. He seemed to be alternating between 11 and 110, sometimes he felt like a helpless child, and sometimes he felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders, but he didn’t know why.
“These are from Ron and Hermione and everybody,” Neville said suddenly, maybe to change the subject, and he took a white paper sack out from his other pocket. He poured the contents out onto the bed sheet. Apparently it was supposed to be candy, but Harry recoiled from it. It was weird stuff, some of it was moving. What he really would have liked was a simple chocolate bar.
“There’s this, too. My Gran sent you a get-well gift.” Neville set something in his hand, and Harry wondered just how many pockets Neville had.
It was a funny little glass ball, and it was full of mauve smoke. “What is it? A game?”
“Not really. It turns red whenever you’ve forgotten something.”
Harry frowned, aware there were a multitude of things he couldn’t remember.
“Don’t worry about it,” Neville said, as if he could read his thoughts. “They’re always red for me, too.” Neville smiled a little.
Harry rolled the object across his palm, staring into its depths as if he might find some sort of clue there turning in the mist.
“Mrs. Weasley’s crying in the hall,” Neville suddenly informed Harry quietly. “They still won’t let her in.”
Harry didn’t want to deal with the wild red-haired woman, especially not if she was crying.
“Suppose we might talk about her a bit?” Neville asked.
Harry hunched up a little, wrapping his arms around his knees. Thus far, Neville had answered all his questions and never bothered him with any in return, until now. He bit his lip and said nothing.
“Mind if I talk about her then?”
“What about her?” Harry asked cautiously.
“She used to send me things by owl when I was little, sugar biscuits mostly. She sent me a jumper once, too, with a toad on it, but Gran wouldn’t let me wear it outside of the house.” Neville chuckled a little at this for some reason.
“Why did she send you things?”
“Lots of people did. Felt sorry for me, I guess. On account of my parents. They’re just down the hall from you.”
“What happened to them?” he asked tentatively, not sure he really wanted to know. And indeed, Neville didn’t seem to want to tell him much.
“They’ve been here awhile now,” Neville said vaguely.
“Could I go and see them?” he asked suddenly. He didn’t know where the impulse had come from, this reckless question, and once he said it he was afraid to take it back.
Neville seemed a little surprised, but said simply, “Sure, Harry. I’ll ask.”
The Healers agreed, but Harry picked up on some tension when he joined Neville in the hall, he noticed there were three people in green robes hanging about rather closely. He found himself taking a step closer to Neville.
Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom both lived a large room that was decorated to look like a little house. Neville walked in with the air of someone who was well used to the place, and sat down on the side of one of the beds. These mattresses, unlike Harry’s, were covered with elaborate quilts that looked handmade, evidence of a loving relative who was handy with thread and needle.
He glanced around self-consciously at the paintings on the wall and other belongings, not yet brave enough to look anywhere else, but soon he made himself face the Longbottoms themselves. Harry could see the family resemblance at once. Neville looked a lot like his mother. Dark hair, although Neville’s wasn’t gray at the ends, and hazel colored eyes.
Mrs. Longbottom’s lined face took on a sudden light as she stood up, and tottered forward to stare at him. “I know who YOU are,” she said, with a lilting singsong glee. “You’re Harry Potter.”
He heard a couple of gasps from the Healers in the hall, and saw Neville start out of the corner of his eye.
“Um, yes, ma’am,” he agreed. “So I’ve been told.”
She reached up to trace the zigzag of his scar. He braced himself to stay still, but when her fingertip brushed his skin, it sent an unexpected sizzle of pain through him.
“Ouch!” He flinched, pulling back from her, putting his hand up to his forehead.
“What happened?” Neville asked in alarm, getting to his feet again. Mrs. Longbottom was still trying to reach for him and Mr. Longbottom yelled “Constant vigilance!” suddenly in a very loud voice.
Harry bolted. He ran straight back to his room, which was the only place he knew to go, and jumped into the bed, as if having his feet off the floor would somehow further separate him from the bizarre people down the hall. A few minutes later, Neville came back into the room.
“Harry?”
“I’m sorry I upset your parents!” he cried.
“They’re OK. I think they upset you more than the other way ‘round.” Neville came closer, eyeing him with speculation. “Harry, does it always hurt you when people touch your scar?” Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry, of course you wouldn’t know....I just don’t remember you ever mentioning.....”
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
“Would it be all right if I-?”
Harry understood. He didn’t want to feel that shock of pain again, but he felt bad that he’d startled Neville’s poor mother, and now Neville looked all worried and pale. He nodded that it was all right, then closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and held absolutely still while Neville reached out and laid a careful hand on his forehead. The gentle touch felt cool, and comforting, and caused him no pain whatsoever. Harry let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding.
It didn’t hurt. In fact, it felt rather nice.
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
“I brought you a piece of cake.” Neville announced when he came in the following morning. He unwrapped something from a piece of shiny white paper, then handed him a china plate with a large wedge of chocolate cake on it. The dark frosting was decorated with green sugar leaves around the top and a few squiggled letters written in icing. It seemed like quite a special piece of cake, especially with the fancy silver fork beside it.
“Is it my birthday?” he asked, half joking.
“Tomorrow is your birthday, actually,” Neville said. “Today’s mine.”
“Oh. Happy Birthday to you, then.” Harry offered him a quick smile, and dipped the fork eagerly into the elegant dessert. It tasted every bit as good as it looked, and he enjoyed a few blissful moments focused on nothing but several velvety textures of chocolate. When he was done, he set the plate carefully on the bed stand table, and took a deep drink of ice water. “So, did you make a wish this morning?” he asked amiably.
Neville, who’d been staring out the window while Harry had been eating, nodded but didn’t answer him. He crossed the room, then, and sat down heavily in the chair by the door, and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. It took Harry a minute to realize why he needed it. He felt his face flush with the horrified fear that he might have done or said something to make Neville start crying. It was the last thing he’d want to do.
“Neville, you’re not upset because of me, are you?”
“Yes, Harry, I am,” came the surprisingly direct answer.
“I seem to be making a lot of people cry this week,” he said guiltily. “I’m sorry, I don’t meant to.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s just, we’ve been friends a long time, Harry, and it ... it hurts to see you like this.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry said, again.
“Don’t pay me any mind.” Neville sat up and made a visible attempt to pull himself together, blowing his nose with a rather loud and ungainly snort.
“You snore,” Harry said quietly.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he muttered quickly. But it wasn’t nothing. Something had tugged at his memory, and he spoke the words out loud. “I saw red curtains.”
Neville looked like someone trying not to show too much excitement about something he was really quite excited about. “That’s right, Harry,” he encouraged eagerly.
And Harry remembered... people in a dorm....himself, and Neville, and Ron, .... oh, God, Ron....and Dean, and Seamus. It came back to him in a tumble, big things and little things.... from his last Quidditch victory to Hermione’s hair pins, his life and his friends and his destiny and ... and one fall over a garden border, into a rain slicked bed of wet petunias and bricks.
Harry burst into tears.
Neville sat down beside him and pulled him carefully into an embrace.
“They never wanted me!” he wailed into his friend’s shoulder. “They didn’t love me!”
It somehow seemed the most horrible, hysterical confession in the world, but Neville’s voice sounded very calm and sure in his ear.
“It’s all right, Harry. We love you. Your real family is here.”
Harry thought about all the people Neville had patiently been telling him about over the last few days, all the people he’d been avoiding, and the quest he’d been hiding from. People he was supposed to be protecting, but who were rallied around protecting him instead. He wasn’t going to let them down again. For the moment, though, he let himself lean on Neville, the tears were still sliding down, but slower now. He felt like a black poisonous thorn had been pulled out of him from somewhere deep inside, and it had left a wound that still trickled, but it was out now, and the healing could begin.
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
Harry was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed and ready to leave. The remembrall he was rolling about in his hand was full of serene white mist. Remus Lupin was packing the brightly blooming geranium, a stack of magazines, and other assorted items into a small box while they waited for the last of the paperwork to get sorted out.
Harry had just asked about the Dursleys. Remus had actually growled at the mention of their name.
“Your aunt, uncle, and cousin have been transfigured for a while, for their own protection, they’re currently residing in their own garden under the watchful eye of Crookshanks, until such time as you are fully recovered.”
“I think I’m pretty recovered,” Harry said, lip twitching a little as he struggled not to laugh at the plight of his relatives, no matter how well deserved it might be.
“Hmm. Well, perhaps until the first Tuesday after your full recovery, then.”
“Professor Lupin...”
“Oh, very well. Although they’re much pleasanter as toads, in my humble opinion.”
“I’m surprised at you, sir. Transfiguring Muggles. I mean, it’s brilliant, but -still.”
“I’m only sorry that I didn’t think of it first. It was actually Arthur Weasley.”
Harry’s jaw dropped. “Mr. Weasley? ”
“Never anger a red-head, Harry, even the pleasant, mild-mannered ones. I trust you’ve learned that, by now.” Remus chuckled.
“He won’t get into trouble....” Harry began anxiously.
Remus snorted. “Considering the number of people who wanted to get their hands on those people, myself included, Arthur probably saved their lives.”
Harry did laugh at that, out loud, and the sound carried out into the hall.....
... where it was heard by two members of Harry’s family, who were coming to take him home. Neville closed his eyes, and murmured something brief but heartfelt.
“Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked, turning around curiously.
“Yes, ma’am. I was just thinking how good it is to hear that laugh again,” he said earnestly.
“That it is, dear,” she said softly, putting an arm around him. “That it is.”
Title: Hysterical
Characters: Harry, Neville, Weasleys (implied past H/N-ish)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5,000
Summary: There's a new resident in the Janus Thickey ward.
A/N: Another fic from before I had an LJ, that I waffled back and forth about posting. It’s a total angst-fest, and of course now it is totally AU as well, but it’s something I kept going back to and thinking ‘should I finish it?’ so I went ahead and finished it today. I first wrote it after reading a little bit about ‘fugue states’, in which people just one day walk out of their own lives. Of course I don’t actually know anything about psychiatry, so take all the tossing about of terms with a block of salt. Also, just for fun, I decided to work in this week’s magic4mula "green, brave, toad, and blooming." I discovered it already had two of them, so I worked in the other two easily enough. :)
Warnings: This does reference Vernon physically abusing Harry in the beginning. It starts in the summer just before 7th year.
Hysterical
fugue: derived from the Latin fugere (to flee)
The last argument to take place between Harry Potter and the Dursleys had occurred at four in the morning in the front hall of the house at Privet Drive, a week before his 17th birthday.
Harry had wanted only to slip away quietly. He’d released Hedwig the night before, and packed what few possessions he’d brought back in his knapsack. But what had started as a secret leave-taking had been thwarted by, of all things, half a leftover chicken, which Vernon had come down to finish off just as Harry was fiddling with the locks on the front door. The quarrel that followed had become a violent confrontation, many years of barely restrained hostilities unleashed within moments of the argument’s start. The lid had finally blown off the kettle and a shouting match ensued that escalated in volume and violence with terrifying speed. Petunia was soon in the fray, screaming at her husband to think of the neighbors, and while her true concern may or may not have been for Harry, she did provide enough of a diversion for him to get loose from the melee.
Once Harry had the door open, flung wide to that all-important entity known as The Neighbors, he knew he would get away. Although instead of the dignified exit out that door that he had originally planned, he found himself shoved through it unceremoniously. It slammed shut moments before his foot made acquaintance with an inconveniently placed brick garden border, and Harry, already overbalanced, fell backwards into the muddy petunia bed, his head thudding against the ground.
He lay there in the crushed flowers for some moments after opening his eyes, stunned and breathless, the smell of close-cropped grass sharp in his nose. He sat up cautiously. The street seemed eerily quiet. The back of his head where he gingerly touched it was wet.
It took Harry a moment to think exactly what he was doing in the Dursleys' flowerbed.
He’d been going somewhere, obviously, he had a light knapsack wrapped around his arm. Something he had to go do. He was in a fair bit of pain to be trying to do anything, but he knew it had been something very important, so he gritted his teeth and climbed to his feet, and set off down the sidewalk.
The Knight Bus doesn’t run anymore. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, or what it meant, except that wherever he was going, he was going to have to hoof it.
There was a pain in the vicinity of his ribs which he hadn’t really paid much mind to until now, as it began to worsen and demand his attention, he reached up to clutch at the slow burn that was just about the same height as the stairway newel in the foyer. As it got worse, he only walked faster, until he was nearly at a jog, with his arm crossed in front of him instinctively. The gnawing sensation reminded him unpleasantly of hunger.
He followed the sidewalk because it seemed to know where it was going, a clear path cutting through the labyrinth of faceless, nameless houses, until at last he reached a park. It seemed like a tiny oasis of wilderness in the middle of this silent and grim civilization. He stood there for a moment, panting, listening to a new host of aches and pains making themselves known as they surfaced in his hesitation. He couldn’t run anymore, whether he was running from, or running to, it didn’t matter. Starting at every shadow, he crawled into small stand of shrubbery to hide, to rest, to catch his breath. In this prickly sanctuary, he felt a wave of black catch up with him.
He was unaware how much time had passed since he’d closed his eyes, but it was still nighttime when he opened them again. It was voices that had roused him. He could hear several people calling, “Harry! Harry!” in the darkness. Two of the voices were male, one was female, all of them sounded frantic. It sounded like a child was lost. That certainly couldn’t be good, not at this hour, he hoped fervently that they found whoever they were looking for.
No, wait. A sudden thought occurred to him. Maybe- maybe I’m Harry.
That couldn’t be his aunt and uncle and cousin looking for him, could it? But no, that didn’t sound right. They wouldn’t care if he was lost or hurt in the dark. The voices continued to call and call.
While he was trying to sort out what was going on, a huge owl landed in the bush above him.....a bright white owl with orange eyes... and it hooted at him loudly. He cried out in terror ~ owls just didn’t do that sort of thing, unless he was disturbing a nest, in which case it was probably going to go for his eyes...
“Hedwig’s found him!” called a breathy voice. “Over here!”
He cringed as a trio of wild-looking strangers, their hair red in the streetlamps, descended on his hiding place. But there was nowhere to back away, the trunk of the bush was pressed behind him and the branches to either side had him trapped like a rabbit in a net.
“Good heavens,” the woman gasped. “Harry, what happened to you?”
The man peered over her shoulder. “Don’t you worry, son,” he began. “We’ll get you to St. Mungo’s right away.”
“No!” he refused them angrily. He did not know what St. Mungo’s was, but he didn’t like the tone of authority in the man’s voice. “I’m not going anywhere with you! Who are you?”
The third stranger was much younger than the other two. His eyes were wide. “Harry, mate, that’s Mum and Dad!”
“My parents are dead!” He flung out the words like an accusation, like he’d just uncovered some clever conspiracy through a brilliant deduction in reasoning.
“Wull, my Mum and Dad, I meant,” the young man explained helplessly. He leaned forward, hand extended.
“Stay away from me! Don’t touch me!”
“Enough, Ron. He doesn’t remember.” The older man drew the younger one aside, and looked at Harry with a blend of regret and resolve. Then he pointed a stick at him and said something in Latin, which Harry found to be quite insane behavior, in the split second he had to consider it. There was a little flicker of light behind his eyelids, and for the third time that night, Harry felt himself slide away.
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
When Harry became aware of himself again, he found that he was sitting on the end of a high bed, in a vast room with lights floating like bubbles against the ceiling. A dark-haired woman in green robes smiled at him benignly; he realized she was wrapping a bandage around his arm and shoulder. He glanced down to see a bizarre watercolor of bruises staining his skin.
The three strangers who had apparently kidnapped him earlier were gathered a little distance away, around a man who was also in green robes, they were all talking in low voices. Some of the words floated to him... possible concussion....perhaps the Obliviatus Charm..... badly beaten.....
Charm? Harry wondered curiously.
“Beaten?” the woman gasped.
“Those people,” he whispered urgently to the green-robed woman beside him, with a sidelong glance at the little group. “They’re not really my family.”
Despite his efforts to be discreet, the red-haired woman seemed to pick up on his voice like a cat, she whirled to face him while grabbing her husband’s arm.
“He said something, dear!” They all turned to him like a pack of wild animals, their eyes full of hungry expectation...
Harry recoiled so violently he would’ve fallen off the side of the bed, except that the woman in the green robes had quick reflexes, and seized him with a squeak.
“Keep them away from me!” he yelled.
Their faces fell, the woman in particular looked so hurt that for a moment he almost felt sorry for her.
“Harry,” she whispered.
To his relief, he heard the other green-robed person telling them they would have to leave for now.
“But...”
The man’s voice was kind. “We’ll take good care of him, Mrs. Weasley, I promise.”
Reluctantly, they left, and Harry was alone in a strange place... a very strange place. There were things floating, and he couldn’t see any cords going to the lights, and people were wearing the oddest hats.
But at least those people were gone. The Weasleys. He shuddered a little. Even the name was creepy.
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
Neville walked between Bill and Ron, a little distance behind their parents.
“Mr. Potter’s been moved,” the woman informed them.
“Moved?” Molly echoed. “Moved where?”
“The Janus Thickey ward.”
Neville felt a cold sensation seep through his limbs at the notion of Harry there.
“But he was injured, not spelled…”
“Acutally, Mrs. Weasley, it was conclusively determined that his condition is caused by neither injury nor magical means, but is a result of hysterical amnesia. We felt the best place for him was the Thickey ward, where things are a little more… secure.”
A flurry of discontent rose in the hall.
“That’s ridiculous! His head was cut...”
“Hysterical WHAT?”
“No way!”
And above all of them, Molly’s strident voice, crying “Arthur! Arthur, they’ve got him in the wrong ward!”
Eventually, after several consultations, they settled in a waiting area to discuss the situation. They had all been informed that due to Harry’s reaction to the Weasleys the night before, they were not going to be allowed to see him until he had recovered some sense of who they were. Mrs. Weasley was not taking this news well. Neville kicked absently at a potted plant from his seat at the end of the bench and listened to Mr. Weasley try to console his wife.
“Now, Molly, my love, I’m sure once Harry’s had a bit of time to rest we’ll be able to go and see him. They said it might only be a few hours...”
“Or days! Or months!”
“Or hours. ” Arthur reiterated gently.
“But not to let anyone visit.... it’s cruel. He’s all alone up there, Arthur, and we don’t know what’s going on!”
“I’ll see if I can find something out, Mrs. Weasley,” Neville offered suddenly, standing up. “They know me there.”
“Oh, would you?”
“Sure.” He started to walk away, but her tremulous voice caught him.
“Neville?” He turned to see that her eyes were full of concern and sympathy... and it was directed at him.
“Are you quite sure you’re up to this, dear?” she asked, voice barely a whisper. “Someone else you care about... not knowing who you are?”
“I’m used to it,” he said, with quiet resignation, and padded off down an all-too-familiar path.
Stepping out of the lift several minutes later, Neville was relieved to find one of his favorite staff-members on duty at the entrance desk. “Mrs. Brighten?”
“Hello, Neville! I’m surprised to see you mid-week, but your parents will be glad.“
“Actually, I’m here for Harry today. He’s my dorm mate at Hogwarts. Could I see him, do you think?” he asked her. “You know I never upset Mum or Dad.”
“I’ll ask the Healer, Neville. Wait here.” She returned a few minutes later, gave him a gentle smile.
“We’ll give it a try, dear, see how it goes.”
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
Harry looked up when someone new entered the room. He was surprised to see it was a boy his own age, in a grey coat with a hood down in back, who looked comfortingly ordinary.
“Hiya, Harry,” his visitor said calmly, and sat down in a chair by the door as if he greeted people under these circumstances all the time. He immediately began fishing through the pockets of his coat.
Harry watched, more curious than anything else.
“I thought I had a chocolate frog in here,” the boy muttered, half to himself. Finally he looked up at Harry. “Do you want me to get you anything from the tea room?”
“Um, no, thank you,” Harry said politely. “Do I know you?”
“Yes, you do, as a matter of fact,” he said. “My name’s Neville.”
This seemed to be a moment that required a response, but Harry didn’t know what to say. He’d already been addressed by name, so there didn’t seem to be any point to introducing himself.
“I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” he said at last, apologetically and sincerely.
“It’s OK,” Neville said quietly. “I’m sure I’ll come back to you.”
Neville visited with him for nearly an hour, which Harry appreciated, as he’d been getting very lonely and pretty bored. Neville was nice, and soft-spoken, and didn’t rattle Harry’s nerves the way everyone else did. Even better, he answered all of his questions (even the ones he was secretly afraid were pretty stupid) ~ very patiently and matter-of-factly, and never looked at him like he was nuts for not knowing already. Some of those answers made little or no sense to Harry, but he was getting used to that by now, vexing as it was.
He had just leaned back into his pillows, when the other boy, apparently taking this as some sort of cue, stood up slowly.
“I’ll let you get some rest.”
“Neville?”
“Yes, Harry?”
“You... are you... maybe you could come back... sometime?” Harry asked in a small voice.
“I’ll come back, Harry,” Neville assured him gently. “First thing tomorrow.”
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
Neville was tired. He closed his eyes and listening to the ticking of the lift as it carried him to his destination. Visits to his parents always left him exhausted, but dealing with three people he cared about in one day who didn’t recognize him - it was a bit much even for the legendary Longbottom stoicism. He didn’t usually visit the chapel much anymore, but tonight he just wanted to sit down and collect his thoughts before going home.
It was some comfort, he supposed, that at least someone had managed to gain a measure of trust from Harry, or at least not incite any more fear.
It was also really scary, being that someone. After all, he’d never been able to reach his own parents, as hard and as long as he’d tried, what hope did he have he could do it for Harry?
Oh, please... he thought fervently, closing his eyes in silent entreaty. Please let me get at least one person I love put back together....
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
“I brought you a plant,” Neville informed him, carrying it across the room and setting it on the windowsill.
“Is it... is it a magic plant?” Harry asked, very carefully. He still wasn’t sure all these people weren’t just having him on about this magic business.
“It’s a geranium.”
Neville went to put it on the windowsill. When he leaned forward, Harry caught a glimpse of two shiny eyes peering out from his pocket.
“Is that a frog?” Harry asked in amazement.
“Oh, that’s Trevor.” Neville pulled out the biggest bullfrog Harry had ever seen in his life. At least, Harry assumed it was the biggest he’d ever seen, perhaps he’d seen amphibians the size of water buffalo and just didn’t remember. “He’s a toad,” Neville clarified. “But toads are actually frogs, so yes, you’re correct.” Neville set Trevor on the bed next to Harry. They stared at one another. Harry blinked first.
“I thought… I thought my aunt and uncle might have visited me by now,” Harry ventured. “Do they know where I am?”
Neville seemed to have to think long and hard about how to answer him. At last he said, “Do you remember much about your aunt and uncle, Harry?”
“Well, I sort of remember the idea of them, more than them. But surely they’re worried about me.”
“You’re almost 17 now, Harry. You don’t live with your aunt and uncle anymore.” Neville turned around for a moment to fiddle with the leaves of the geranium, and Harry thought he heard him mutter something else under his breath that sounded a lot like “Bloody good thing, too.” He started to ask what he meant, but then he thought about something else Neville had just said. Was he really 17? He didn’t feel 17. It seemed like such a responsible, grown-up sort of age. He seemed to be alternating between 11 and 110, sometimes he felt like a helpless child, and sometimes he felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders, but he didn’t know why.
“These are from Ron and Hermione and everybody,” Neville said suddenly, maybe to change the subject, and he took a white paper sack out from his other pocket. He poured the contents out onto the bed sheet. Apparently it was supposed to be candy, but Harry recoiled from it. It was weird stuff, some of it was moving. What he really would have liked was a simple chocolate bar.
“There’s this, too. My Gran sent you a get-well gift.” Neville set something in his hand, and Harry wondered just how many pockets Neville had.
It was a funny little glass ball, and it was full of mauve smoke. “What is it? A game?”
“Not really. It turns red whenever you’ve forgotten something.”
Harry frowned, aware there were a multitude of things he couldn’t remember.
“Don’t worry about it,” Neville said, as if he could read his thoughts. “They’re always red for me, too.” Neville smiled a little.
Harry rolled the object across his palm, staring into its depths as if he might find some sort of clue there turning in the mist.
“Mrs. Weasley’s crying in the hall,” Neville suddenly informed Harry quietly. “They still won’t let her in.”
Harry didn’t want to deal with the wild red-haired woman, especially not if she was crying.
“Suppose we might talk about her a bit?” Neville asked.
Harry hunched up a little, wrapping his arms around his knees. Thus far, Neville had answered all his questions and never bothered him with any in return, until now. He bit his lip and said nothing.
“Mind if I talk about her then?”
“What about her?” Harry asked cautiously.
“She used to send me things by owl when I was little, sugar biscuits mostly. She sent me a jumper once, too, with a toad on it, but Gran wouldn’t let me wear it outside of the house.” Neville chuckled a little at this for some reason.
“Why did she send you things?”
“Lots of people did. Felt sorry for me, I guess. On account of my parents. They’re just down the hall from you.”
“What happened to them?” he asked tentatively, not sure he really wanted to know. And indeed, Neville didn’t seem to want to tell him much.
“They’ve been here awhile now,” Neville said vaguely.
“Could I go and see them?” he asked suddenly. He didn’t know where the impulse had come from, this reckless question, and once he said it he was afraid to take it back.
Neville seemed a little surprised, but said simply, “Sure, Harry. I’ll ask.”
The Healers agreed, but Harry picked up on some tension when he joined Neville in the hall, he noticed there were three people in green robes hanging about rather closely. He found himself taking a step closer to Neville.
Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom both lived a large room that was decorated to look like a little house. Neville walked in with the air of someone who was well used to the place, and sat down on the side of one of the beds. These mattresses, unlike Harry’s, were covered with elaborate quilts that looked handmade, evidence of a loving relative who was handy with thread and needle.
He glanced around self-consciously at the paintings on the wall and other belongings, not yet brave enough to look anywhere else, but soon he made himself face the Longbottoms themselves. Harry could see the family resemblance at once. Neville looked a lot like his mother. Dark hair, although Neville’s wasn’t gray at the ends, and hazel colored eyes.
Mrs. Longbottom’s lined face took on a sudden light as she stood up, and tottered forward to stare at him. “I know who YOU are,” she said, with a lilting singsong glee. “You’re Harry Potter.”
He heard a couple of gasps from the Healers in the hall, and saw Neville start out of the corner of his eye.
“Um, yes, ma’am,” he agreed. “So I’ve been told.”
She reached up to trace the zigzag of his scar. He braced himself to stay still, but when her fingertip brushed his skin, it sent an unexpected sizzle of pain through him.
“Ouch!” He flinched, pulling back from her, putting his hand up to his forehead.
“What happened?” Neville asked in alarm, getting to his feet again. Mrs. Longbottom was still trying to reach for him and Mr. Longbottom yelled “Constant vigilance!” suddenly in a very loud voice.
Harry bolted. He ran straight back to his room, which was the only place he knew to go, and jumped into the bed, as if having his feet off the floor would somehow further separate him from the bizarre people down the hall. A few minutes later, Neville came back into the room.
“Harry?”
“I’m sorry I upset your parents!” he cried.
“They’re OK. I think they upset you more than the other way ‘round.” Neville came closer, eyeing him with speculation. “Harry, does it always hurt you when people touch your scar?” Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry, of course you wouldn’t know....I just don’t remember you ever mentioning.....”
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
“Would it be all right if I-?”
Harry understood. He didn’t want to feel that shock of pain again, but he felt bad that he’d startled Neville’s poor mother, and now Neville looked all worried and pale. He nodded that it was all right, then closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and held absolutely still while Neville reached out and laid a careful hand on his forehead. The gentle touch felt cool, and comforting, and caused him no pain whatsoever. Harry let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding.
It didn’t hurt. In fact, it felt rather nice.
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
“I brought you a piece of cake.” Neville announced when he came in the following morning. He unwrapped something from a piece of shiny white paper, then handed him a china plate with a large wedge of chocolate cake on it. The dark frosting was decorated with green sugar leaves around the top and a few squiggled letters written in icing. It seemed like quite a special piece of cake, especially with the fancy silver fork beside it.
“Is it my birthday?” he asked, half joking.
“Tomorrow is your birthday, actually,” Neville said. “Today’s mine.”
“Oh. Happy Birthday to you, then.” Harry offered him a quick smile, and dipped the fork eagerly into the elegant dessert. It tasted every bit as good as it looked, and he enjoyed a few blissful moments focused on nothing but several velvety textures of chocolate. When he was done, he set the plate carefully on the bed stand table, and took a deep drink of ice water. “So, did you make a wish this morning?” he asked amiably.
Neville, who’d been staring out the window while Harry had been eating, nodded but didn’t answer him. He crossed the room, then, and sat down heavily in the chair by the door, and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. It took Harry a minute to realize why he needed it. He felt his face flush with the horrified fear that he might have done or said something to make Neville start crying. It was the last thing he’d want to do.
“Neville, you’re not upset because of me, are you?”
“Yes, Harry, I am,” came the surprisingly direct answer.
“I seem to be making a lot of people cry this week,” he said guiltily. “I’m sorry, I don’t meant to.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s just, we’ve been friends a long time, Harry, and it ... it hurts to see you like this.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry said, again.
“Don’t pay me any mind.” Neville sat up and made a visible attempt to pull himself together, blowing his nose with a rather loud and ungainly snort.
“You snore,” Harry said quietly.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he muttered quickly. But it wasn’t nothing. Something had tugged at his memory, and he spoke the words out loud. “I saw red curtains.”
Neville looked like someone trying not to show too much excitement about something he was really quite excited about. “That’s right, Harry,” he encouraged eagerly.
And Harry remembered... people in a dorm....himself, and Neville, and Ron, .... oh, God, Ron....and Dean, and Seamus. It came back to him in a tumble, big things and little things.... from his last Quidditch victory to Hermione’s hair pins, his life and his friends and his destiny and ... and one fall over a garden border, into a rain slicked bed of wet petunias and bricks.
Harry burst into tears.
Neville sat down beside him and pulled him carefully into an embrace.
“They never wanted me!” he wailed into his friend’s shoulder. “They didn’t love me!”
It somehow seemed the most horrible, hysterical confession in the world, but Neville’s voice sounded very calm and sure in his ear.
“It’s all right, Harry. We love you. Your real family is here.”
Harry thought about all the people Neville had patiently been telling him about over the last few days, all the people he’d been avoiding, and the quest he’d been hiding from. People he was supposed to be protecting, but who were rallied around protecting him instead. He wasn’t going to let them down again. For the moment, though, he let himself lean on Neville, the tears were still sliding down, but slower now. He felt like a black poisonous thorn had been pulled out of him from somewhere deep inside, and it had left a wound that still trickled, but it was out now, and the healing could begin.
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
Harry was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed and ready to leave. The remembrall he was rolling about in his hand was full of serene white mist. Remus Lupin was packing the brightly blooming geranium, a stack of magazines, and other assorted items into a small box while they waited for the last of the paperwork to get sorted out.
Harry had just asked about the Dursleys. Remus had actually growled at the mention of their name.
“Your aunt, uncle, and cousin have been transfigured for a while, for their own protection, they’re currently residing in their own garden under the watchful eye of Crookshanks, until such time as you are fully recovered.”
“I think I’m pretty recovered,” Harry said, lip twitching a little as he struggled not to laugh at the plight of his relatives, no matter how well deserved it might be.
“Hmm. Well, perhaps until the first Tuesday after your full recovery, then.”
“Professor Lupin...”
“Oh, very well. Although they’re much pleasanter as toads, in my humble opinion.”
“I’m surprised at you, sir. Transfiguring Muggles. I mean, it’s brilliant, but -still.”
“I’m only sorry that I didn’t think of it first. It was actually Arthur Weasley.”
Harry’s jaw dropped. “Mr. Weasley? ”
“Never anger a red-head, Harry, even the pleasant, mild-mannered ones. I trust you’ve learned that, by now.” Remus chuckled.
“He won’t get into trouble....” Harry began anxiously.
Remus snorted. “Considering the number of people who wanted to get their hands on those people, myself included, Arthur probably saved their lives.”
Harry did laugh at that, out loud, and the sound carried out into the hall.....
... where it was heard by two members of Harry’s family, who were coming to take him home. Neville closed his eyes, and murmured something brief but heartfelt.
“Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked, turning around curiously.
“Yes, ma’am. I was just thinking how good it is to hear that laugh again,” he said earnestly.
“That it is, dear,” she said softly, putting an arm around him. “That it is.”