Harry pt 1 WIP
Harry.
By Arinan.
The dusting of snow fell thickly around them, brushed against chapped lips and rough hands, leeching heat until the numb flesh could only feel the slightest pressure of fingers through the woolen gloves.
You will return?
No words were spoke, communication taking place with minute movements and gestures.
There was a soft sigh in the darkness and the edges of their coats brushed briefly against one another.
Of course.
The two figures stood indistinctly in a landscape blurred by deeply drifting snow and ice. The figures began to fade from dark blurs to gray until there’s only a single patch of shadow in a slow drifting swirl of white.
The other is gone, but he waits for the return.
~ ~ ! ~ ~ ! ~ ~
There were voices somewhere above him indistinct and muffled; he strained to resolve the pitches into sound and focus the noise into words, but a strange pressure filled his head and he sunk back into the formless realm below, the echoes and murmurs becoming more and more faint until they washed over him as waves over sand and he lost all sense of up.
There’s a women speaking and he’s sure he should know her name. He can feel her warm breath and knows in some indescribable way that she’s waiting for him to return.
A sad voice, weary and dusty; like the long road he saw once in his childhood. “Is he still there? Is he the same?” A brittle edge hides beneath the road and clearly, so clearly he can see where the dust has worn through and the sharp plunge and glittering shards that will result. He wants to warn the dusty, glittering voice of the dangers, but he cannot speak and he does not know whom he is warning.
“Harry?” Someone called out. Ducking his head guiltily he drained his goblet and turned to face the morning wrath of one of his best friends.
“Sorry,” he muttered sheepishly.
“Honestly Harry,” Hermione said tartly. “You’d think you would at least manage to pay attention when someone’s talking to you.”
Grabbing a roll and buttering it he replied, “Look I’m sorry, Hermione. What were you saying?”
She rolled her eyes. “I was saying, Harry, as you no doubt missed, that we should eat quickly and go visit Ron in the Hospital before potions seeing as Snape will skin us if we’re late to his class.”
“’e won’ ki’ us,” Harry gulped down his mouthful of roll and continued. “He’ll have Filch do it.”
“That’s sooo reassuring. Hurry up, boy.”
Grabbing another roll from the breakfast table, Harry scooped up his books and ran to catch up with Hermione as she strode out of the Great Hall.
The colors shift, and now he thinks he can see the glittering voice, but there is only a sparkle and when he tries to catch it, it dissolves. He remembers catching it once and holding it so warm against his chest like a precious feather.
It’s his eleventh birthday. Around him his friends whisper excitedly and he grins as a slim hand slips into his own and a warm breath puffs by his ear. “Are you going to open it?” Laughter and the warm, smooth package under his hands. He feels like the happiest boy in the world as the bright sun shines into his eyes making them water; he squints until it resolves into the red numbers of the watch in front of his face. 3... 2… 1… Bang! A sharp force rocks the little hut on the rock and he knows he is now eleven.
~ ~ ~ ~
“Harry. Harry, love, when will you wake up?” Like dry autumn leaves the words waft around on small currents of air before landing, dry and crackling on his mind.
There is something warm on his face, soft- is it the sun? Yes! The strong autumn sun, its hot afternoon rays almost caressing. Smiling gently he leans into its warmth; it was always a pleasure to sit out on those last few sun soaked days and simply absorb it all before the cold winter moved in.
There was a girl he used to sit out with... what was her name? They’d sit on her back porch, dangling their feet in the dry rustling leaves and kicking them like they were water. She’d kissed him once; the last summer they’d had together. The year before he went to school. It was an innocent kiss, and her eyes had been so full of laughter he’d reach right over and tickled her until they both fell into the leaves.
“Harry?” she’d said, as they lay in the leaves. “Are you ever going to come back?”
“Of course,” He’d promised, and they’d played among the leaves in the dry autumn air until a shrill voice called his name. They’d hugged tightly, her hair smelling like smoke and crushed leaves lent reds and golds to the brown. She was the prettiest girl he’d ever met, but he never went back.
What was her name? It’s really starting to bother him. Cho? He’d kissed Cho, remembers her long black hair: so straight, so shiny. Hermione maybe? She had brown hair, lovely uncontrollable locks; he teased her about them once and- but that was at school. So not her…
He frowns now in confusion and-
“He can’t hear me, can he?”
-waves irritably at the words buzzing around his head. Why can’t he remember her name? Tired and frustrated he turns to follow the small glowing fish. They look friendly and a good deal less irritating than old memories.
Hello fishies, he croons-
“His lips moved! Harry, what did you say?”
-and turns, following them deeper. Behind him a trickle of dust floats through the water, catching the sun light, and sparkles.
“Harry, talk to me...”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The fish are gone. Lost, or eaten by the giant squid; he doesn’t know. But he’s starting to get a little worried because there’s even less light in this part of the lake and his gillyweed’s going to start wearing off soon. Maybe he can find the merfolk. They were helpful during the Tri-Wizard tournament; maybe they can help again.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“He’s not breathing! Ohgod”
A glimmer in the distance. He can see it sparkling and tries to grab it in his fingers, but he seems sluggish. Perhaps it’s just an illusion like the bog fairies were. Muzzily he recalls the ferocious teasing that had accompanied that incident and flails to hit-
Ann. Her name had been Ann, and she’d been his neighbor. How could he have forgotten that? She’d been his best friend for years until he started school. Suddenly lucid, he looks around himself in surprise. What on earth had possessed him to come here? Shaking his head at the gloomy water he swims up. It was never a good idea to go alone into an unfamiliar situation. His very first partner had told him that.
“You go into a dark place alone, Harry, and you may not come out of it again. Always take your partner- that’s me.”
Well, he was in a dark, unfamiliar place and all alone, but he was coming back. He’d promised.
“We’ve got him back. He’s ok.”
“Oh thank the gods.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The woman is back. He can almost see her: a hazy blur wavering side to side, or maybe he is the one moving. She’s speaking again, and the colors bounce over him, eluding capture. Oh, but it doesn’t matter because they aren’t for him. He turns, fascinated, to watch the colors bleed onto the dry dusty road. They briefly stain the dirt; turning to colored mud, then drain away. The sharp glittery bits seem unaffected.
“Quills down!” A sharp voice rapped out. It jolted him from his post exam stupor, and he knocked his inkpot off his desk with a flailing elbow. Face burning he slid out of his chair and knelt to begin gathering the broken glass shards off the smooth flagstones of the Great Hall.
“Honestly, Potter.” He heard a voice snicker from somewhere above him. Gritting his teeth Harry concentrated on placing one ink stained glass shard after another onto his palm instead of the smirking bastards around him. The puddle of black ink was starting to dry, growing tacky to the touch and with increasing difficulty and irritation he continued pulling the glittering slivers out of it.
“Harry!” The voice came right next to his ear and he jumped again, this time whacking his head on the edge of his desk.
“What?” he snapped out. “I’m almost finished here, go bother someone else.”
“Harry, you feeling alright?” Was he- that was it. Growling with irritation he placed his mud splattered hands on the ground and pushed his way to his feet, ready to punch the bastard who had interrupted his forensics practical again.
A mockingly cheerful grin met his furious glare.
“You!” He started, waving one grimy finger in the face of his tormentor. “You are so close to getting socked in the eye!”
“You? Punch me?” Grey eyes widened in surprise and then laughter. “Harry, my friend. You have been working on this for far too long if you think you can get the drop on me. C’mon.” Heedless of the thick clinging grey sludge that liberally covered Harry’s arms and robes, the man grabbed his hand and began hauling him away from the carefully marked plot.
“Bu- but!”
“No buts, Harry! You are entitled to one half hour break and I’m going to see that you get it.” Gods, the bastard shouldn’t sound so damn cheerful. Swearing under his breath Harry stumbled after him through the slow chaos of students. Cold water splashed over his hands and Harry realized abruptly that they were in the men’s washroom inside the academy.
“Off with the mud, Harry!” Soap, a wash cloth, and a rubber ducky were shoved into his arms as brisk hands stripped off his soggy outer robes.
“And into the shower!”
“Wha-” started his outraged cry of confusion before lukewarm water came crashing down over his head, cutting off any further protests. Through the sheet of water he could see the blurry form of his hypothetical best friend laughing hysterically. Shaking his head vigorously under the deluge Harry stripped off his undergarments and threw them at his friend. Grinning slightly at the wet thwacking sound and startled shout that reached his ears he grabbed the soap, rolled his eyes at the rubber ducky and began scrubbing hours worth of grime out of his skin.
“Now you have energy…” came muttering from the tiles outside the shower. “See if I ever drag you out of your self-induced exam obsession coma ever again. Pah! Next time I’m leaving you to- to starve and stew in your frustration. Never again am I bringing you fresh bacon sandwiches and throwing you into a shower so you can feel human again. Never! Next time I’ll leave you an inhuman mud pile glowering at invisible bone shards an-”
Harry stuck his head out of the water, thick black hair dripping into his eyes. “Did you mention food?”
“I most certainly did no-”
“Ohmygod you did!” Harry interrupted smelling the telltale scent of bacon. Heedless of the water he was dripping everywhere the young man rushed out of the shower in a whirl of soap scented steam, planted a kiss on the ruffled blond hair of his best friend, still sprawled on the tiles, and snatched up one of the sandwiches. With a moan he ripped off the paper wrapping and sank his teeth into the thick bread.
“Right... ingrate I tell you.”
“’ank’ou,” Harry swallowed. “You’re the best, mate.”
“Damn straight I am. The best friend and partner to ever walk the streets of London.”
Grinning and feeling human for the first time in hours, Harry devoured the rest of the sandwich and listened to the outrageous boasts of his friend. He wondered how long it would take the blond to realize his designer robes were soaking wet.
“AAAHHH!” Ah, that long.
And sinks back into the comforting monochromatic warmth. Welcoming and oblivious.
~ ~ ~ ~
“Do you think we’re going to die?”
“Ha-” the weak voice cut off in a bubbling gasp.
“Shh… that was a rhetorical question. Don’t actually answer you idiot.” Wearily he scrubbed a fist against his eyes. They’d been sitting in this un-strategic, worthless rock of hole for what felt like days. There were two people with him, two people for back up in the midst of a Death Eater raid, and one of them was a corpse. The other… he looked down at the huddled shape against his side. A pale blond boy lay shivering under a dusty cloak. His features were drawn and lined with pain and every breath hitched at the end before continuing. How had things gone so wrong?
Harry could feel tears of frustration building in his throat and he choked them down with grim resolve. They were going to live through this. He was going to make them live through this. Just because they had no food, no water, no medical supplies or knowledge and the Slytherin bastard that had shoved him out of the path of some unidentified curse had been lying in a state of semi-shock ever since was no reason for them to give up and die now.
Jerry was dead. He glanced at the bloating corpse in the far corner of the room. His fellow Gryffindor had helped him drag the Slytherin into this small classroom after stunning and gutting the Death Eater. But Jerry had already been hit with several curses and had slowly bled to death over the hours after they barricaded the door. With no information and no orders he wasn’t sure it was worth the risk of leaving the room. No one knew they were here; if they did the two of them would already have be dead. If they stayed... the Slytherin was injured. Pretty badly too, judging from his breathing. Harry had no idea what to do, had no what the curse had been, had no idea who the Slytherin was either. It was obvious the other boy couldn’t talk, every effort was weaker and each breath became more labored, so even if he did know something there was no way for Harry to find out. If he was even lucid. They couldn’t stay here forever; that was what Jerry had said before he’d started hallucinating.
God, he wished Jerry were still alive and he had the confident 6th year instead of this John Doe of questionable loyalty and ability. Well, negative ability now. Because of him. Because he’d been hit by the curse aimed at Harry.
It was too much for a thirteen year old and Harry started to cry silently, tears rolling down his dusty cheeks. A gentle tugging on his cloak went unnoticed, and after a few moments the pale hand fell limply away, too exhausted to continue.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The light playing over his skin is what wakes him. There is a gentle rocking motion, the pull of currents and tides that are less detectable in the deep waters.
Above him he can see the shallows. They’re lighter, almost transparent, the way water in a glass is, but between him and them is a shoal of fish. Darting glittery things that he doesn’t know the name of. Hemione would, but she isn’t here. Hagrid probably would too, well maybe. If they were dangerous Hagrid would know, but of course Hagrid isn’t here either. It’s just himself in this wide fish plagued not-ocean. In any case Hagrid thinks he’s dead, as the groundskeeper should.
For the first time in his memory of this place, Harry can feel his muscles ripple beneath his skin as he kicks his legs and pushes himself toward the surface, toward that brilliant white light. Around him the fish dart, slippery and cold, but he ignores their distraction. He knows what his goal is, and as surely as a forbidden curse he’s single mindedly pursuing it until it is reached.
The water pours over his mind as it breaks, and now the he can feel the sun’s rays on his skin; feel the light touch of air currents, and he smiles because he has come back.
~ ~ ~ ~
The smile lasted all of a split second before the weight of reality- physical reality, crashed down on him and his head and skin began to scream in agony. Dimly in the background he could hear the distinctive tapping and rustling noises that are the hallmark of many people moving around all at once, but those noises were quickly ignored in favor of the pounding in his head. A whimper escaped his throat, or at least he thought it was he. Hard to be sure when- ohgodohgodohgod make it stop makeitstop! The pounding in his head had abruptly ceased, only to be replaced by a vicious searing heat, similar to the time he’d had a personal encounter with a branding iron, but this time it was in his brain and he couldn’t think clearly enough to makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop! He was on fire; his skin burned like the desert sands and his head was a flaming brand. Where was the ocean- he never should have left, ohgod. Vaguely he felt a slight abatement of the agony as tears leaked from his eyes, but it was only a miniscule relief and it wasn’t enough and-
Darkness slid over the flames and extinguished them. Gratefully he surrendered consciousness.
~ ~ ~ ~
“Harry? Harry, love. I need you to wake up and try drinking this.”
Opening his eyes was a devastating trial in endurance. Even as he set his muscles to the task he could feel considerable amounts of resistance from the rest of his mind. Eventually the lids on his right eye tore apart; he figured that was a good enough victory for the time being and blinked carefully to sleep the sleep from his eyes. Slowly, much more slowly than he would have liked or approved of, the room swam into view and focused.
He was in a hospital room. That much was obvious seeing as no other establishment on the planet would feel the need to make everything so white. In a hospital bed actually, curiously he tried lifting an arm and was unsurprised to discover it wouldn’t respond. Whatever he had done to himself this time it was clearly a bit of a doozy. Movement on his right caught in the corner of his one open eye and he cautiously turned his head a miniscule amount to see the plump medi-witch seated by the side of his bed. In contrast to her starched light green robes, the orange water glass she held in one of her hands was almost comical.
“Good morning,” he said, or tried to say. Somewhere from his brain to his mouth the words got stuck in his throat and only a strangled wheezing noise escaped. Not terribly good for first impressions, but on the other hand he would have to assume he’d been here for a while, and unconscious bodies seldom make any positive impression at all.
The medi-witch frown slightly at the noise even as her eyes crinkled happily.
“Throat a bit dry, love?” she asked. “That’s to be expected,” she continued without waiting for an answer. “You’ve been here quite a while without anything to drink. Let’s see how this goes down, hmm?”
With the skilled gentleness of a professional she maneuvered his head up onto several pillows and held the glass to his lips, all the while chattering pleasantly. Greedily he dipped his tongue in the water, and then moaned in pleasure as the cool water dribbled down his throat. Nothing could compare to this. Little more than half the glass was gone before he began to feel as if he’d had enough. Somehow the medi-witch sensed this, and she took the glass away and smiled at him.
“Feel better?”
“Very much so. Thank you.” The words were hoarse and barely even a whisper, but she heard them.”
“You’re very welcome, Harry. It’s so nice to see you finally awake.” She winked and he could feel a slight grin form on his face. “I’ve been seeing a lot of you Mister,” she continued on, light-hearted, soothing babble, and he let it wash over him, comforting as the tides. Occasionally he’d try and twitch his fingers and was rewarded when the left hand seemed to respond. It was nice to be awake he decided. There was something solid and reassuring about the real world as opposed to the dream world, and he’d had more than his fill of the latter.
Slowly, as time passed and shadows began to form on the walls, he became aware he was missing something, he was sure of it. Absently his hand crept to his face, and he was startled not to feel the cool metal of his glasses rims.
“Where-” he breathed, taken aback.
“Oh, Harry,” the woman said a bit sadly, “You don’t have glasses.”
In shock, he jerked his head around to look her in the eyes and winced slightly at what the movement did to the inside of his head. It felt like someone had liquidized his entire brain, and it was going to start sloshing out of his nose and ears if he weren’t careful.
“I-” He started and then stopped, confused.
Carefully the nurse set the water glass on a small table next to his bed. The table was sparsely covered with a few get-well cards and a vase of cheerful looking daffodils. On the floor next to the table there was a stack of newspapers. The Daily Prophet he assumed.
“Harry,” she began. “What do you remember?”
What did he remember?
Not much it seemed at first, and then things began trickling back, images, words, memories.
“I- I was in a fight..” he began hesitantly. The upward lilt at the end making it more of a question than a statement.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Turns out he was remembering a bar fight that had never happened. The medi-witch- Gertrude was her name. She didn’t give him a last name, “Just call me Gertrude, love” is what she said, and he didn’t pursue it. Gertrude told him not to worry about it.
“Harry,” she said looking him in the eyes with a firm hand on his shoulder. “You’ve suffered some serious trauma and we can’t be sure what the effects were. Now, I believe that you’re going to get all your memories sorted out and put back together, and when you do you’ll be out of here like a shot, leaving poor Gertrude behind.”
He’d smiled at the idea of anyone leaving the cheerful medi-witch behind. She might have looked like a pushover, but he’d seen her bossing one of the doctors around earlier when he was supposed to be asleep. A spine of steel was what this woman had.
“But right now your brain seems to be making memories up, trying to fill in the blanks that don’t make sense. Humans like things to be tidy, orderly, and I suspect that the state your mind is in is anything but, so your body’s trying to fix that. I’m going to help your sort out what’s real and what’s not until you have a handle on yourself, okay?”
He’d nodded, there was really no other choice was there. It had been pretty easy to figure out the bar fight couldn’t have been real. A few questions had revealed to them both that he’d never been in a bar, which was actually rather odd. Still, the other memories might not be so simple. When he tried to think about it his head began to ache and visions of soap bubbles filled his mind distorting and coloring ephemeral images. He knew when to leave well enough alone. The only thing he was really sure of was that his name was Harry and he was a wizard.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Green.
He shot out of bed like a live wire- nerves tense and muscles twitching. Around him the pale hospital room was bathed in the night shades of blue and gray. Layer upon layer of shadow generated by a bright full moon. An easy environment to spot movement in; the slightest twitch caused a cascade of ripples in the careful lines of hospital regimented furniture.
He was alone.
Slowly he began to relax, began to feel the tremble in his limbs and the clammy sweat on his skin. He was clad only in thin hospital pyjamas; standard fare that barely reached mid thigh. Carefully he pulled back the tangled sheets on his bed and settled under them. The newspapers that had been by the table earlier were gone, he noticed. They must have taken them away while he slept.
He should have lay down and gone back to sleep, but instead he sat there, clutching the starched white cotton sheets and staring at the dim shadows where the stack of newspapers had been.
He’d been…
He’d been in a fight…
And the soap bubbles all popped. It was a quiet, fantastical revolution, the cool knowledge filling him with a certainty he hadn’t felt since waking up. If this was reality it was too fantastical, too far fetched. It had to be right… no, it was right.
Tomorrow he would ask for the newspapers back. Now that he knew why they had taken them away they would give them back.
Harry lay back in the standard hospital bed on the standard cotton sheets, closed his eyes and did not dream.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Good Morning, Harry.”
Mmm, the delightful voice of Gertude the ever cheerful- just the woman he wanted to see. Hear. Whatever.
He opened his eyes with smile on his face, “Good morning, Gertrude my dear.”
The medi-witch was bustling around with the breakfast tray, but he managed to catch the edge of her trailing robes with one hand.
“Could you get me today’s Prophet?”
A flicker of emotions less sunny than her earlier countenance passed over her face.
“Harry…” she began.
“Its alright, Gertrude.” Carefully he levered himself into a sitting position, then cautiously swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “I woke up last night and remembered everything.” Turning his head he smiled roguishly up at her stunned face. “I don’t suppose you could get me some real clothes too? I don’t fancy meeting with the director of intelligence in a night shirt.”
She set the tray down on the table and gave an uncharacteristic flutter with her hands. “Oh, Harry! You’re really back, sir.” In a rustle of cloth she enfolded him in a warm embrace, then pulled away, eyes bright with unshed tears. “I’ll go let the directors know at once, they’ll be so pleased.” She wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief then paused at the door, “But you’ll have to wait for that newspaper. Intel will want to brief you himself.”
Harry waved a hand at her in a lazy acknowledgement and she bustled out of the room and down the hall.
The hall that no doubt led to the Dept. It was funny what a difference having memories made. Now he could see the obvious clues around the room. Ha! A single room for one patient? After the war? No, he wasn’t at St. Mungo’s.
Languidly he stretched out his bare toes and wiggled them. The last time he remembered being in this room had been after the Brandshaw offensive. The failed Brandshaw offensive. He’d gotten stitches here for a cursed wound that wouldn’t respond to healing spells. Poor Margarite had been forced to sew up the gash in his side with a sewing needle and silk thread of all things. He wiggled his toes again just for the joy of it. Maybe most would consider it a bad thing to wake up in the emergency medical office hidden deep within the Department of Mysteries, but to him it just meant that home was a corridor away. And it was good to be home again after, what had it been? Well, assuming he hadn’t been unconscious for the last ten years or some fool thing like that. It’d been about six years then. Six years since he’d been himself, six years of Harry Bloody Potter.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Gertrude came back fairly quickly, still suspiciously bright eyed, with a violet messenger crane following her. As soon as the door was pulled open it darted over to where Harry sat on the edge of the bed and landed gently on his upraised palm.
The rattle of the door shutting made him glance up at the medi-witch.
“It’s a message from Intel, sir,” she elaborated.
“Hmm,” he looked back at the bright paper, crisp lines beginning to wilt in his hand. Deftly he touch the crane’s head with his index figure and a shiver ran through the tiny paper creature before it unfolded to lie crisply on his palm.
He read the sparse lines carefully then closed his fist, crumpling the note.
“Gertrude, did you bring me some decent clothing?”
“At the foot of the bed, love.” She nodded from the corner of the room where she was replacing bandages.
A pale blue robe was folded neatly with a pair of matching slippers on top of the coverlet. “Thank you,” he murmured absently as he held the robe up in front of him.
“No problem. I imagine you’re wanting to get out of here as soon as possible.”
Halfway out of the flimsy nightshirt Harry snorted in amusement, “More like Intel wants to see me immediately. Some things-” He pulled it over his head, muffling his next words, “-never change, do they.”
She chuckled in agreement and he continued getting dressed while she moved around the room in companionable silence.
Soon he was sliding the slippers on his feet and ready to leave. A quick glance in the mirror on the way out of the room showed him his own thin face surrounded by messy black hair. The blue robe did little to hide the thinness of his body and he was distinctly amused to notice it was several inches too short. Never trust a hospital to come up with decent clothing. It never happened.
Gertrude looked up from her medicines when the door rattled open under his hand, “Good like with Intel, Harry.” She smiled warmly, and suddenly he felt the enormity of what this meant.
“It’s really good to have you back, sir. We’ve…missed you.”
Throat tight, he nodded once to her then stepped out into the shaded corridor, carefully closing the door on that small sunny room.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The corridor was a small narrow affair. Cracked plaster in faded beige covered the rough brickwork. Rather inadequately, Harry mused as he thoughtfully put a finger on the wall across from the door. Beneath it the dry plaster crumbled away, revealing old, discolored bricks. Ah, government budgets at their best.
Throw a million galleons at an important government organization and you’d think that’d it would occur to someone to spend a bit of it on interior decoration. Well, at least repairs. A couple galleons every month for paint and small patch jobs where water leaked in and ruined the finish. A pittance, really, that’s all that was required.
He smiled and fingered a patch of exposed brick. As long as he could remember this hallway had been in disrepair. Hidden deep within the belly of the Dept. of Mysteries was a network of small narrow passageways like this one. Inadequately lit and poorly maintained any visitors would hard pressed to tell that they were, in fact, some of the main arteries of the DoM. It would seem, no matter what logic said otherwise, that groups of highly trained and trusted individuals would rather spend those millions of galleons on things like research and esoteric equipment whose function, let alone the mechanics behind it, could barely be understood by those outside.
That was what they’d called them when he’d been there. You were part of the Dept., a part of DoM, or you were an outsider. A single witch light burned coldly a few handspans above Harry’s head. It cast a harsh blue light over the surroundings, illuminating the oily smudge that marred the walls at waist height. That was the mark of the hundreds of hands that passed through this corridor everyday. Fingers trailed gently against the walls as he walked, a precaution; the witch lights failed often and were placed irregularly. When he’d been new Harry had asked about it. Wouldn’t it make more sense to have well lit passageways? Wouldn’t that make it easier to spot intruders? Moving out of the glare the witch light cast he smiled at his old naiveté. The Intel Director, a hard eyed woman called Dory, had lectured him fiercely about making familiar territory as unpredictable as possible for intruders. They didn’t need the light to find their way around, but people unfamiliar with the building would. And anyone who needed light wasn’t supposed to be here.
Also, she’d added at the end, it helps hide us.
Harry turned a corner, shadows thickening as the witch light’s cold illumination dimmed. There wouldn’t be another one until he reached his destination itself. Even if someone did blunder back here the darkness was a good general deterrent. Most assumed the corridor was a dead end.
It was funny; everyone knew the Department of Mysteries was one of the most secretive branches of the government. If nothing else the name was a bit of a tip off. Unspeakables, in keeping with their name, were forbidden to speak of their jobs and what happened behind those innocuous doors. This was the land of the almost forbidden and the hall of the inscrutable and intractable, the place where secrets were lost, kept, and found. Knowing this, as everyone did, it was positively baffling that same everyone continued to think that the Dept. of Mysteries hid no secrets larger than itself.
Perfect cover, Dory had said, snapping a mouthful of Drooble’s best blowing gum. Everyone thinks the Mystery is so carefully contained they never even think to look for us. Hidden in plain sight as the saying goes. Well, camouflaged among the camouflaged.
The visibility faded to nothing and Harry felt his way along wall. Smooth plaster interdispersed with the rough brick that caught and tugged at his trailing fingers. The pattern was familiar still, and he anticipated each change in texture, smiling when he was proved right.
Did you know, Harry, his partner had told him once when they were on a long boring stake out. There’s no record of the Dept.
None? What about the Minister?
There’d been laughter at his surprise, Some ministers have been told. If Dumbledore had become Minister I think Dory would have told him, but Fudge? Nah, we’re not telling him a thing. He doesn’t need to know.
Well, Harry had objected, squinting through the rain. Where does the money come from? We can call for back up and the Aurors come. How does that happen if we don’t exist?
A pale eyebrow had lifted at that, You haven’t noticed? They think we’re part of the Dept. of Mysteries. Everyone does. Everything we get we take from DoM. Our budget, equipment, he’d smirked. Aliases. Think of DoM as our shell, a front. We’re the predator underneath that no one knows to look for. No record.
All the DoM people know about us, Harry had pointed logically. He’d gotten a sardonic smile for his trouble.
Harry, we’re work related.
Right, Unspeakables.
The smooth flagstone beneath his feet changed to rougher bricks. It was his only warning before his questing hand thunked into wood. For a moment he stood in the dark, listening to the silence. He wondered if Fudge had ever been told about this. Opinions had been very much against it when he’d left. All things considered, Fudge was a bit of duffer, but things might have changed with Voldemort. Although it seemed very unlikely, Voldemort hadn’t changed their decision not to tell Crouch. Still, the chance was always there. It was more likely Scrimgeour had been informed. A small, quiet meeting in his office with some tea and no small talk, but Harry seriously doubted it. There was something about the man that put him too much in the mind of Crouch. And knowing how that had turned out…
Gently he ran his right hand down the worn wood until it hit cold metal. The doorknob. Slowly he turned it and pulled the door open then without any hesitation he stepped through the opening and pulled the wooden slab firmly behind him.
There was a slight click as the door shut, and then no sound reached the dark corridor.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The door shut behind him with a gentle finality. There was no more light here than there had been in the corridor. It was another precaution. Open doors spilling light into dark corners tended to attract attention, so they avoided the problem all together and did not light the anteroom. Directly ahead and a little to the right there should be another door.
He let go of the smooth metal knob and took a cautious step into the darkness. Lightly his fingers danced over the smooth surface that could have been a door or wall until they ran into a small jutting protrusion at about waist height. It was a nail, small and a bit rusty from the feel of it. A score of nails had been hammered backwards through the door once as a joke. It had been a good joke. And the nails had never been removed although less than a dozen of them had remained the last time he’d counted. Time and wear had broken off some and bent many others, while some simply were ripped out of the door over the years.
Moving away from the sharp point his hand dropped onto the dented and pitted door handle. They replaced it every year, and by the feel of this one it needed replacing soon. Grasping it tightly Harry pulled the heavy door open, and light spilled into the small anteroom.
By Arinan.
The dusting of snow fell thickly around them, brushed against chapped lips and rough hands, leeching heat until the numb flesh could only feel the slightest pressure of fingers through the woolen gloves.
You will return?
No words were spoke, communication taking place with minute movements and gestures.
There was a soft sigh in the darkness and the edges of their coats brushed briefly against one another.
Of course.
The two figures stood indistinctly in a landscape blurred by deeply drifting snow and ice. The figures began to fade from dark blurs to gray until there’s only a single patch of shadow in a slow drifting swirl of white.
The other is gone, but he waits for the return.
~ ~ ! ~ ~ ! ~ ~
There were voices somewhere above him indistinct and muffled; he strained to resolve the pitches into sound and focus the noise into words, but a strange pressure filled his head and he sunk back into the formless realm below, the echoes and murmurs becoming more and more faint until they washed over him as waves over sand and he lost all sense of up.
There’s a women speaking and he’s sure he should know her name. He can feel her warm breath and knows in some indescribable way that she’s waiting for him to return.
A sad voice, weary and dusty; like the long road he saw once in his childhood. “Is he still there? Is he the same?” A brittle edge hides beneath the road and clearly, so clearly he can see where the dust has worn through and the sharp plunge and glittering shards that will result. He wants to warn the dusty, glittering voice of the dangers, but he cannot speak and he does not know whom he is warning.
“Harry?” Someone called out. Ducking his head guiltily he drained his goblet and turned to face the morning wrath of one of his best friends.
“Sorry,” he muttered sheepishly.
“Honestly Harry,” Hermione said tartly. “You’d think you would at least manage to pay attention when someone’s talking to you.”
Grabbing a roll and buttering it he replied, “Look I’m sorry, Hermione. What were you saying?”
She rolled her eyes. “I was saying, Harry, as you no doubt missed, that we should eat quickly and go visit Ron in the Hospital before potions seeing as Snape will skin us if we’re late to his class.”
“’e won’ ki’ us,” Harry gulped down his mouthful of roll and continued. “He’ll have Filch do it.”
“That’s sooo reassuring. Hurry up, boy.”
Grabbing another roll from the breakfast table, Harry scooped up his books and ran to catch up with Hermione as she strode out of the Great Hall.
The colors shift, and now he thinks he can see the glittering voice, but there is only a sparkle and when he tries to catch it, it dissolves. He remembers catching it once and holding it so warm against his chest like a precious feather.
It’s his eleventh birthday. Around him his friends whisper excitedly and he grins as a slim hand slips into his own and a warm breath puffs by his ear. “Are you going to open it?” Laughter and the warm, smooth package under his hands. He feels like the happiest boy in the world as the bright sun shines into his eyes making them water; he squints until it resolves into the red numbers of the watch in front of his face. 3... 2… 1… Bang! A sharp force rocks the little hut on the rock and he knows he is now eleven.
~ ~ ~ ~
“Harry. Harry, love, when will you wake up?” Like dry autumn leaves the words waft around on small currents of air before landing, dry and crackling on his mind.
There is something warm on his face, soft- is it the sun? Yes! The strong autumn sun, its hot afternoon rays almost caressing. Smiling gently he leans into its warmth; it was always a pleasure to sit out on those last few sun soaked days and simply absorb it all before the cold winter moved in.
There was a girl he used to sit out with... what was her name? They’d sit on her back porch, dangling their feet in the dry rustling leaves and kicking them like they were water. She’d kissed him once; the last summer they’d had together. The year before he went to school. It was an innocent kiss, and her eyes had been so full of laughter he’d reach right over and tickled her until they both fell into the leaves.
“Harry?” she’d said, as they lay in the leaves. “Are you ever going to come back?”
“Of course,” He’d promised, and they’d played among the leaves in the dry autumn air until a shrill voice called his name. They’d hugged tightly, her hair smelling like smoke and crushed leaves lent reds and golds to the brown. She was the prettiest girl he’d ever met, but he never went back.
What was her name? It’s really starting to bother him. Cho? He’d kissed Cho, remembers her long black hair: so straight, so shiny. Hermione maybe? She had brown hair, lovely uncontrollable locks; he teased her about them once and- but that was at school. So not her…
He frowns now in confusion and-
“He can’t hear me, can he?”
-waves irritably at the words buzzing around his head. Why can’t he remember her name? Tired and frustrated he turns to follow the small glowing fish. They look friendly and a good deal less irritating than old memories.
Hello fishies, he croons-
“His lips moved! Harry, what did you say?”
-and turns, following them deeper. Behind him a trickle of dust floats through the water, catching the sun light, and sparkles.
“Harry, talk to me...”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The fish are gone. Lost, or eaten by the giant squid; he doesn’t know. But he’s starting to get a little worried because there’s even less light in this part of the lake and his gillyweed’s going to start wearing off soon. Maybe he can find the merfolk. They were helpful during the Tri-Wizard tournament; maybe they can help again.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“He’s not breathing! Ohgod”
A glimmer in the distance. He can see it sparkling and tries to grab it in his fingers, but he seems sluggish. Perhaps it’s just an illusion like the bog fairies were. Muzzily he recalls the ferocious teasing that had accompanied that incident and flails to hit-
Ann. Her name had been Ann, and she’d been his neighbor. How could he have forgotten that? She’d been his best friend for years until he started school. Suddenly lucid, he looks around himself in surprise. What on earth had possessed him to come here? Shaking his head at the gloomy water he swims up. It was never a good idea to go alone into an unfamiliar situation. His very first partner had told him that.
“You go into a dark place alone, Harry, and you may not come out of it again. Always take your partner- that’s me.”
Well, he was in a dark, unfamiliar place and all alone, but he was coming back. He’d promised.
“We’ve got him back. He’s ok.”
“Oh thank the gods.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The woman is back. He can almost see her: a hazy blur wavering side to side, or maybe he is the one moving. She’s speaking again, and the colors bounce over him, eluding capture. Oh, but it doesn’t matter because they aren’t for him. He turns, fascinated, to watch the colors bleed onto the dry dusty road. They briefly stain the dirt; turning to colored mud, then drain away. The sharp glittery bits seem unaffected.
“Quills down!” A sharp voice rapped out. It jolted him from his post exam stupor, and he knocked his inkpot off his desk with a flailing elbow. Face burning he slid out of his chair and knelt to begin gathering the broken glass shards off the smooth flagstones of the Great Hall.
“Honestly, Potter.” He heard a voice snicker from somewhere above him. Gritting his teeth Harry concentrated on placing one ink stained glass shard after another onto his palm instead of the smirking bastards around him. The puddle of black ink was starting to dry, growing tacky to the touch and with increasing difficulty and irritation he continued pulling the glittering slivers out of it.
“Harry!” The voice came right next to his ear and he jumped again, this time whacking his head on the edge of his desk.
“What?” he snapped out. “I’m almost finished here, go bother someone else.”
“Harry, you feeling alright?” Was he- that was it. Growling with irritation he placed his mud splattered hands on the ground and pushed his way to his feet, ready to punch the bastard who had interrupted his forensics practical again.
A mockingly cheerful grin met his furious glare.
“You!” He started, waving one grimy finger in the face of his tormentor. “You are so close to getting socked in the eye!”
“You? Punch me?” Grey eyes widened in surprise and then laughter. “Harry, my friend. You have been working on this for far too long if you think you can get the drop on me. C’mon.” Heedless of the thick clinging grey sludge that liberally covered Harry’s arms and robes, the man grabbed his hand and began hauling him away from the carefully marked plot.
“Bu- but!”
“No buts, Harry! You are entitled to one half hour break and I’m going to see that you get it.” Gods, the bastard shouldn’t sound so damn cheerful. Swearing under his breath Harry stumbled after him through the slow chaos of students. Cold water splashed over his hands and Harry realized abruptly that they were in the men’s washroom inside the academy.
“Off with the mud, Harry!” Soap, a wash cloth, and a rubber ducky were shoved into his arms as brisk hands stripped off his soggy outer robes.
“And into the shower!”
“Wha-” started his outraged cry of confusion before lukewarm water came crashing down over his head, cutting off any further protests. Through the sheet of water he could see the blurry form of his hypothetical best friend laughing hysterically. Shaking his head vigorously under the deluge Harry stripped off his undergarments and threw them at his friend. Grinning slightly at the wet thwacking sound and startled shout that reached his ears he grabbed the soap, rolled his eyes at the rubber ducky and began scrubbing hours worth of grime out of his skin.
“Now you have energy…” came muttering from the tiles outside the shower. “See if I ever drag you out of your self-induced exam obsession coma ever again. Pah! Next time I’m leaving you to- to starve and stew in your frustration. Never again am I bringing you fresh bacon sandwiches and throwing you into a shower so you can feel human again. Never! Next time I’ll leave you an inhuman mud pile glowering at invisible bone shards an-”
Harry stuck his head out of the water, thick black hair dripping into his eyes. “Did you mention food?”
“I most certainly did no-”
“Ohmygod you did!” Harry interrupted smelling the telltale scent of bacon. Heedless of the water he was dripping everywhere the young man rushed out of the shower in a whirl of soap scented steam, planted a kiss on the ruffled blond hair of his best friend, still sprawled on the tiles, and snatched up one of the sandwiches. With a moan he ripped off the paper wrapping and sank his teeth into the thick bread.
“Right... ingrate I tell you.”
“’ank’ou,” Harry swallowed. “You’re the best, mate.”
“Damn straight I am. The best friend and partner to ever walk the streets of London.”
Grinning and feeling human for the first time in hours, Harry devoured the rest of the sandwich and listened to the outrageous boasts of his friend. He wondered how long it would take the blond to realize his designer robes were soaking wet.
“AAAHHH!” Ah, that long.
And sinks back into the comforting monochromatic warmth. Welcoming and oblivious.
~ ~ ~ ~
“Do you think we’re going to die?”
“Ha-” the weak voice cut off in a bubbling gasp.
“Shh… that was a rhetorical question. Don’t actually answer you idiot.” Wearily he scrubbed a fist against his eyes. They’d been sitting in this un-strategic, worthless rock of hole for what felt like days. There were two people with him, two people for back up in the midst of a Death Eater raid, and one of them was a corpse. The other… he looked down at the huddled shape against his side. A pale blond boy lay shivering under a dusty cloak. His features were drawn and lined with pain and every breath hitched at the end before continuing. How had things gone so wrong?
Harry could feel tears of frustration building in his throat and he choked them down with grim resolve. They were going to live through this. He was going to make them live through this. Just because they had no food, no water, no medical supplies or knowledge and the Slytherin bastard that had shoved him out of the path of some unidentified curse had been lying in a state of semi-shock ever since was no reason for them to give up and die now.
Jerry was dead. He glanced at the bloating corpse in the far corner of the room. His fellow Gryffindor had helped him drag the Slytherin into this small classroom after stunning and gutting the Death Eater. But Jerry had already been hit with several curses and had slowly bled to death over the hours after they barricaded the door. With no information and no orders he wasn’t sure it was worth the risk of leaving the room. No one knew they were here; if they did the two of them would already have be dead. If they stayed... the Slytherin was injured. Pretty badly too, judging from his breathing. Harry had no idea what to do, had no what the curse had been, had no idea who the Slytherin was either. It was obvious the other boy couldn’t talk, every effort was weaker and each breath became more labored, so even if he did know something there was no way for Harry to find out. If he was even lucid. They couldn’t stay here forever; that was what Jerry had said before he’d started hallucinating.
God, he wished Jerry were still alive and he had the confident 6th year instead of this John Doe of questionable loyalty and ability. Well, negative ability now. Because of him. Because he’d been hit by the curse aimed at Harry.
It was too much for a thirteen year old and Harry started to cry silently, tears rolling down his dusty cheeks. A gentle tugging on his cloak went unnoticed, and after a few moments the pale hand fell limply away, too exhausted to continue.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The light playing over his skin is what wakes him. There is a gentle rocking motion, the pull of currents and tides that are less detectable in the deep waters.
Above him he can see the shallows. They’re lighter, almost transparent, the way water in a glass is, but between him and them is a shoal of fish. Darting glittery things that he doesn’t know the name of. Hemione would, but she isn’t here. Hagrid probably would too, well maybe. If they were dangerous Hagrid would know, but of course Hagrid isn’t here either. It’s just himself in this wide fish plagued not-ocean. In any case Hagrid thinks he’s dead, as the groundskeeper should.
For the first time in his memory of this place, Harry can feel his muscles ripple beneath his skin as he kicks his legs and pushes himself toward the surface, toward that brilliant white light. Around him the fish dart, slippery and cold, but he ignores their distraction. He knows what his goal is, and as surely as a forbidden curse he’s single mindedly pursuing it until it is reached.
The water pours over his mind as it breaks, and now the he can feel the sun’s rays on his skin; feel the light touch of air currents, and he smiles because he has come back.
~ ~ ~ ~
The smile lasted all of a split second before the weight of reality- physical reality, crashed down on him and his head and skin began to scream in agony. Dimly in the background he could hear the distinctive tapping and rustling noises that are the hallmark of many people moving around all at once, but those noises were quickly ignored in favor of the pounding in his head. A whimper escaped his throat, or at least he thought it was he. Hard to be sure when- ohgodohgodohgod make it stop makeitstop! The pounding in his head had abruptly ceased, only to be replaced by a vicious searing heat, similar to the time he’d had a personal encounter with a branding iron, but this time it was in his brain and he couldn’t think clearly enough to makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop! He was on fire; his skin burned like the desert sands and his head was a flaming brand. Where was the ocean- he never should have left, ohgod. Vaguely he felt a slight abatement of the agony as tears leaked from his eyes, but it was only a miniscule relief and it wasn’t enough and-
Darkness slid over the flames and extinguished them. Gratefully he surrendered consciousness.
~ ~ ~ ~
“Harry? Harry, love. I need you to wake up and try drinking this.”
Opening his eyes was a devastating trial in endurance. Even as he set his muscles to the task he could feel considerable amounts of resistance from the rest of his mind. Eventually the lids on his right eye tore apart; he figured that was a good enough victory for the time being and blinked carefully to sleep the sleep from his eyes. Slowly, much more slowly than he would have liked or approved of, the room swam into view and focused.
He was in a hospital room. That much was obvious seeing as no other establishment on the planet would feel the need to make everything so white. In a hospital bed actually, curiously he tried lifting an arm and was unsurprised to discover it wouldn’t respond. Whatever he had done to himself this time it was clearly a bit of a doozy. Movement on his right caught in the corner of his one open eye and he cautiously turned his head a miniscule amount to see the plump medi-witch seated by the side of his bed. In contrast to her starched light green robes, the orange water glass she held in one of her hands was almost comical.
“Good morning,” he said, or tried to say. Somewhere from his brain to his mouth the words got stuck in his throat and only a strangled wheezing noise escaped. Not terribly good for first impressions, but on the other hand he would have to assume he’d been here for a while, and unconscious bodies seldom make any positive impression at all.
The medi-witch frown slightly at the noise even as her eyes crinkled happily.
“Throat a bit dry, love?” she asked. “That’s to be expected,” she continued without waiting for an answer. “You’ve been here quite a while without anything to drink. Let’s see how this goes down, hmm?”
With the skilled gentleness of a professional she maneuvered his head up onto several pillows and held the glass to his lips, all the while chattering pleasantly. Greedily he dipped his tongue in the water, and then moaned in pleasure as the cool water dribbled down his throat. Nothing could compare to this. Little more than half the glass was gone before he began to feel as if he’d had enough. Somehow the medi-witch sensed this, and she took the glass away and smiled at him.
“Feel better?”
“Very much so. Thank you.” The words were hoarse and barely even a whisper, but she heard them.”
“You’re very welcome, Harry. It’s so nice to see you finally awake.” She winked and he could feel a slight grin form on his face. “I’ve been seeing a lot of you Mister,” she continued on, light-hearted, soothing babble, and he let it wash over him, comforting as the tides. Occasionally he’d try and twitch his fingers and was rewarded when the left hand seemed to respond. It was nice to be awake he decided. There was something solid and reassuring about the real world as opposed to the dream world, and he’d had more than his fill of the latter.
Slowly, as time passed and shadows began to form on the walls, he became aware he was missing something, he was sure of it. Absently his hand crept to his face, and he was startled not to feel the cool metal of his glasses rims.
“Where-” he breathed, taken aback.
“Oh, Harry,” the woman said a bit sadly, “You don’t have glasses.”
In shock, he jerked his head around to look her in the eyes and winced slightly at what the movement did to the inside of his head. It felt like someone had liquidized his entire brain, and it was going to start sloshing out of his nose and ears if he weren’t careful.
“I-” He started and then stopped, confused.
Carefully the nurse set the water glass on a small table next to his bed. The table was sparsely covered with a few get-well cards and a vase of cheerful looking daffodils. On the floor next to the table there was a stack of newspapers. The Daily Prophet he assumed.
“Harry,” she began. “What do you remember?”
What did he remember?
Not much it seemed at first, and then things began trickling back, images, words, memories.
“I- I was in a fight..” he began hesitantly. The upward lilt at the end making it more of a question than a statement.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Turns out he was remembering a bar fight that had never happened. The medi-witch- Gertrude was her name. She didn’t give him a last name, “Just call me Gertrude, love” is what she said, and he didn’t pursue it. Gertrude told him not to worry about it.
“Harry,” she said looking him in the eyes with a firm hand on his shoulder. “You’ve suffered some serious trauma and we can’t be sure what the effects were. Now, I believe that you’re going to get all your memories sorted out and put back together, and when you do you’ll be out of here like a shot, leaving poor Gertrude behind.”
He’d smiled at the idea of anyone leaving the cheerful medi-witch behind. She might have looked like a pushover, but he’d seen her bossing one of the doctors around earlier when he was supposed to be asleep. A spine of steel was what this woman had.
“But right now your brain seems to be making memories up, trying to fill in the blanks that don’t make sense. Humans like things to be tidy, orderly, and I suspect that the state your mind is in is anything but, so your body’s trying to fix that. I’m going to help your sort out what’s real and what’s not until you have a handle on yourself, okay?”
He’d nodded, there was really no other choice was there. It had been pretty easy to figure out the bar fight couldn’t have been real. A few questions had revealed to them both that he’d never been in a bar, which was actually rather odd. Still, the other memories might not be so simple. When he tried to think about it his head began to ache and visions of soap bubbles filled his mind distorting and coloring ephemeral images. He knew when to leave well enough alone. The only thing he was really sure of was that his name was Harry and he was a wizard.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Green.
He shot out of bed like a live wire- nerves tense and muscles twitching. Around him the pale hospital room was bathed in the night shades of blue and gray. Layer upon layer of shadow generated by a bright full moon. An easy environment to spot movement in; the slightest twitch caused a cascade of ripples in the careful lines of hospital regimented furniture.
He was alone.
Slowly he began to relax, began to feel the tremble in his limbs and the clammy sweat on his skin. He was clad only in thin hospital pyjamas; standard fare that barely reached mid thigh. Carefully he pulled back the tangled sheets on his bed and settled under them. The newspapers that had been by the table earlier were gone, he noticed. They must have taken them away while he slept.
He should have lay down and gone back to sleep, but instead he sat there, clutching the starched white cotton sheets and staring at the dim shadows where the stack of newspapers had been.
He’d been…
He’d been in a fight…
And the soap bubbles all popped. It was a quiet, fantastical revolution, the cool knowledge filling him with a certainty he hadn’t felt since waking up. If this was reality it was too fantastical, too far fetched. It had to be right… no, it was right.
Tomorrow he would ask for the newspapers back. Now that he knew why they had taken them away they would give them back.
Harry lay back in the standard hospital bed on the standard cotton sheets, closed his eyes and did not dream.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Good Morning, Harry.”
Mmm, the delightful voice of Gertude the ever cheerful- just the woman he wanted to see. Hear. Whatever.
He opened his eyes with smile on his face, “Good morning, Gertrude my dear.”
The medi-witch was bustling around with the breakfast tray, but he managed to catch the edge of her trailing robes with one hand.
“Could you get me today’s Prophet?”
A flicker of emotions less sunny than her earlier countenance passed over her face.
“Harry…” she began.
“Its alright, Gertrude.” Carefully he levered himself into a sitting position, then cautiously swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “I woke up last night and remembered everything.” Turning his head he smiled roguishly up at her stunned face. “I don’t suppose you could get me some real clothes too? I don’t fancy meeting with the director of intelligence in a night shirt.”
She set the tray down on the table and gave an uncharacteristic flutter with her hands. “Oh, Harry! You’re really back, sir.” In a rustle of cloth she enfolded him in a warm embrace, then pulled away, eyes bright with unshed tears. “I’ll go let the directors know at once, they’ll be so pleased.” She wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief then paused at the door, “But you’ll have to wait for that newspaper. Intel will want to brief you himself.”
Harry waved a hand at her in a lazy acknowledgement and she bustled out of the room and down the hall.
The hall that no doubt led to the Dept. It was funny what a difference having memories made. Now he could see the obvious clues around the room. Ha! A single room for one patient? After the war? No, he wasn’t at St. Mungo’s.
Languidly he stretched out his bare toes and wiggled them. The last time he remembered being in this room had been after the Brandshaw offensive. The failed Brandshaw offensive. He’d gotten stitches here for a cursed wound that wouldn’t respond to healing spells. Poor Margarite had been forced to sew up the gash in his side with a sewing needle and silk thread of all things. He wiggled his toes again just for the joy of it. Maybe most would consider it a bad thing to wake up in the emergency medical office hidden deep within the Department of Mysteries, but to him it just meant that home was a corridor away. And it was good to be home again after, what had it been? Well, assuming he hadn’t been unconscious for the last ten years or some fool thing like that. It’d been about six years then. Six years since he’d been himself, six years of Harry Bloody Potter.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Gertrude came back fairly quickly, still suspiciously bright eyed, with a violet messenger crane following her. As soon as the door was pulled open it darted over to where Harry sat on the edge of the bed and landed gently on his upraised palm.
The rattle of the door shutting made him glance up at the medi-witch.
“It’s a message from Intel, sir,” she elaborated.
“Hmm,” he looked back at the bright paper, crisp lines beginning to wilt in his hand. Deftly he touch the crane’s head with his index figure and a shiver ran through the tiny paper creature before it unfolded to lie crisply on his palm.
He read the sparse lines carefully then closed his fist, crumpling the note.
“Gertrude, did you bring me some decent clothing?”
“At the foot of the bed, love.” She nodded from the corner of the room where she was replacing bandages.
A pale blue robe was folded neatly with a pair of matching slippers on top of the coverlet. “Thank you,” he murmured absently as he held the robe up in front of him.
“No problem. I imagine you’re wanting to get out of here as soon as possible.”
Halfway out of the flimsy nightshirt Harry snorted in amusement, “More like Intel wants to see me immediately. Some things-” He pulled it over his head, muffling his next words, “-never change, do they.”
She chuckled in agreement and he continued getting dressed while she moved around the room in companionable silence.
Soon he was sliding the slippers on his feet and ready to leave. A quick glance in the mirror on the way out of the room showed him his own thin face surrounded by messy black hair. The blue robe did little to hide the thinness of his body and he was distinctly amused to notice it was several inches too short. Never trust a hospital to come up with decent clothing. It never happened.
Gertrude looked up from her medicines when the door rattled open under his hand, “Good like with Intel, Harry.” She smiled warmly, and suddenly he felt the enormity of what this meant.
“It’s really good to have you back, sir. We’ve…missed you.”
Throat tight, he nodded once to her then stepped out into the shaded corridor, carefully closing the door on that small sunny room.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The corridor was a small narrow affair. Cracked plaster in faded beige covered the rough brickwork. Rather inadequately, Harry mused as he thoughtfully put a finger on the wall across from the door. Beneath it the dry plaster crumbled away, revealing old, discolored bricks. Ah, government budgets at their best.
Throw a million galleons at an important government organization and you’d think that’d it would occur to someone to spend a bit of it on interior decoration. Well, at least repairs. A couple galleons every month for paint and small patch jobs where water leaked in and ruined the finish. A pittance, really, that’s all that was required.
He smiled and fingered a patch of exposed brick. As long as he could remember this hallway had been in disrepair. Hidden deep within the belly of the Dept. of Mysteries was a network of small narrow passageways like this one. Inadequately lit and poorly maintained any visitors would hard pressed to tell that they were, in fact, some of the main arteries of the DoM. It would seem, no matter what logic said otherwise, that groups of highly trained and trusted individuals would rather spend those millions of galleons on things like research and esoteric equipment whose function, let alone the mechanics behind it, could barely be understood by those outside.
That was what they’d called them when he’d been there. You were part of the Dept., a part of DoM, or you were an outsider. A single witch light burned coldly a few handspans above Harry’s head. It cast a harsh blue light over the surroundings, illuminating the oily smudge that marred the walls at waist height. That was the mark of the hundreds of hands that passed through this corridor everyday. Fingers trailed gently against the walls as he walked, a precaution; the witch lights failed often and were placed irregularly. When he’d been new Harry had asked about it. Wouldn’t it make more sense to have well lit passageways? Wouldn’t that make it easier to spot intruders? Moving out of the glare the witch light cast he smiled at his old naiveté. The Intel Director, a hard eyed woman called Dory, had lectured him fiercely about making familiar territory as unpredictable as possible for intruders. They didn’t need the light to find their way around, but people unfamiliar with the building would. And anyone who needed light wasn’t supposed to be here.
Also, she’d added at the end, it helps hide us.
Harry turned a corner, shadows thickening as the witch light’s cold illumination dimmed. There wouldn’t be another one until he reached his destination itself. Even if someone did blunder back here the darkness was a good general deterrent. Most assumed the corridor was a dead end.
It was funny; everyone knew the Department of Mysteries was one of the most secretive branches of the government. If nothing else the name was a bit of a tip off. Unspeakables, in keeping with their name, were forbidden to speak of their jobs and what happened behind those innocuous doors. This was the land of the almost forbidden and the hall of the inscrutable and intractable, the place where secrets were lost, kept, and found. Knowing this, as everyone did, it was positively baffling that same everyone continued to think that the Dept. of Mysteries hid no secrets larger than itself.
Perfect cover, Dory had said, snapping a mouthful of Drooble’s best blowing gum. Everyone thinks the Mystery is so carefully contained they never even think to look for us. Hidden in plain sight as the saying goes. Well, camouflaged among the camouflaged.
The visibility faded to nothing and Harry felt his way along wall. Smooth plaster interdispersed with the rough brick that caught and tugged at his trailing fingers. The pattern was familiar still, and he anticipated each change in texture, smiling when he was proved right.
Did you know, Harry, his partner had told him once when they were on a long boring stake out. There’s no record of the Dept.
None? What about the Minister?
There’d been laughter at his surprise, Some ministers have been told. If Dumbledore had become Minister I think Dory would have told him, but Fudge? Nah, we’re not telling him a thing. He doesn’t need to know.
Well, Harry had objected, squinting through the rain. Where does the money come from? We can call for back up and the Aurors come. How does that happen if we don’t exist?
A pale eyebrow had lifted at that, You haven’t noticed? They think we’re part of the Dept. of Mysteries. Everyone does. Everything we get we take from DoM. Our budget, equipment, he’d smirked. Aliases. Think of DoM as our shell, a front. We’re the predator underneath that no one knows to look for. No record.
All the DoM people know about us, Harry had pointed logically. He’d gotten a sardonic smile for his trouble.
Harry, we’re work related.
Right, Unspeakables.
The smooth flagstone beneath his feet changed to rougher bricks. It was his only warning before his questing hand thunked into wood. For a moment he stood in the dark, listening to the silence. He wondered if Fudge had ever been told about this. Opinions had been very much against it when he’d left. All things considered, Fudge was a bit of duffer, but things might have changed with Voldemort. Although it seemed very unlikely, Voldemort hadn’t changed their decision not to tell Crouch. Still, the chance was always there. It was more likely Scrimgeour had been informed. A small, quiet meeting in his office with some tea and no small talk, but Harry seriously doubted it. There was something about the man that put him too much in the mind of Crouch. And knowing how that had turned out…
Gently he ran his right hand down the worn wood until it hit cold metal. The doorknob. Slowly he turned it and pulled the door open then without any hesitation he stepped through the opening and pulled the wooden slab firmly behind him.
There was a slight click as the door shut, and then no sound reached the dark corridor.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The door shut behind him with a gentle finality. There was no more light here than there had been in the corridor. It was another precaution. Open doors spilling light into dark corners tended to attract attention, so they avoided the problem all together and did not light the anteroom. Directly ahead and a little to the right there should be another door.
He let go of the smooth metal knob and took a cautious step into the darkness. Lightly his fingers danced over the smooth surface that could have been a door or wall until they ran into a small jutting protrusion at about waist height. It was a nail, small and a bit rusty from the feel of it. A score of nails had been hammered backwards through the door once as a joke. It had been a good joke. And the nails had never been removed although less than a dozen of them had remained the last time he’d counted. Time and wear had broken off some and bent many others, while some simply were ripped out of the door over the years.
Moving away from the sharp point his hand dropped onto the dented and pitted door handle. They replaced it every year, and by the feel of this one it needed replacing soon. Grasping it tightly Harry pulled the heavy door open, and light spilled into the small anteroom.