Sam I Am

Sam I Am
Part Two

He clambers over a Death Eater and through the door he goes.

His feet carry him forwards, although he has no idea where he's going, or what's around the corner. It could be another Death Eater. Or the door out.

He tries to remember the things he learnt from his own march through these halls when they first captured him; the things Bellatrix shrieked at him back when she cared—

The rooms move, traitor traitor TRAITOR!

The hall always faces north, you son of a dirt-born whore. Of course they can watch us.

IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT YOU DID THIS TO ME I HATE YOU I WISH YOU WERE DEAD.

The rooms move, he recalls sickly, staggering slightly. The main door faces—faced east: he remembers the setting sun shining in his eyes as they marched him past the jeering Death Eaters, but there is no guarantee that it's still where it was. Desperation rises in his throat, or maybe just bile, and he stretches out a shaky hand to flutter along the wallpaper that feels so strange and coarse under his fingers.

Please help me, he thinks desperately, trying to push the thoughts down him arm and out through the quivering tips of his fingers as he walks along. He hopes the house can hear him. It is alive and it is magic and there is no reason it shouldn't.

It does. His arm jerks away from the wall suddenly; is repulsed, rather. No, he thinks. He staggers along anyway. He passes a corridor and another and is that the body they passed before? There are so many, sprinkled around the Manor like potted plants would be scattered around any normal house. He grins wolfishly as he walks, skidding a little in something warm and sticky, but he doesn't look down.

He totters around another corner, fighting against his disused muscles to move faster still. He feels a tiny shift behind him, and he stops, turns around. A wall confronts him solid and immovable even though he stepped through the hallway that had been there just a minute ago. He brushes a hand over his eyes, and when it's still there afterward he reaches out hesitantly to touch it.

Writing coalesces around his hand like something out of a Muggle horror movie as he touches the tips of his fingers to the striped wallpaper.

OUT.

And then the wall is moving, pushing back against his fingers and he stares at it for a second before turning and beginning to run. The wall smacks against his heels, making him stumble. His knee flares in pain, but he stiffens it tries to run faster.

The corridors whiz past, and laughter bubbles out of Harry. He is flying again: his feet don't quite touch the ground and he howls with laughter as he runs. He takes corners at random, the wall still chasing him sure as ever. All too soon he is in a corridor with nothing except him and a small doorway, barely there. The laughter subsides, and he steps towards it quietly, as if it will turn into a sparrow and fly away.

He stalks the sparrow silently, making himself as small as the little bird; smaller, even, so that he can sneak up on it unseen. The sparrow is locked. He stretches out his hand and suddenly it's not a sparrow but a door. He regards it suspiciously, but no words form and he feels safe touching it. "Alohomora," he whispers hopefully. The magic is even more disused than his voice, but the door not only comes unlocked but swings open. Swings away, and grim midmorning light falls upon his face. He steps out confidently, grinning madly, and the door slams shut behind him as he does.

The dungeon was not cold. This is cold, and he's still naked. He steps out of the alley, too cold to be embarrassed as he hurries along the street. His feet arch away from the pavement, which is cold and rough and scattered with glass and rocks. There is nobody on this street, or on the next.

He looks up at the sky and stares at the smudges of smoke, stares harder at the tall tower of smoke that stretches into the sky. The sun is behind him, not quite warm on his bare shoulders, and he realises that he has managed to get turned around so that he is facing Voldemort's Manor.

He makes another impulse decision and spins away, looking for any road that will take him away from the Manor. He manages to find one with people on it, although they are all walking in the other direction. They look angry; one spits at him, and a few stare at his emaciated body, but most tuck their heads down and walk past him, leaving a space around him.

He moves through a cocoon in the crowd. The road is covered in dirt now, dirt that has been churned to mud. His calves are plastered with it, and he pauses to scratch it away as it dries.

He doesn't know London at all, and he just walks aimlessly—doesn't quite stroll, but he is moving with no purpose except to get away from the Manor. Every now and then he checks the sky for the plume of smoke and the sun to be sure.

The crumbling ruin he's staring at looks familiar, but he can't place it. It looks like a castle, almost. Hogwarts, he thinks.

No. Hogwarts was up north, in Scotland. Not in London, he is certain.

He wanders away, glancing dispassionately at the corner of sign where it pokes from the rubble— ldron.

His legs are so very tired now—even Bellatrix hasn't done this much pacing—but he can't stop now. The sun is behind him and so is the smoke. He mumbles apologies to the people he stumbles into. They ignore him, brush past him, and he grimaces in the knowledge that they think he's just another crazy man. Younger than the normal, perhaps, but still crazy.

His hair curls against his buttocks, adhering with the sweat that slicks his back. His thighs burn with fatigue and his knees ache and his head still throbs, but he can't stop now. Not until he is somewhere safe, and he doesn't recognise anywhere.

He doesn't so much stumble into the next person as crash, his elbow against their breast—a woman—and they both stagger from the impact. "Merlin's beard!" she swears, and Harry's eyes snap up. She's a witch. "Watch whe..."

It's Cho, and he feels a moment of fluttering joy that he can remember who she is. She is staring at him, gaping like Nott did earlier and Bellatrix before him. "Cho..." he croaks. Her hair is short, very short, and he can't help but think that he liked it better when it was as long at his is now.

She inhales sharply, lets it out slowly while he stands there helplessly. His mind registers that he's naked in front of Cho, but he doesn't move to cover himself. So many have seen him today that one more is hardly going to make a difference. "Merlin," she breathes, and he has to concentrate not to flinch away as she moves close, pressing one hand to his cheek as the other flicks his bangs away from his forehead.

Her eyes rove across his face and his scar, and he can't look her steadily in the eyes anymore. He averts his own as she runs her fingers over his scar. They're cool against the heat of his skin, but its still hurts and this time he does pull away.

"Harry," she says. He can't think of anything to say back, so he purses his lips and looks at her. She laughs. "Everyone said you'd died."

"Not dead," he mutters, and he knows his voice is too harsh even before he says the words. "Captured." He waits for her to be offended, to gasp and push away, but her eyes just widen. She glances down at the space between them, at his ribs like the back of a wooden chair and bulging, horrifying belly, and she blushes just a bit.

There's comprehension in her eyes when she looks back at him. "The riot this morning," she says. "The coup...." He nods tightly—is that what it was? "You need... I can't give you anywhere to stay," she says, as if he's asked. "Ginny Weasley," she adds, firmly. "We'll take you to Ginny. Can you walk a bit further? It's not too far." She smiles at him. That used to make him weak in the knees, but this time he thinks he's just tired. He smiles back weakly.

They make an odd couple walking down the street. She is as immaculate as she ever was, and he is dirty and sweat-smeared and nude, but she hooks her arm through his as they go, like they're strolling through Hogsmeade again.

It turns out that Ginny Weasley lives on the second floor of a three-story building, four streets from where he and Cho collided. The paint is peeling away from the weatherboards and two of the windowpanes on the first floor are boarded up. Cho pushes the buzzer for Ginny's flat and leans in close to the little panel set into the wall.

There's a pause, and then Ginny's voice crackles from the speaker. "Hello?"

Cho lets out a tiny huff of relief. "Ginny? It's Cho Chang. I need to see you, urgently."

"Oh!" the panel splutters. "Um. Okay. I'll let you in." The door whirrs and clicks. Cho puts her hand on the knob and opens it, stepping inside and then looking back at Harry. He steps in after her.

His legs most certainly do not wobble as he walks up the stairs behind Cho, but it still takes him a while. Cho is already at the top of the stairs while he's still mounting them, and Ginny's voice carries down the hall.

"Listen," she says. "If this is about Justin, that was three years ago and I have oth..." Her voice trails off as his head rises above the stairwell, and then the rest of him, and he thinks maybe she squeaks a little when she sees that he's naked.

"It's not about Justin," Cho says softly, but Ginny is blushing furiously.

"Harry!" she says, and there's definitely a squeak in her voice. She doesn't seem to know what to say next. Cho gives her a sideways glance that's far more knowing than it has any right to be.

"Can we come in?" Cho asks. The blush deepens.

"Oh! Right. Yes, right, come in and I'll make a cup of tea and..."

"I think Harry'll need something more than a cuppa," Cho interrupts. Ginny is blushing from the roots of her hair to the curve of her chin, now, and pointedly not looking at Harry.

"Er. Right. Come in," she says, turning around and fleeing inside. Cho glances at Harry once and then follows Ginny in. Harry finishes clambering up the stairs and then into Ginny's flat. The floors are bare wooden boards that scrape the dead skin on the soles of his feet. He touches one hand to the walls to steady himself and snatches it back when he realises that he's left a smudge of sweat and mud on her wall. Mustn't spoil Ginny's house, he thinks.

Cho and Ginny are murmuring quietly to each other somewhere off to his left. A tap splashes on and off and he guesses they're in the kitchen. He turns at the first door on the left side of the hall. Cho is seated at an old table that looked rather like the one Aunt Petunia bought when he was eight because the one they had was simply not fashionable enough. Ginny sets a kettle down on an old gas element, throws Harry a glance and then disappears through another door in the room.

Harry stands in the doorway and looks at Cho. Her hair is very short, almost mannishly so, and her skin is sallow but flushed—from the walk? What appears at first to be an absolutely immaculate outfit shows tiny signs of wear and adversity on closer consideration. There's a tiny hole in the seam where the sleeve of her blouse meets the body, and the pale skin of her shoulder shows through. She doesn't look at him, and he wonders what is so embarrassing that neither of them want to look at him before he remembers that he's still very naked.

It's not that he's comfortable being naked, really, but after who knows how many years with nothing but his hair to cover him, he's accustomed. Inured, even. Ginny stalks back into the room and hands him a canary-yellow terry cloth robe. "Put that on, won't you?" she says. Harry takes it, looks at it, and then back at Ginny. "It was Justin's," she adds, as if it explains everything. It certainly explains the colour. Cho looks a little sick.

Harry pulls it on, pulls it shut and fumbles with the tie until it is more or less tied. Ginny looks at him and sighs, but the flush is almost gone from her cheeks. The grimace on her face becomes a tiny grin as she reaches behind Harry and carefully pulls his hair out from under the robe.

"That'll do," she says, pulling a chair out for Harry to sit in. This, Harry's most certainly not accustomed to. The terry cloth shifts against his skin and the wood feels strangely soft under his feet and somewhere comfortable to sit is most definitely the strangest things. Ginny's face crumples a bit as he takes his seat. "You look like crap, Harry," she says, sounding morose, and Harry smiles up at her but still doesn't know what to say.

She wanders back over to the kettle, which is not quite boiled, and rummages in the overhead cupboard for cups and teabags, setting them on the counter. Harry looks at Cho and is surprised to find her staring at him, looking like she's about to burst into tears. Harry folds his hands above his belly.

"I need Ron and Hermione," Ginny announces. Cho breaks her eyes away from Harry.

"I heard they'd gone to France."

"Yeah, they did. I'd Floo them but the Censors are always watching the Floo connections and they're still technically Enemies of the State."

"They ransacked the Auratorium this morning, Ginny. Nobody's watch the Floo."

"They what?"

"Have you been out at all today?" Ginny shakes her head and Cho leans forward eagerly. "There was a coup at the Manor. All the Death Eaters fighting each other and everything. They say Lucius Malfoy tried to take over, but I bet Harry really started it." She pauses, looking at Harry to see if he would add anything, but Harry decided not to correct her, and she continued happily: "There was another riot. And they say Voldemort's dead..." another glance at Harry. "The rioters set the Manor on fire and then they went through all of the Dark Houses and everything's screwed up, really."

Harry sits through this conversation with bemusement. He's never heard of Censors or the Auratorium or Dark Houses, but it's so good to just sit—sit! On a real chair!—and listen to a conversation that's not shrieked or full of threatening declarations.

Ginny sits as quietly as Harry for a moment, and then stands, saying: "I'll Floo them now, then." And she goes out by the door Harry came in through.

He and Cho blink at each other, a pregnant pause, before the kettle starts to whistle. Cho stands up to get it, knocking her chair back, and Harry closes his eyes as the kettle whistles on. His eyes feel heavy and sore, swollen almost. His whole head is heavy, and he leans it back to stare at the ceiling. The terry cloth feels strange where it touches the nape of his neck.

Cho does something to stop the kettle, and suddenly he can hear Ginny in the next room.

"...here, now," she says.

"But the Censors..." replies Ron Weasley's voice, and Harry lets out a tiny, desperate sigh to hear his old friend's voice.

"Ron, none of that matters now. The Censors won't be watching. Please come, now."

"What—?"

"Ron!" Ginny snaps. "It's fucking urgent, okay? Nobody is going to catch you. Just hurry up."

Harry opens his eyes again as Ginny stalks back into the room and is startled to find Cho staring at him, the kettle dangling from one hand and a jar of tea in the other. Harry's eyes meet hers, and she turns back to the counter and the waiting pot.

He starts he feels a hand on the back of his neck, and he realises that Ginny's moved up behind him without him noticing. He flinched away when the hand curled around his foul hair, lifting it away from his neck. Ginny's fingers light on the tips of scars where they stretch out lividly from under the robe.

He shrugs once, uncomfortably, and Ginny lets his hair drop. She puts a hand on his swollen shoulder and stays there for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is thick with... something. Sadness? "Where are Ron and Hermione?"

"Here," says Ron's voice. Harry turns in his seat instinctively, looking at his schoolmate over his shoulder.

Ron sucks in a breath harshly, and takes a step backwards, bumping into Hermione behind him.

"Ron, what...?" she asks, trying to step around him to see what he is staring at. She finally manages to peer around his shoulder on tiptoes, and then Ron is being pushed into the room and Harry has to struggle not to flinch again when Hermione wraps her arms around his shoulders and squeezes.

"Harry," she sighs into his hair, and then splutters when a few strands fall into her mouth. "Urgh," she groans, pulling back to look at him properly. "Oh, Harry, look at you," she says.

Her arms are still tight around him and Ginny's hand has moved to rest lightly on his shoulder blade. Ron looks utterly gobsmacked, and Cho is gripping the counter with white knuckles, her back still to him. None of them move for a moment, and the silence becomes awkward.

"Why's he got Justin's robe on?" Ron asks quietly, and Harry looks up at Ron, trying not to be hurt that his friend hasn't even said hello yet.

Something in Ginny seems to snap. "You knew he was alive, didn't you!?" she yells indignantly. "We all... everyone thought he was dead and you never said anything! Not a fucking word!"

"It was... better if people thought he was dead," says Ron tightly, still looking at Harry.

"And... what? You just decided that, when he disappeared? Where the fuck do you get off making these decisions, Ron?" Hermione presses her face into Harry's shoulder again, hugging him close.

"I didn't!" Ron yells. "It was Dumbledore's decision!" And even Harry knows that's not right. Dumbledore had been dead for almost a year when they caught Harry out on that field, alone and out late. Ginny voices Harry's racing thoughts, and is met with stony silence.

There is a thump as Cho sets the pot of tea on the table, and the four of them start to remember—to discover, in Ron and Hermione's case—that she's there.

Ron is staring at her cautiously, and she breaks the silence again, looking at Hermione. "There was a coup... an attempted coup, at the Manor. And then a riot. All the Houses have been torn apart, and the Manor's on fire. Voldemort's dead, they say. I shouldn't think you'll need to worry about being chased down just at the moment."

The room is suddenly a babble of voices, Ron and Hermione asking questions insistently while Ginny and Cho talk over each other to answer. Harry's eyes slip closed gently as Ron demands to know about the state of the city, and then the noise fades away as he falls into sleep.

He wakes up in a bed. He tenses at the odd feeling of it sagging slightly under his weight, shifts slightly and feels it move with him. He feels like he's falling again, plummeting through the sky and his body curls reflexively.

"Are you awake?" asks a gentle voice, and he turns to look at Hermione. "You are," she says, and he nods stiffly. She stands up, folding her blanket over the back of the chair and then pulling the duvet up over him. "You need something to eat. And a bath," she says, and turns to go.

"Hermione," he whispers, remembering—remembering!—something, and she turns back, looking startled. "Sam I am?"

She looks down at him, mixed concern and joy on her face, and a silly little smile spreads across her face. "Not even with green eggs and ham," she replies. "Doctor Seuss, Harry," she adds, when he looks confused. "I'll get you some porridge."