Getting Harry Back

Chapter 11
Memories

Memory believes before knowing remembers. Believes longer than recollects, longer than knowing even wonders. Knows remembers believes a corridor in a big long garbled cold echoing building of dark red brick sootblackened by more chimneys than its own, set in a grassless cinderstrewnpacked compound surrounded by smoking factory purlieus and enclosed by a ten foot steel-and-wire fence like a penitentiary or a zoo, where random erratic surges, sparrowlike childtrebling, orphans in identical and uniform blue denim in and out of remembering but knowing constant as the bleak walls, the bleak windows where in rain soot from the yearly adjacenting chimneys streaked like black tears.”

William Faulkner
Light in August

“Words.”

She blinked her eyes, as if trying to wake up.

“With that laughter gone, I’ve got words, again.”

She looked around the room.

“And not just words, but my seeing – it’s better, more… aware.”

She took a deep breath, and sensed both a relief and an uneasiness.

“I’d forgotten about words.”

She looked at the young man in front of her. Pleasant looking, very pleasant looking. Brown hair and such beautiful brown eyes. She felt her heart warm and her mouth smile.

At her smile, she noticed that his lovely eyes widened. He leaned forward and reached out to touch her forearm. She could see his mouth saying something; she wished she could hear.

“I know him; I feel that I know him.”

She went to that feeling of knowing inside her.

PAIN!

She was crushed by a wall of excruciating pain, unimaginable, unendurable pain. She gasped and her face wrenched. She vaguely saw, but did not hear the boy scream. Words vanished, even sight dimmed, then left. And she heard, once again, that laugh, a woman’s laugh, high and cruel, louder and louder and louder!

She fled from the pain and that laugh, from the feeling of knowing, from all feeling, from everything. She fled into the smallest possible cranny of her self and drew into a tiny quivering ball.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Come, Neville. It’s best that we leave her now. She needs rest, and peace and quiet. The healers can care for her.”

A young wizard and an elderly witch were standing in a screened-off corner of a large, multi-bed ward in St. Mungo’s Hospital. In front of them a haggard, middle-aged man and woman lay on separate beds, looking unconscious but in pain, or asleep but with nightmares.

The young wizard answered: “No, Gran, I won’t go. I tell you, I saw something, something just before she went away. It was right after I felt that…. I don’t know. But like I was telling you, all of a sudden, something came out of nowhere, this feeling and a kind of light. It felt… magical.”

His grandmother smiled indulgently.

“Gran, I know what magic feels like, you know I do. I’m not a Squib. And this felt magical. If I’ve ever felt anything magical, this felt magical. I could see that she felt it, too. Right after that, she smiled. You saw that, you did. She’s never smiled before. But she smiled, and she was looking at me like I’ve never seen her look at me. Like she almost knew who I was.”

“Neville—“

“No, Gran, I won’t go, I won’t. I have to be here when she wakes up. I have to. Maybe….” He stopped, searched for words, then shook his head. “I don’t know. I just know I have to be here when she wakes up.”

The old woman paused before responding:

“We can stay here if you wish, Neville. The healers said that it wouldn’t hurt.” Her eyes looked sad, and she sighed. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up. That’s my only concern.”

Neville sighed, too, then nodded, his eyes going dull. He knew he couldn’t make Gran understand. He didn’t really understand himself. He just knew that something had happened, something important, just before his mum gasped in pain and went away. He knew he had to be there when she woke up.

Morning’s sunlight came through large windows across the length of two room sides. But it seemed darkened by the room’s silence. The air tasted of sickness and pain. Neville was oblivious to everything but his mum, and his grandmother was oblivious to everything but Neville. Old, worried eyes watched young eyes focused elsewhere and probing, probing….

* * * * * * * * * *

When sight came back, all she could see were those brown eyes, those wonderful brown eyes. Otherwise, there was only slowly fading pain and that laughter which didn’t fade, which had always blocked everything but a limited seeing.

She clung to those brown eyes, and gradually the pain faded away. Then as she stayed clinging, the laughter began to fade, and words returned. Words and seeing, and that thought:

“I know him.”

The knowing feeling returned, too, but she knew not to touch it, not to go near it. She contented herself with knowing that she knew him. Again, she felt her heart warm and her mouth smile.

The young man smiled back. His eyes became even more beautiful, and his smile – it almost took her breath away. Without thinking, she reached out and touched that smile, and he reached out and touched her smile. It felt good, her touching his smile and his touching her smile. It felt more wonderful than she could ever remember feeling, though somehow she knew that she had felt this before. But even more, she knew not to go too close to that feeling. She must content herself with feeling at a distance, a great distance.

Then in those beautiful eyes, she noticed tears. He was still smiling, but his eyes were filled with tears. She watched as they began running down his face and into that wonderful smile.

“I wonder why he’s crying?”

She touched those tears, then brushed them away from his smile. When she did that, she noticed the young man first looked startled, then he smiled and cried even more, and he began to tremble.

“I wish I knew why he’s crying,” she thought sadly as she kept brushing away those tears.

* * * * * * * * * *

“I love you, Harry.”

Harry smiled, and he didn’t mind the lump at all.

Each time he heard his portrait parents and Sirius say those words, words that he’d ached to hear forever, it felt like a miracle, like the sun came out in his heart, and everything was new and possible and wonderful.

Sitting on his bed and alone in the tiny bedroom, Harry took a deep breath.

Each evening before he went to bed – “Well,” he reminded himself, “not yesterday.” – Harry told his portrait family about everything that happened. Since his birthday party, it was all so astonishing to him, all so completely different than anything that he remembered ever happening, Harry had a hard time believing it was real. He clung to each memory, part of him afraid it would all disappear, that it was just a dream. Like when he first found out he was a wizard, “and afraid I’d wake up and find myself alone in that dark cupboard again.”

Telling his portrait family helped a lot. Telling made it more real, it made the memories even more clear and secure in his soul.

But still, trying to take in fifteen years of family in a few days was overwhelming. “If it weren’t for Ron and Hermione before,” he thought to himself, “I think I would’ve exploded.”

Even so, Harry was relieved that he had a whole week for bonding with his new family. “A whole week,” he marveled. "And a whole week with his portrait first-mum-and-dad and with portrait Sirius."

Harry frowned.

But not all his family.

A whole week without Hermione.

“Somehow,” – he didn’t understand why – “I’ve felt Hermione inside me even stronger since that BloodBinding.”

If it weren’t for that, Harry didn’t know how he could stand it. Each night when he told his portrait first-mum-and-dad and Sirius about his day, he imagined himself telling Hermione, too. He felt himself telling the Hermione he felt in his heart.

But while that helped, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t just that he missed her, like he’d missed her other summers. And it wasn’t like he could feel Ron’s missing her, either –since the BloodBinding, he felt Ron’s feelings even more strongly, too. This missing Hermione was different.

“It’s….”

No words came that fit, even a little.

“I wish I could talk to Ron, or to my new mum and dad about it. But I’m afraid they’ll think I don’t appreciate them. And even if I don’t have words for missing Hermione, I know that’s not it.” There wasn’t enough appreciation in the world for Harry to say how much he owed the Weasleys for letting him be in their family.

“My family,” he thought. “And I’m never going to do anything that might make them misunderstand. It’s just….”

“Harry? What’s wrong? What’s bothering you?”

He looked up and saw portrait Mum, Dad and Sirius looking at him, worry in their faces.

Harry looked around, seeing that the door was closed. Ron always gave him privacy for his portrait family talks. Harry was grateful. And he felt that Ron, somehow, knew his feelings, just as he knew Ron’s feelings.

He looked back at his portrait family, into their eyes, into their love and caring. And then he knew.

“Like my first mum and dad, and Sirius are my family,” he thought, “no matter how many others are, Hermione is my family, too.”

Harry thought a little deeper.

“Even though I’m so grateful to have my portrait family, still they’re not fully here, and I miss them not being fully here. And Hermione, even though I can feel her inside me, she’s not fully here, either.”

“That’s it,” he nodded.

Harry smiled as he realized that he wasn’t being disloyal to the Weasleys. In fact, this made him feel something he never would’ve believed possible:

“I’m even more grateful for my family who’s fully here.”

Harry looked at his portrait family.

“Nothing’s bothering me now. And thanks, thanks for being here. I love you so much.”

Harry’s portrait family looked back with puzzled smiles.

“Let me tell you about yesterday,” Harry went on, “about my first HandBonding, and why we didn’t get a chance to talk. It was really great, but it got scary, too. And I still can’t figure out what it all means….”

* * * * * * * * * *

The morning of Harry’s first HandBonding, his Weasley family was once again gathered in their living room, surrounded by the friendly clutter of furniture used long and enthusiastically.

“Harry,” Dumbledore explained, “traditionally the baby receives threads from his mother, threads from his father, and threads from something given to him, preferably made for him by his mother, father or grandparents. These threads are then twisted by the father into a yarn, then knitted by the mother into a BondRope. Then using the BondRope, the elder joins the baby, first, to the mother.”

Harry nodded, smiled and looked at his family around him. He liked looking at his family around him.

“Because this is not only a Bonding,” Dumbledore continued, “but also a BloodBinding, more is needed. There should be threads from your birth father, threads from your birth mother, and, I believe, threads from Sirius, as well as a drop of blood from you, and from your new father and mother.”

Harry frowned. He had his dad’s invisibility cloak, he could get threads from that. But he had nothing from his first mum, nothing at all, and nothing from Sirius. It struck him hard in his belly that, from his first mum, he had nothing at all.

He looked at his new mum.

She smiled. “Harry, your first mother was a gifted weaver in the Muggle manner, weaving by hand. She said her weaving was old-fashioned even for Muggles. She spun her own yarn, using wool from her family’s sheep, which she learned from her grandmother. Lily said that it put more of her and a different kind of magic into it. Muggle Magic, she called it.”

Harry was all ears, hungry to hear anything about his first mum. The Dursleys never spoke of her or her family, even though this was also Aunt Petunia’s family. And it had never been safe for Harry to ask.

Mum continued: “She sometimes gave her weavings as gifts. All her friends considered them very special, indeed. Both Arthur and I have scarves, and Ron’s baby-blanket was woven by her. Actually, we exchanged. Your baby-blanket was knitted by me.”

Harry was stunned. He looked at his best friend-brother, who nodded.

“Yeah, mate, and I’ve still got it. All wizards keep ‘em. Don’t know whether it’s superstition, but the old folks say there’s magic in it, and it’s best to hang onto it and touch it when you’re feeling peaky or alone. I do; hey, we all do. Think it works a bit; certainly doesn’t hurt.” Ron smiled. “But I thought since you don’t have anything from your mum, or your first mum, maybe you’d like it.”

Harry nodded and thought a while. Then he looked at his mum:

“I have every jumper you knitted for me.”

Mum looked surprised. “You must have outgrown them, Harry. What do you do with them?”

“Oh,” Harry looked down and shrugged, “I keep ‘em. ‘Specially the first one. I….” He blushed. “I don’t know why… just kind of feels better.” Harry looked up and around to see if he’d said anything silly. His family smiled back with a bit of sadness.

“And this summer--” He looked at his mum and dad. “--when I wasn’t feeling good, you know with Sirius dying and that?” He paused. “I…. I took it to bed with me. Maybe that’s kind of been my wizard baby-blanket? ‘Cause the Dursleys, they threw out everything that came from my first mum and dad.”

Mum put her arm around him. “Oh, Harry, I so wish I’d known.”

“Maybe,” Harry continued, “if no one minds…. Dad? Could you twist threads from both that sweater and Ron’s blanket? And Mum? Could you make….” Harry stopped; he felt silly but decided to ask anyway. “Mum, could you maybe knit them into blankets for both Ron and me? If it’s not too much bother?” he added hastily.

“I would take great pleasure in it.” She looked over. “Ron?”

“Fine by me.” Ron blushed; Harry noted that redheads were good at blushing, at least his Weasley redheads.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, “I think that is a splendid idea. I wonder whether you and Ron were meant to be brothers. Perhaps this is part of Magic’s plan. And it might--” He put on his mysterious smile. “--turn out quite useful.”

The old wizard could be irritating when he got mysterious, but Harry was used to it. To some extent.

“Now,” Dumbledore continued, “I know you have nothing from Sirius, or rather you have nothing here from Sirius. But in fact, you have quite a bit. As his heir, all that he owned is now yours.”

Harry stared. He’d known that, but he hadn’t had time to think about it. “Do I own 12 Grimmauld Place?” he thought. “Probably, but now isn’t the time to go into that.”

“I have taken the liberty,” the Headmaster went on, “of getting something that I know he treasured. Which means, of course, something having nothing to do with the Black family: another scarf knitted by your mother. He always said that it made him feel better whether he was ill or just feeling down. You may have noticed him wearing it around the Headquarters?”

Harry did recall that, even though 12 Grimmauld Place wasn’t exactly drafty, there was always a chill, and Sirius often wore a scarf, the same scarf -- red and gold -- which Dumbledore now gave him.

“Sirius would most certainly have wanted you to have this, and to use it. I am quite sure.”

The scarf felt warm and soft, and more, though Harry couldn’t place that more. He felt something go between the scarf and the wound. “Like they’re bonding?”

The Headmaster paused, looking deep inside himself. When his eyes returned to the room, he smiled sheepishly. “Harry, Molly, Arthur?” he asked almost hesitantly, “would you mind adding to the BondRope… something from me? I am not quite sure why, but somehow that feels right.”

Harry smiled, nodded and looked to his parents.

“By all means,” his dad replied. “We’re most honored to have you a part of Harry’s family.” He smiled, “And so, of course, a part of our family. That feels right to us.”

Dumbledore bowed. “The honor, I assure you, is all mine. All mine.” He sighed. “That feels good. Beyond what I said about it feeling right. That feels truly good for me to be part of a family again. To be part of your family.” His eyes sparkled, and his face even blushed. “My family.” He gave a short but genuine head-bow and said warmly, “I thank you most sincerely.”

Dumbledore took out from a scabbard hidden under his cloak – Harry was surprised -- the sword of Godric Gryffindor, which Harry had used to kill the Basilisk. The Headmaster bent down to take the hem of his cloak, then paused and stood up. To the room’s vast surprise, he took hold of several long, silver beard-strands, cut them with the sword, and gave them to Harry’s father.

He chuckled and the rest of the room joined him. A harmonious, family-binding chuckle.

Harry watched as his new dad took the threads and beard-strands, twisting them all together to make a loose yarn. His mum then took this yarn and kinderknitted (1) it into a short, soft rope with a hollow center. When she was done, she gave it to Dumbledore, who held the Gryffindor sword while, first Arthur, then Molly, and then Harry each pricked a finger on the surprisingly sharp swordtip, putting a drop of blood onto the kinderrope, the BondRope.

The Headmaster paused: “Would you mind if I added my own blood. As before, I am not sure why, but that feels right.”

Again Harry smiled and nodded, as did his parents.

The old wizard pricked his finger, adding his blood to Harry’s BondRope.

Then using the loose threads on either end, the Headmaster knotted together Harry’s right hand with his mum’s left hand.

“Harry,” he smiled, “you will always be joined, your right hand to their left. Throughout this week, you will find that this, your family, will be your right hand. And so they will always be.”

With these last words, Magic went through the BondRope, strong and powerful, opening a passageway through the BondRope and into Mum and Harry. Harry looked questioningly at his mum. He saw that she felt it, but again hadn’t expected it. Harry knew it came from his wound and went to – could that be right? – a wound in his mum?

Mum looked at Harry, then both turned to Dumbledore who sensed what had happened, but for whom it was also clearly unexpected.

“Let me think on it,” he said softly, “and we will talk. Before the week is out, I promise.” Dumbledore could be really appalling at times.

By unspoken agreement, an agreement they felt both in themselves and inside each other, Harry and Mum left the house and went to a quiet corner of the garden, where Molly had planted colorful begonias, impatiens and marigolds, crowded into no particular pattern, and they sat side-by-side on a bench. The day was cloudy, the air warm and moist with a slight breeze. Insect sounds of high summer surrounded them. A bird sang.

Harry looked at Mum for cues. She smiled, patted his leg, and leaned against the bench, sighing and closing her eyes. Harry followed her, also closing his eyes. He felt drawn, called through the BondRope’s opening and into his mum. In a way, it was like in the Dursleys’ kitchen, when he left his body and watched from the ceiling. But very different, too. In the kitchen, he felt almost chased out of his body or running away. Then he was mostly seeing, sort of hearing and hardly feeling at all; he’d left feeling behind with his body.

Here, Harry was no longer in his body -- he was in his mum. But he had taken feeling along with him. He felt as intensely as he had ever felt in his life; he felt nurtured, enwombed. Not as in a physical womb, but as in his mum’s emotional or spiritual womb, enclosed by all her feelings for him, by all her love.

Harry relaxed and nestled into his mum’s feelings, giving out his own inner: Smile.

In response, he felt mum hold him closer, giving out her emotions: Smile. Love.

It felt like he’d begun to feel with Ron and Hermione, but stronger, much stronger, and more… abrupt. Because he wasn’t just feeling within his mum, feeling her emotions, he was within his mum. He had never in his life remembered being as fully touched.

With that, Harry felt his touch-hunger flood in from his so many hollow, untouched years where, except for hitting, he had had nothing, no touch at all, not even closeness. No one had wanted him close; no one had thought him worth touching. This had left him feeling not quite solid, not quite real, as if he were floating.

As a child, whenever he could, Harry tried to stay outside, though he usually had to sneak out, often after the Dursleys were in bed. They were always afraid that the neighbors would see him. That was another thing that went with his untouched: his unseen. Most of the time, the Dursleys ignored him; they pretended that he wasn’t there, that he didn’t exist. Wherever he went, it was as if he were still alone in that black cupboard.

At least outside, he could feel the night chill or the wind. And when he was lucky, he felt the splash of cool rain or the warmth of sunshine. He so liked being touched by the rain and the sun, and he enjoyed pretending that the sun and rain really saw him and liked to touch him. It brought Harry a kind of pretend child-peace and an imaginary sense that he really was alive, though in his heart there was always alone in the black cupboard.

Still the sun and the rain, the wind and the night chill, they were something, and Harry had learned to make do with something.

All this and more flashed by in an instant with Harry’s touch-hunger.

With a small shudder, he let himself-in-Mum reach out and re-nestle into his mum’s presence, back into her enwombing. Harry let himself be fully touched; he let himself be held by his mum and her love.

Slowly, cautiously, Harry brought out his touch-emptiness to be held and healed by the magic of Mum’s holding. More memories came:

Sometimes at the Dursleys, Harry provoked a hit, though not a beating to prove to himself that he really existed. Getting hit or, less good, getting yelled at, that felt better than wandering alone, isolated in a touchless and ignored haze where, after a week, or a month, or more, he began to wonder if he was there or if he, too, was just pretend. (2)

Later at Hogwarts, Harry at least had regular, comfortable closeness. But touch, real touch, that was only the occasional brush, bump or crammed-together, and maybe a once-a-year Hermione hug, so brief and to Harry so strange, so alien that it always left him a bit in shock and almost more hungry and confused.

Sometimes at Hogwarts, Harry felt himself slipping back into that old untouchable half-living, into that alone in the black cupboard. But brushing Ron always brought him around. Though Ron never seemed to mind or get upset, Harry was careful never to do it except when he absolutely had to. He always felt ashamed, as if he’d stolen something that wasn’t his, something that he didn’t deserve. Worst of all was knowing that the only way he could get back, the only way he could feel alive again was by stealing something from his best friend.

With this memory, Harry felt: shame. And with that shame, Harry again pulled back from his mum.

Mum: Sad, Love for Shame.

Harry: Stunned: Love for Shame?

Mum: Smile: Love for Shame.

Harry felt Mum reach out and touch his shame, then hold it with her love. With her holding, his shame began to heal, and good touch memories emerged:

Right after the Triwizard Tournament, in the Hogwarts infirmary, Mum gave him that hug. No, not a hug. Harry had been held -- a universe more than a hug. Harry, for whom mere touch was extravagant, for whom a hug was overwhelming, he hadn’t known that anything this incredible existed: to be held!

He so wished that Hermione hadn’t stopped it, though he didn’t blame her. For a time Harry wondered whether Hermione had done it to protect Mum, though he didn’t know quite from what. Touch was always hard for Harry to figure out.

Harry sighed.

Ever since then, before he went to sleep, Harry often thought about his interrupted holding. Especially when he was at the Dursleys, especially after nightmares woke him up. It helped, it even healed some. Mum’s interrupted holding was one of his most important, most thought-about memories.

Harry had wondered whether if that holding had lasted a little longer, maybe he could’ve better taken it in -- better remembered it, better understood it. Maybe he could’ve even figured out how to get held again, though in his heart he felt that he didn’t have the right, and like brushing Ron, that it would be stolen and so not really his.

While it hurt now to remember, Harry recalled his best touch from Sirius – a brief one-armed hug at their last good-bye. Harry had definitely felt some holding in that hug. Brief and one-armed though it was, there was still holding, holding from Sirius.

But with that memory came Harry’s not warning Sirius about—

Too late: all Harry’s insides screamed, No! Pain and guilt raced through him.

Instantly Mum held him tighter: Sad, Love.

Harry clung to her: Desperate for Holding, Desperate for Love.

Mum’s holding, Mum’s love grew to meet Harry’s desperates. Harry couldn’t believe it -- they flowed out of him and into an ocean, an infinity of Mum’s holding and love.

Harry: Relief, Overwhelming Thankfulness.

Now came good memories of Hermione’s and Ron’s touches and hugs, and especially that first holding the day he opened up. Harry always carried them around inside him, always. Their touching, their holding had awakened so much in Harry. They had made him feel so alive. Now they joined with Mum’s holding, becoming even more powerful.

Harry felt these holdings search out and hold his heart. More: they moved inside his heart, holding that “alone in the dark cupboard”, which felt not so alone and not so dark. Harry felt himself coming back as he’d never been before.

Within Harry and Mum’s holding slowly emerged inner-seeing and inner-hearing. Harry felt-saw and felt-heard a flow of lights and musics coming from their hearts and – Harry jerked, startled again – from their wounds. The wound, like his heart and mind, it hadn’t just stayed with his body; it, too, had come with him and into his mum.

“I suppose,” he thought, “the wound’s like my mind and my heart – so much a part of me, so much who I am, that it isn’t just in my body. In some way, it is me.”

He paused. “My wound.”

And for Harry, it now became “my wound”.

Harry felt his wound bonding to… his mum’s wound.

“Mum’s wound,” he wondered. “She has a wound, too.” As their wounds joined, Harry felt that his wound was no longer just his. Like his heart had become his love shared with Mum, now his wound became his hurts shared with Mum.

Their wound-togethering, it was strange – not like pains lumped in a pile and hurting more, nor like weaknesses compounded and becoming weaker. It certainly intensified, but in a way that healed, though not healed so that their wounds were taken away or faded. No indeed, the wounds became even more there, even – Harry could hardly believe it – stronger and more powerful? Even magical?

“Strength, power and magic from my wound?”

Harry shook his head again. It made no sense, but there it was. Their wound-togethering merged with their heart-togethering to create a power and magic that was somber, deeper and wiser, more beautiful, real and true.

But also inside his wound, Harry felt darkness and that nameless thing struggling to get out.

Harry shuddered, then nestled back into mum-love. There Harry began sensing not only his mum-self around him, but also beyond into….

Harry frowned, puzzled.

This “beyond” wasn’t his mum’s body, like a body-machine, but….

Again he paused.

That “beyond”, it was very alive, elemental, even primordial, like Mum’s embodied-self or her embodied-soul.

Harry remembered once at Hogwarts, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d taken his first dad’s invisibility cloak and wandered out into the castle, settling down in a hallway that he’d never seen before. There, alone and very quiet, Harry deeply sensed the walls and floors and ceilings and all things – they were glowing and humming with magic, the magic of centuries of teaching and learning and love. Even the air had substance and energy. That night, Harry felt Hogwarts Castle not just as a place, but as a source of magic: a wellspring, a protecting shield, and a potential for much more, a potential waiting, perhaps even wanting to be called or given.

That night, Harry knew he’d felt Hogwarts’s deepest truth, the core embodiment of its magic. Or maybe it was how Magic manifested and embodied itself most fully within Hogwarts.

This was how he sensed, now, his mum: her embodied magic. Like the castle, his mum’s “beyond” was not just a place where magic happened, but a source: a wellspring, a shield and a potential. Harry could sense particularly magical locations. But these had a dual nature. While they were specific places, they were also mobile.

Most strong, powerful, magical and mobile were her mind, her heart, her womb, her wound. Through the BondRope, these last three were open to Harry. Her mind, however, except indirectly through her feelings, this was still closed to him or muffled, as was his to her.

Then from Harry’s wound and heart came a chuckle: “I can move around into that ‘beyond.’”

He decided to surprise his mum.

Harry darted out of his mum-womb and into her embodied magic. He didn’t run or fly, he flowed. Like the ghosts at Hogwarts, only instead of cold, less there, not-fully-real, Harry felt warm, more there, even more real, alive, and especially more magical.

“Like my shelter,” Harry grinned.

Harry not only flowed to his mum’s heart, he flowed inside her heart, feeling its special magic.

He also felt his mum-presence following him with her own: Impishness.

Harry felt his mum flow into “Harry”, into his embodied magic!

Astonished and happy, Harry followed, and he and his mum began to play a gentle exploration tag, flowing within and between each other, discovering Magic in each other and in their play.

Harry took in the curious, complex and magical nature of their new world.

Yes, he could definitely feel himself, Harry -- like a light and a warmth and a place of music. But just like light and warmth and music, “Harry” wasn’t just in one place and separate. Harry-light, Harry-warmth, Harry-music was always reaching out and joining with everything around. And the light, warmth and music of everything around was coming back and joining with him, too.

Harry was, in a vital way, not just himself. He was more. He was also his reaching out to and his joining with everything around -- especially his reaching out to and joining with mum-light, mum-warmth, mum-music.

This Harry knew was the leading edge of his healing, of his growing up and his getting back. And in ways he didn’t fully understand, this was also his greatest power and magic. But this power, this magic wasn’t his alone; it wasn’t something he controlled or dominated. It was his only as long as it was freely given to him, and only as long as he respected and honored it, and freely gave this magic back. In a way, the Magic didn’t belong to him; it was more that he, himself, belonged to the Magic.

“Weird,” he thought.

And even more puzzling, Harry could feel that he wasn’t just “himself”, but that he was more a togethering, especially now a togethering with Harry and Mum. Their togethering wasn’t merely two lights blending, two musics harmonizing. Just as important was their….

Again Harry searched and waited for the right word, the right understanding. Then it came from the wound: mum-visioning and Harry-visioning, mum-listening and Harry-listening. Not passively seeing and hearing, but more: welcoming and treasuring, holding each other’s gifts. As he welcomed and treasured, and as what he gave was welcomed and treasured, Harry felt, again, a coming together and grounding of his magic and his life.

It was, Harry realized, love – a special love, a very powerful love.

This love Harry more-than-felt. He became it, he alived it.

And more, a delicious, extravagant, infinite more.

As the day went on, Harry and Mum had fun -- playing, comforting, questioning, agreeing, disagreeing, going forward, pulling back – inside each other and not with words but with feelings.

As Harry became more attuned to his mum’s embodied magic, he sensed, within her, other embodied magics: his dad, his brothers and Ginny, and many more he didn’t recognize. These glowed and twinkled like the starry night sky.

He also became more attuned to the other magics within himself. He felt, of course, his shelter. But just as strong and growing stronger, he felt Ron. Ron’s magical presence within him was nearly as strong as his mum’s through the BondRope, though it was different. Harry noted, again, how much his sense of Ron had grown ever since his, Harry’s beating.

Harry sensed Ron's presence as more a part of himself than any other magic. Not more loving, but more natural, as if he and Ron, in some way, better fitted together. Harry wondered about this. It wasn’t how Ron and Hermione fitted together, nor how he fitted together with his mum….

From Harry’s wound came, Not yet.

Harry moved on. Not far behind in strength to Ron, his mum and his shelter, and in fact firmly linked to Ron, was Hermione. And with his Hermione sense, Harry felt an ache, a wishing she were here, a knowing that without her, his family, even his self was not complete.

He could feel, too, emerging bonds with his dad and his other siblings – his family. Harry smiled, looking forward to his other HandBondings, knowing this would help them grow stronger.

There were also bonds with his first mum, his first dad and Sirius, strongly connected, yet in much different ways, their presences ebbing and flowing with a more ethereal light and rhythm. Harry also felt another bond of an even more different “nature”, which at first puzzled him. Then it came with a smile:

“Hedwig.”

And there were more, though these were less clear, and Harry couldn’t yet identify them.

Again, his wound said, Not yet, and Harry moved on.

Less clear, too, and disturbing were bonds that hurt, that seemed in a nasty, grasping way to steal or crush parts of his happiness and contentment. Harry recoiled, feeling from his wound his firmest: No. Not yet.

Harry retreated into his mum, and they went back to their magical play.

As they sported about, Harry was always conscious of his mum’s wound, and he felt her conscious of his. Both moved carefully and gently around each other’s wound.

Finally Mum-in-Harry moved closer to his wound and wordlessly asked: Okay?

Harry: Nod. Little Scared.

Slowly, Mum moved closer: Gentle, Okay?

Harry: Little Smile, Less Scared.

Mum moved to the edge of his wound: Okay?

Harry: Nod. Sad, Hope.

Harry felt his mum reach out inside him and oh-so-gently touch his wound: Love, Join Sad, Mum-Comfort, Okay?

Harry: Nod. More Sad. Lean Into Mum-Comfort.

Neither Harry nor Mum knew how long they were joined with his wound; they just were.

After a while, Harry could feel his wound… trust? -- yes, that was right, trust. And with that trust, his wound took in more comfort and love.

Then from his wound, a black cloud emerged, which opened into memory-pictures:

A small child, not yet two. Shoved into the cupboard under the stairs. Dark. Little Harry feels a spider crawling on him; it bites. Pain, fear. Harry cries. Door and light burst open with angry faces. They yell, they hit. Harry screams. They yell louder, they hit harder. Little Harry’s head hits the wall once, twice. He falls to the floor and struggles to get quiet, to master his spider fear in the face of this larger fear, in the face of hate. The door slams shut. More darkness, more spiders, more fear. Pain and alone, no love, no comfort. Pain and alone, pain and alone….

Harry saw the memory not through the eyes of the yearling, not even through his sixteen-year-old eyes, but through his mum’s eyes. He felt-saw through her outrage, her protectiveness, her sadness and love. She reached out into the cloud picture to comfort the toddler.

But.

Just before she touched little Harry, something came -- Harry’s shelter.

The shelter finds little Harry, surrounding and holding him, then entering his heart and mind. It joins him, loves him, comforts him. It assures him that he’s good, that he’s not alone, that it’s not his fault. His shelter gathers up the memory, carefully wrapping it in love and carrying it into….

Harry could hardly believe what he saw, but it fit -- oh, did it fit! His shelter carried it into his wound!

With that, two healing flows came, one from somewhere outside, another from his wound. With both flows came not only healing, but more warmth, comfort, love. And with each flow came its own powerful and beautiful music.

Memory after memory of abuse and neglect came out of that dark cloud. Harry hadn’t remembered most of them, as his shelter had carried them entirely away, sealing them up within his wound. He’d known that growing up with the Dursleys was violent and awful, but not this bad. He was as shocked, as horrified as his mum.

Over and over, little Harry is beaten: his skin is bruised, his young face bloodied, his green eyes blackened, his small bones broken. Sometimes at the end he is scared and in pain, sometimes he is unconscious. He is forced to stay in the black-dark cupboard, no one to talk to, no one to be with him. Often he goes without food. Never from the Dursleys does he feel gentleness, never comfort, never love. Always he feels hated and worthless, over and over, hated and worthless.

Harry saw these memories through his mum’s eyes, from within her protectiveness and love. And always, Harry felt his shelter and those healing flows and their musics.

After a long time and countless memories, the dark cloud paused. Harry felt as if he were being tested for readiness, an awful test that, somehow, he knew he passed or that maybe he and his mum passed. He felt a tremor, an ominous sinking feeling, and suddenly, through his mum, he saw-felt himself at ten years old. But Harry and Molly saw this memory differently. They could see and feel and hear into little Harry; in this memory, they knew his thoughts and emotions. As they watched him standing there, they even knew his memories, his horrible memories of previously going to the Deputy Headteacher.

……………

Scared and standing in front of the Deputy Headteacher's office, little Harry hesitated before knocking. As he stood there, Harry memory-heard earlier times, when the large man talked to him in that angry tone of voice:

"…and your teacher confirms this, that you still aren't handing in your homework. I have a letter here from your Uncle…." Harry memory-saw the man pick up a piece of paper. "He says," the man continued, "that you refuse to do your homework. Even when they take away privileges, you still refuse and are quite defiant. They say that smacking also has no effect. Furthermore, they say that you have always been like this." The man looked up at Harry. "And since you've been at my school, by your records, this has been true, even well before I came."

The man looked at Harry, his face very angry.

Harry was terrified of this man. This was the only man, other than his Uncle Vernon, that Harry had ever been around. All the other teachers, all the other Headteachers and Deputy Headteachers were women. And this man was as angry with him, as hateful though not as violent, as his Uncle. Now the man looked like his uncle at his angriest.

At first, Harry had told the Deputy Headteacher what he had told his form teachers -- that his aunt and uncle shut him up in the cupboard, and that they didn't let him turn on the light, because of electricity costs. So he couldn't read, he couldn't do his homework. But Harry had quickly discovered that the man, like his teachers, didn't believe him. "No one ever believes me," he thought, "and then, when they tell Uncle Vernon...." Harry felt his body flinch from his Uncle's fury and hate, and from the beatings.

In his mind's eye, Harry remembered the man looking down at the letter, then saying, "Your Uncle also states that you lie about not having any homework, and that, when you come to school, you lie about them not letting you do your homework." The man looked even angrier. "We, at the school, have had years of your lying, haven't we?"

In memory, Harry felt his humiliation and his hopelessness grow.

"Haven't we?” The man's face reddened as his tone and emotions sharpened, just like Uncle Vernon. Harry knew that the hitting would start soon. To try to stall this, though he knew he couldn't stop it, he lowered his head and nodded.

"Nodding is not respectful," Harry memory-heard the man say. "And you must look at me."

Harry forced his head up, then forced himself to say, in a small, frightened voice, "Yes, sir."

The man continued. "Your Uncle also says that your parents were like this, too, and that nothing worked with them, either, no matter what the punishment. So your guardians have given me permission to use... extreme force."

With these last words, Harry heard the man's voice change and, worse, he saw his face change. And while he didn't fully understand those changes, they, like the words, didn't feel good. He watched the man go to the door and lock it. Then the man walked over to Harry, standing close, very close, too close and in a way that made Harry's stomach feel sick and his mind feel woozy.

...............

Harry and his mum watched as the man stripped off Harry's pants, and roughly shoved Harry onto and across his lap. Then the man began smacking Harry's naked bottom with a fury.

...............

That first time, that first naked smacking, had been only two weeks ago, but it had been repeated several times. Each time, Harry felt not only his pain but, even more, his shame increase. Now, about to face the Deputy Headteacher again, with his stomach near nausea, Harry made himself knock. He knew that not to knock would make things even worse, even more violent.

"Come in." Harry entered, and heard the man say, "And close and lock the door behind you." Harry complied, and thought he knew what was coming. He went over to the man's desk, and stood, his head down and trembling slightly.

"Well," the man said, "I can see that we are still having no effect on you. I have communicated this to your aunt and uncle, and they confirm it -- nothing is working for them, either."

There was a moment of silence.

"I suppose," the large man resumed, "that you're wanting us to give up, to allow you to defy us, to let you be the lazy, arrogant sloth you have always been. And it appears that the smacking, indeed, has no effect on you, none whatsoever. So--" The man paused, then finished his sentence. "--there will be no more smackings."

At this, Harry looked up, hardly daring to believe what he'd just heard. He saw the man give a very unpleasant smile, and heard him say, "But I have an idea."

……………..

Harry and his mum watched as the man got up and walked around the desk, to stand a bare half-foot away from little Harry, his unpleasant smile still in place as he looked down at the small, thin boy, who was now fully trembling and no longer able to look at him. Silently, he stripped Harry, once more. Then the man picked up Harry, put him over the edge of the desk, and pulled down his own pants. (3)

...............

"A scream, even a small sound," the man threatened in a husky voice, "and I will make you wish that you had never been born."

Harry felt blinding pain, as sharp as beatings when a bone was broken. But this pain was different. It was, in a way, sharper, and much deeper inside Harry, a deeper that went well beyond the physical.

The man made good on his threat, even though Harry remained silent.

...............

Molly and Harry watched as little Harry desperately kept quiet despite the pain. They watched as tears and more tears silently washed down Harry's face, his small face twisted in pain, his little green eyes shrunk back and drowning in a well of pain.

...............

After he was through with Harry, the man said, "We'll see, now, if that teaches you anything. Because if it doesn't, we'll just have to do it again, won't we? And remember, if you tell anyone, the next time will be worse. And they won't believe you anyway. Or care."

The man needn't have said that. Harry already knew.

...............

Memory after memory piled up, over and over and over again, none of which Harry had known at all.

Harry double-closed his eyes. He could not see these memories, he could not. Worse, he could not, he could not see his mum seeing these memories. He felt broken, filth that no one could love or even want around. Yes, each time his shelter came, each time it loved and comforted. Those healing flows and their musics, they, too, always came. But Harry could not take their comfort or love. He could only take their taking away the memories.

Mum: Horror, Outrage. Hold, Comfort, Love More.

Harry: Shame Builds and Builds.

The memories stop.

Harry could not take in his mum’s comfort and love either. He built a wall between his mum and himself and tried to hide -- from the memories, from his mum, from his shame. He sought numbness, frantically struggling to leave his body and mind, and most especially to leave his wound.

“Harry.” Mum’s voice, though gentle and sad, felt like blows, like condemnation.

Harry cowered and kept trying to hide.

“Harry. Please.”

Desperately Harry tried to block his mum, to block his shame, to once again block these memories, to send them back into disremembrance, back into his wound. And couldn’t, and failed.

“Harry, please hear me. Please. That’s in my wound, too, that happened to me. I was raped. Again and again. By an uncle who lived with us. From eight years old until I was almost your age. I tried to tell, but no one listened, no one believed me. I guess no one thought I was worth it.”

Stunned, Harry looked into his mother’s face and saw pain. Inside he moved to his mum, and went gently toward her wound. He felt her wound crying.

“Harry?” Harry-in-Mum was electrified by her sheer vulnerability. “Now that you know, do you reject me? Am I filthy, disgusting, worthless?”

Harry was horrified and outraged:

“HOW DARE HE! I WANT TO… Oh Mum, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I love you Mum, I love you so much. It doesn’t matter, Mum. I love you whatever anyone did.” Harry-in-Mum felt his mother taking in all that Harry gave, all his love and holding, and from Harry there was always more.

Slowly, gradually, Harry felt her fill up with his love. He held on a moment longer, feeling her insides to make sure, then gently, carefully he pulled back just a little to smile into her face. He saw his mum smiling back at him.

“Yes, Harry. And I believe you, I really do. You inside me know how important you are, how much you gave me.”

Harry glowed.

They held, awash in Mum’s filled and Harry’s glowing.

Then:

“Harry?”

“Yes, Mum?”

“May I ask you to do something? even if it’s very, very hard? Maybe harder than anything you’ve ever done? For me?”

Harry looked worried. “Mum, if I can, I’ll do it. I promise.”

“I believe you, Harry. I hate asking, I really do, because I know it will be so hard. But I must, I truly must.”

Harry’s concern for his mother grew, as did his love.

“What, Mum?”

“Harry. Please let me do for you what I let you do for me.”

Shame slammed into him and roared throughout his body and mind, his heart and wound.

“I know, Harry. Believe me, I know. Can you trust me, even with your shame?”

Harry struggled. He wanted to run, to hide. His whole being howled that running and hiding, this and only this was survival. Those memories, that shame -- they were death; they were annihilation.

But: this was his mum and he promised. He promised his mum, he promised.

Harry saw his mum: sad and loving and pleading. His mum.

He promised.

Harry closed his eyes and leaned toward his mum, bit by bit, more and more, until he felt her there, soft and holding.

His mum. He promised.

Slowly, cautiously, wary and brittle with hurt, Harry let his mum in. Harry let her hold him; he even let her hold his shame.

For another long time, Harry and his mum rested together inside and out.

Then Harry’s wound called: Come.

They stared at each other.

“Mum? Please come with me; I’m afraid.”

“Harry, are you sure this is wise? You’ve been through so much today. Let’s do it later.”

Again his wound called: Come. Now. You need to know.

Harry and his mum moved slowly to his deep wound and peered over its edge.

Looking up at them was a large green snake, hate lasering out of red eyes.

Harry’s scar erupted with fire and pain. The last things he knew before he went away were, on the inside, his mum’s fierce bonding and terror, and a surging of Ron, Hermione and others. On the outside, he felt Mum’s arms clutching him, and he heard her voice echoing through his fading mind: “Harry! Oh, Harry! Arthur! Professor Dumbledore!”

Vox in Rama audita est, (A voice was heard in Rama,)
Ploratus et ululatus: (Weeping and death-wailing:)
Rachel plorans filios suos, (Rachel, crying for her sons,)
Noluit consolari, (Would not be consoled,)
Quia non sunt. (Because they are not, i.e., because they are dead.)

Communion Antiphon
Holy Innocents Day
Gregorian Chant

* * * * * * * * * *

From a dark corner inside the wound came a darker quiet laugh. The young mouth looked satisfied, even pleased, though the eyes were still hollow. The two green eyes.

Those green eyes looked over at the snake, then again up at the wound opening where, unnoticed, they had just seen two horrified faces.

“Better,” came softly but not kindly from that mouth. “Much better.”

“…eyes… become blank, nothing but two open wounds, two pits of terror.”

Elie Wiesel
Night