ALL THAT WE SEE OR SEEM (PG) BY IAMSHADOW - Chapter Two: All That We See or Seem
Title: All That We See or Seem - Chapter Two: All That We See or Seem
Chapter: 2/7 (COMPLETE)
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Gen, with hints of canon pairings in the background
Word Count This Chapter: 1,384
Rating: PG
Warnings: Still a mindfuck!
Summary: His eyes or his mind; Harry doesn't know which to believe.
A/N: This chapter's going up a little early, both because I am impatient, and because I am exhausted and going to bed.
*waves goodnight*
Harry couldn’t sleep that night. He feigned it, when Madam Pomfrey did her final rounds, but once the last light was doused and all was silent in the ward, he fumbled in the little bedside cabinet. There, there it was. His hand closed around a familiar length of wood.
A softly murmured Lumos, and the rest of the drawer’s contents were revealed. His glasses, bent and misshapen, cracks spiderwebbing one lens, were the first thing he took out. He repaired them, but he felt the effort noticeably, as though the magic used had hollowed him out a little, like a ball of wool being unwound from within. His hands trembled as he slid the glasses onto his face. The immediate area leapt into comforting focus; just a bed, with covers rising and falling in hills over his torso, hips and legs, the cabinet, and the deep shadows beyond. It wasn’t much, but having his glasses on made him feel a bit less lost.
In the drawer he could see the telltale signs of Remus’ presence; a half-eaten block of Honeydukes chocolate (the end of the wrapper neatly folded closed) and a couple of books. The books were Muggle, by the looks of them; one, a cheap modern paperback that looked relatively new, the other, an older, medium-sized hardback.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d read a book for pleasure. He knew he must have, surely, at some point not that long ago, but when he reached for the memory of sitting with an open book on his lap, reading just for the sake of reading itself, all he could think of was reading things like Flying With the Cannons and Quidditch Through the Ages years ago, back when he was in school.
He picked up the smaller, newer book, something called The Turn of the Screw. He hadn’t been reading it long, however, before he discarded it. It wasn’t new, after all, but a reprint of an older work. The language was odd; formal and dry, and the story left him confused and frightened by turns, and decidedly uneasy.
The other book, The Ring-Givers, grabbed him more immediately. This was a tale of adventure, of small and friendless Helmwulf, who taught himself to be a mighty warrior by wrestling trees and throwing stones. Though he skimmed a little over the battle scenes (the grisly deaths reminded him of the always too-immediate past), Harry was drawn into the story. Through the long hours, the only sounds were the steady rhythm of his breath, the creaks of bedsteads as other patients turned in their sleep, and the soft turning of the pages beneath his fingertips.
When he fell asleep not long before dawn, it was into dreams of dust, shouts and screams that he tumbled, overlaid with the copper tang of blood hanging in the air. He could hear people calling his name, but as he dug through the piles of broken stone around him, all he found were anonymous dead, dressed in black, their cold lips accusing him of murder, without speech, without movement.
***
Harry heard Remus talk briefly to Madam Pomfrey in a low murmur before he appeared around the end of the screen. He had a book half out of his pocket already, but he replaced it when he saw Harry sitting up.
“Good morning,” Remus said. His eyes flicked to the books, which Harry had left openly on the top of the cabinet.
“I ate your chocolate,” Harry confessed, unabashed. “I’ll buy you more.”
Remus grinned and flapped a hand, indicating it wasn’t important. “Since you’re awake, we might as well do this sooner, rather than later,” he began. “How would you like to take a short stroll with me? Specifically, to the lovely, if tiny, bathroom at the end of the ward? Madam Pomfrey says it’s time you started moving about a bit, and I thought you might like a proper bath.”
Harry felt his face flush with colour. “You’re going to wash me?” he asked, embarrassed.
“Not unless you need me to,” Remus clarified. “I’ll just help you walk there, and climb in and out of the tub, that kind of thing. You can even ask me to leave the room, if you like, though it’s probably safer if I sit nearby, just in case.”
Harry swallowed. It would be good to feel clean again. Though Madam Pomfrey had charms she used on patients who were bed-bound, it wasn’t the same as a proper scrub with hot, soapy water. “Okay, then,” he agreed.
The journey from his bed to the bathroom was relatively short, but Harry was leaning heavily on Remus and panting by the time he’d completed it. He allowed Remus to help him undress without protest; he was too busy leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, taking deep breaths and trying to stop the world from spinning to bother with feeling self-conscious. When Remus picked him up and lifted him into the bath, he decided that between this and using a bedpan in the presence of Madam Pomfrey, he’d lost pretty much all of his dignity anyway, and he might as well just enjoy the hot water.
“Don’t duck your head under,” Remus warned. “You can wash your face, but leave your hair for another time, all right?”
Harry nodded, allowing himself to fully relax and sink a little deeper into the bubbles. Aches he didn’t know he had were easing, and he let out a sigh of contentment. He didn’t know when he’d last had the chance at a soak like this, but he suspected it had been far too long. He jumped when Remus touched him on the shoulder what felt like less than a minute later.
“You were nodding off,” Remus explained kindly. “How about you finish up, and we’ll see if you can manage a shave before you have to lie down again.”
Harry soaped and rinsed himself quickly. He wasn’t really dirty, after all, but it felt nice to do it. His limbs were heavy and clumsy when he got out, so he ended up just standing still, holding on to Remus’ shoulders and hips while Remus towelled him dry and helped him into his clothing with gentle but impersonal efficiency.
“Are you up for that shave, or are you ready for bed?” Remus asked, as he carefully fastened the last of Harry’s buttons.
Harry was incredibly tired, but when he ran a hand along his jaw line, he could feel the thickening stubble. It felt like a short, somewhat patchy beard. “Shave,” he decided.
They positioned themselves in front of the mirror, Harry leaning back against Remus’s chest for balance. Harry reached out for the razor, but right at that moment, Remus spelled the mirror clear of steam. That was when Harry started to scream.
Remus held Harry up, held him tightly, even as Harry struggled and fought to get away. In some detached part of his brain he felt an uncanny sense of déjà vu, only this time, the sight that was distressing him so much wasn’t his godfather falling through the Veil, it was his own reflection.
Harry could distantly hear Remus calling out to Madam Pomfrey through the door that they were all right, then murmuring a constant stream of reassurance in Harry’s ear, but Harry couldn’t understand a word, couldn’t take his eyes off the mirror.
A white face, pinched and ill-looking, stared back at him with frightened eyes. The cheeks were slightly hollowed, as though he were underfed. Dark shadows sat under his eyes, and there was a white strip of shorter hair amongst the black on his head, as though it had been shaved and grown back the wrong colour. A soft downy beard had grown across his jaw, chin and upper throat, thin and wispy, but even it couldn’t disguise the fact that the face that stared back at him belonged to someone no older than eighteen.
Finally, he succumbed to exhaustion and went limp in Remus’ arms. “What’s happened to me?” he panted. “Where is everybody? Where’s Ginny? Where’s my wife?”
Remus started to say something, but a loud rushing sound, like a train, or an explosion in slow motion, blotted out his words, and everything went grey, then black.
<- 1. In Parting From You Now ~O~ 3. You Are Not Wrong ->
Chapter: 2/7 (COMPLETE)
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Gen, with hints of canon pairings in the background
Word Count This Chapter: 1,384
Rating: PG
Warnings: Still a mindfuck!
Summary: His eyes or his mind; Harry doesn't know which to believe.
A/N: This chapter's going up a little early, both because I am impatient, and because I am exhausted and going to bed.
*waves goodnight*
Harry couldn’t sleep that night. He feigned it, when Madam Pomfrey did her final rounds, but once the last light was doused and all was silent in the ward, he fumbled in the little bedside cabinet. There, there it was. His hand closed around a familiar length of wood.
A softly murmured Lumos, and the rest of the drawer’s contents were revealed. His glasses, bent and misshapen, cracks spiderwebbing one lens, were the first thing he took out. He repaired them, but he felt the effort noticeably, as though the magic used had hollowed him out a little, like a ball of wool being unwound from within. His hands trembled as he slid the glasses onto his face. The immediate area leapt into comforting focus; just a bed, with covers rising and falling in hills over his torso, hips and legs, the cabinet, and the deep shadows beyond. It wasn’t much, but having his glasses on made him feel a bit less lost.
In the drawer he could see the telltale signs of Remus’ presence; a half-eaten block of Honeydukes chocolate (the end of the wrapper neatly folded closed) and a couple of books. The books were Muggle, by the looks of them; one, a cheap modern paperback that looked relatively new, the other, an older, medium-sized hardback.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d read a book for pleasure. He knew he must have, surely, at some point not that long ago, but when he reached for the memory of sitting with an open book on his lap, reading just for the sake of reading itself, all he could think of was reading things like Flying With the Cannons and Quidditch Through the Ages years ago, back when he was in school.
He picked up the smaller, newer book, something called The Turn of the Screw. He hadn’t been reading it long, however, before he discarded it. It wasn’t new, after all, but a reprint of an older work. The language was odd; formal and dry, and the story left him confused and frightened by turns, and decidedly uneasy.
The other book, The Ring-Givers, grabbed him more immediately. This was a tale of adventure, of small and friendless Helmwulf, who taught himself to be a mighty warrior by wrestling trees and throwing stones. Though he skimmed a little over the battle scenes (the grisly deaths reminded him of the always too-immediate past), Harry was drawn into the story. Through the long hours, the only sounds were the steady rhythm of his breath, the creaks of bedsteads as other patients turned in their sleep, and the soft turning of the pages beneath his fingertips.
When he fell asleep not long before dawn, it was into dreams of dust, shouts and screams that he tumbled, overlaid with the copper tang of blood hanging in the air. He could hear people calling his name, but as he dug through the piles of broken stone around him, all he found were anonymous dead, dressed in black, their cold lips accusing him of murder, without speech, without movement.
***
Harry heard Remus talk briefly to Madam Pomfrey in a low murmur before he appeared around the end of the screen. He had a book half out of his pocket already, but he replaced it when he saw Harry sitting up.
“Good morning,” Remus said. His eyes flicked to the books, which Harry had left openly on the top of the cabinet.
“I ate your chocolate,” Harry confessed, unabashed. “I’ll buy you more.”
Remus grinned and flapped a hand, indicating it wasn’t important. “Since you’re awake, we might as well do this sooner, rather than later,” he began. “How would you like to take a short stroll with me? Specifically, to the lovely, if tiny, bathroom at the end of the ward? Madam Pomfrey says it’s time you started moving about a bit, and I thought you might like a proper bath.”
Harry felt his face flush with colour. “You’re going to wash me?” he asked, embarrassed.
“Not unless you need me to,” Remus clarified. “I’ll just help you walk there, and climb in and out of the tub, that kind of thing. You can even ask me to leave the room, if you like, though it’s probably safer if I sit nearby, just in case.”
Harry swallowed. It would be good to feel clean again. Though Madam Pomfrey had charms she used on patients who were bed-bound, it wasn’t the same as a proper scrub with hot, soapy water. “Okay, then,” he agreed.
The journey from his bed to the bathroom was relatively short, but Harry was leaning heavily on Remus and panting by the time he’d completed it. He allowed Remus to help him undress without protest; he was too busy leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, taking deep breaths and trying to stop the world from spinning to bother with feeling self-conscious. When Remus picked him up and lifted him into the bath, he decided that between this and using a bedpan in the presence of Madam Pomfrey, he’d lost pretty much all of his dignity anyway, and he might as well just enjoy the hot water.
“Don’t duck your head under,” Remus warned. “You can wash your face, but leave your hair for another time, all right?”
Harry nodded, allowing himself to fully relax and sink a little deeper into the bubbles. Aches he didn’t know he had were easing, and he let out a sigh of contentment. He didn’t know when he’d last had the chance at a soak like this, but he suspected it had been far too long. He jumped when Remus touched him on the shoulder what felt like less than a minute later.
“You were nodding off,” Remus explained kindly. “How about you finish up, and we’ll see if you can manage a shave before you have to lie down again.”
Harry soaped and rinsed himself quickly. He wasn’t really dirty, after all, but it felt nice to do it. His limbs were heavy and clumsy when he got out, so he ended up just standing still, holding on to Remus’ shoulders and hips while Remus towelled him dry and helped him into his clothing with gentle but impersonal efficiency.
“Are you up for that shave, or are you ready for bed?” Remus asked, as he carefully fastened the last of Harry’s buttons.
Harry was incredibly tired, but when he ran a hand along his jaw line, he could feel the thickening stubble. It felt like a short, somewhat patchy beard. “Shave,” he decided.
They positioned themselves in front of the mirror, Harry leaning back against Remus’s chest for balance. Harry reached out for the razor, but right at that moment, Remus spelled the mirror clear of steam. That was when Harry started to scream.
Remus held Harry up, held him tightly, even as Harry struggled and fought to get away. In some detached part of his brain he felt an uncanny sense of déjà vu, only this time, the sight that was distressing him so much wasn’t his godfather falling through the Veil, it was his own reflection.
Harry could distantly hear Remus calling out to Madam Pomfrey through the door that they were all right, then murmuring a constant stream of reassurance in Harry’s ear, but Harry couldn’t understand a word, couldn’t take his eyes off the mirror.
A white face, pinched and ill-looking, stared back at him with frightened eyes. The cheeks were slightly hollowed, as though he were underfed. Dark shadows sat under his eyes, and there was a white strip of shorter hair amongst the black on his head, as though it had been shaved and grown back the wrong colour. A soft downy beard had grown across his jaw, chin and upper throat, thin and wispy, but even it couldn’t disguise the fact that the face that stared back at him belonged to someone no older than eighteen.
Finally, he succumbed to exhaustion and went limp in Remus’ arms. “What’s happened to me?” he panted. “Where is everybody? Where’s Ginny? Where’s my wife?”
Remus started to say something, but a loud rushing sound, like a train, or an explosion in slow motion, blotted out his words, and everything went grey, then black.
<- 1. In Parting From You Now ~O~ 3. You Are Not Wrong ->