Pieces of What

The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one dischage from sin and error.
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre-
To be redeemed from fire by fire.

-T.S. Eliot

~~~

Chapter 2: Shame

"This is hopeless," Harry whines to Ginny. She managed to take a day off from the start of the term to help him adjust. "I need to see my wand moving to cast these spells properly." He rubs his eyes in exhaustion, missing the feel of his glasses. He must have lost them that night in the forest.

"I don't understand why it hasn't worked yet. Maybe a bit more of a flick?" Ginny squeezes his hand gently for reassurance. He shrugs absently but is suddenly shocked to feel her lips against his. Harry can't help but feel embarrassed as he jumps back violently, his hands unconsciously pushing her away.

She doesn't say anything, but he can tell from the taste of the silence that he's hurt her. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's with me."

"It's okay - you're just having a hard time." She sounds a little wary when she continues, "It's just, ever since you came back you've been a little to yourself, Harry. Not just with me, but with Ron and Hermione too."

"I just need some time to get used to this, but I'll be okay, Ginny." He smiles in what hopes is reassuring, trying to hide the headache that's coming in waves.

"I know. I'll wait." She sounds strained as her hand slips away from his. "You want to try the spell again?"

Harry really doesn't feel like it but he doesn't want to disappoint her. With much too little effort, he raises his arm to perform the spell, "Legere!" When nothing happens, he sighs loudly and puts his wand down, glaring at the never-ending darkness.

"Maybe you'll have better luck tomorrow," she says hopefully. Harry nods for a response and continues to glare at the unjustness of it all. "Harry, do you want to come outside with me for a walk? It's a cold, fall day - your favourite kind."

He's momentarily tempted, but the memory of walking around the grounds with Hermione and Ron last week, holding onto them to not fall over while feeling everyone shamelessly staring at him was too painful to endure again. "Thanks Ginny, but I'm kinda tired. You go ahead."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," he says a little impatiently.

"Alright," she replies curtly. "I'll check on you later," and not waiting for his response, she walks out of his dormitory, firmly closing the door behind her. Harry sighs again as he lays back on his bed. He is sure she is cross with him, and he doesn't blame her.

After leaving the hospital wing nearly a week ago, he could sense the uneasiness and obligation he made others feel. No one could pass the chance to feel sorry for him. They had started to speak to him in a hushed voice; the kind that people reserve for those in their death beds. Everyone seemed to be going out of their way to make sure that he was comfortable. Harry couldn't turn his head without someone asking him if he needed help to the bathroom.

It's not surprising then that Harry had attempted to distance himself from everyone. And when his friends offered their help of any kind, he was sure to let them know that he was fine. He had to be. Even so, he still found himself grudgingly needing his friends to help him with day-to-day tasks, like eating, walking or studying. The very thought of this dependency makes Harry chuck his textbook at the wall in disgust.

But worse than his sudden reliance on others, his inability to learn new spells, or the gossip that circulates him everywhere he goes, are the nightmares. Harry envies a simpler time when nightmares were reserved to dark nights and silencing charms around his bed. Now the days and nights hold no difference. When Harry wasn't snapping at his friends or wallowing in self-pity, he was afraid. Every waking and sleeping moment was full of terrors: of cold eyes and cold bodies, of blazing fires and ruined castles, but worse than all that, all he saw was darkness. He was afraid that it would consume him. Would he wake up and forget what his own reflection looked like? Would he ever find who he wanted to be? Would he ever truly live?

"Harry?" Hermione lightly taps his arm, jolting him out of his thoughts.

"Hey! Didn't hear you."

"We were calling for some time, mate..." Ron says with concern.

"Sorry, I must have dozed off." He can't quite remember when or how he left his dorm. From the sound of the fire crackling and the feel of the cushioned armchair, he must be in the common room.

"With your eyes open?" Ron asks.

"Huh?"

"Harry," Hermione says softly. "I wanted to talk to you about the night you went blind." Harry cringes slightly at the word. "There must be something you missed? I'm sure if you told me one more time... "

"Hermione," Harry rests his head back against the armchair lethargically, "I've told you everything I could."

"It's just, I've found close to nothing on the curse he used on you. I'm hitting dead ends, Harry."

"We should move on then. We should try to find the person who did this instead of wasting our time reading every book in the library." Not that he had been doing much reading lately.

He feels her hand lightly squeeze his arm, and he has to fight the impulse to snatch his arm away. "We're only trying to help. It's unrealistic to go after a man without a name."

"Or a face," Ron puts in.

He shakes his head stubbornly. "I know his voice."

Harry can feel Hermione and Ron exchanging a look. Feeling slightly suffocated, he begins to get up from the armchair.

"Where are you going?" Hermione asks with concern.

"I can't sit here anymore. I know you both are worried and trying to help, but I need to get away from all of this. I'm going for a walk."

"We'll come with you!" Hermione makes a move to get up as well.

"No!" he says loudly. His face flushes with embarrassment, "No, just need to be on my own."

Hermione begins to argue, but Ron gently shushes her. As he walks through the portrait hole, he can hear Ron faintly whispering, "He'll come around."

~~~

Recently Harry spends the majority of his time either alone in his room or exploring the castle by night. Professor McGonnell had demanded that Harry take some time off to adjust to his new situation. At first he had rebelled at the idea of not starting the term with everyone else, but he was now very grateful for her insistence. It was surprising how quickly he had learned the layout of the castle, especially for rooms and corridors he used often. Of course, things would be more difficult when he begins his classes, which was in a few, short days. A part of him didn't feel ready to face normality yet, but if he was honest with himself, he may never feel ready.

It was during these midnight rendezvous that Harry feels most calm. When he is around other people, the full degree to which his senses are compensating for his vision loss is felt. It's impossible to ignore the whispers about him from across the room. He knows almost instinctively who is walking around him by the sound of the person's walk or by what scent they carry. Harry is also especially sensitive to people touching him. He was never the sort to be overly concerned with his personal space, but recently any human contact was an unpleasant intrusion.

Harry, who was not focusing on where he was stepping, is abruptly shaken out of his thoughts as he trips over something sprawled across the floor. Cursing under his breath, he feels the cold floor with his hands until his fingers touch fabric. As he curls his hands around the form to see its shape, he realizes quite suddenly that he's touching a person.

His whole body reels back in sudden fear. He can feel the corners of his mind beginning to panic. Did he just stumble over a dead person? Is Hogwarts under attack? He wills himself to breathe calmly to better hear his surroundings. A moment passes by and all he can hear is silence. Urging on his Gryffindor courage, Harry crawls towards the still figure and places his hands on their chest. He senses the steady rhythm of a heartbeat against his fingertips. He then places his ear above the person's face and listens to their faint, slow breath. Sighing with irrational relief, he realizes that the person is only unconscious - most likely in need of Pomprey.

Trying to decide if he should carry the person to the Hospital Wing or get help, Harry kneels closer and very carefully places the person's head on his lap. He notices that the hair is soft and short, most likely that of a male student, and that he has a distinct, sweet, autumn scent - that mingles unfavourably with a metallic one that doesn't belong. That's when Harry realizes that his hands are damp with blood. Feeling a sense of urgency now, Harry grasps the boy's shoulders and very gently shakes him.

Harry hears the person moan in evident pain as he begins to stir. "Can you hear me?" he asks quietly. The person doesn't respond; maybe he isn't conscious yet. But then Harry hears the person groan and his cold hands are roughly pushing Harry away. He hears the person beginning to sit up. "Wait, I think you shouldn't move," Harry urges. "You were out cold for a moment there." Harry tries to ease the stranger's shoulders back but he stops when the person overtly recoils at the contact.

He then shoves Harry aside and scrambles to his feet, letting out a dry, uneven laugh. Frowning slightly, Harry really doesn't understand what is happening. He can hear the person beginning to leave the corridor, scraping his hand against the walls to keep from stumbling over. "I can help, you know!" Harry calls to his retrieving back. For a moment he considers running after him, but decides against it as he hears the sounds of someone desperately trying to get away.

~~~

Today will be hell. He was sure that by today most of the effects of the other night would have worn off, but the pounding in his head and the ache in his abdomen said otherwise. Sitting in a stuffy Potions room while pretending to listen to Slughorn can't be helping much either. Maybe if he just closes his eyes for a minute...

The door behind him slams open loudly, causing Draco to jolt out of his pained sleepiness. When he turns to see who it is, Draco's stomach lurches unpleasantly at the sight of Potter rushing into the classroom, looking as unkempt as usual.

"Sorry I'm late!" he says nervously, his eyes cast down.

"Ah, Harry! I'm glad you've decided to join us today." Slughorn exclaims excitedly. "Please take an empty seat quickly." Draco looks around the overcrowded room of both 7th and 8th years, and scowls in annoyance when he realizes that the only empty seat is next to his. How life hates him so.

Potter seems to linger uncomfortably at the door for a moment, his face beginning to flush. "Er... Sir..." he says, looking embarrassed.

"Oh yes! I'm sorry, Harry! Draco, can you please help him to his seat?"

Glaring furiously at Slughorn, Draco refuses to say anything as he reaches for Potter's knapsack and tugs him aggressively to the seat next to his. Potter sits down clumsily, nearly falling over. He snatches his knapsack out of Draco's hand and faces the front of the class miserably.

The lecture continues for the next half hour, but Draco is beyond the point of caring to listen. Every so often, he sneaks a glance at Potter. It's very eerie for Draco to see Potter so damn lifeless; his eyes glazed over and unblinking, staring into nothing. A pang of guilt kicks Draco in the stomach, but he buries it stubbornly. Looking away from Potter, he forces one single thought to resonate - Potter fucking had it coming.

"The partners next to you will be the ones to use for the rest of the term... " Draco manages to hear. At these words he hangs his head in his hands and almost laughs at the irony of the situation; his plan to avoid Potter all term had already failed. "Now please collect the ingredients you'll need for today's potion," Slughorn concludes.

Potter doesn't make a move to get up, but Draco supposes he wouldn't be very useful. Two minutes later, when he returns with the materials in hand, he finds that Potter is no longer sitting alone. Next to him is his frizzy-haired, know-it-all sidekick.

It just keeps getting better. He places his ingredients down, trying to ignore the sounds of someone coddling the Golden Boy. "Harry, why didn't you wait for me this morning? We could have come together," Granger asks.

"Yeah... I left early to grab a bite."

"Oh." She sounds disappointed. "Well, how come you were late?"

From the corner of his eye, Draco can see Potter shrug.

There is an awkward pause in which Granger doesn't seem to know what to say next. Draco can't help but snicker under his breath as he begins to assort the ingredients. "I tried getting Slughorn to change partners, but there's this new policy that we have to sit with other housemates. Sorry, Harry... " She actually sounds apologetic, which only deepens Draco's smirk. "Do you have something to say, Malfoy?" She suddenly snaps, causing Potter to jump slightly.

"Not to a Mudblood," he drawls, refusing to give her the satisfaction of even looking at her.

"You really have no shame, don't you? Not even after Harry saved your worthless life?" She hisses in disgust. At this, Malfoy opens his text and begins to read the instructions with care. "Or after he publicly defended you instead of denouncing you for what you really are-" her shrill whispers are beginning to catch the attention of nearby students. "- a sorry excuse for a Death Eater."

"Hermione -" Potter tries to interject without success. Draco refuses to look at her, wills himself to not hear her. Dice the roots into even 1 cm cubes he reads. Chop. Chop.

She goes on relentlessly, "But did you really not feel some regret when Harry saved you a second time and came back blind for it?"

"No one asked him to!" Draco unexpectedly lashes out. He's now looking directly at her with fury in his eyes. He can see a flicker of shock in her features, followed by confusion. "I didn't fucking ask for him to save me. And I will never be grateful, not to Potter." He spits out the name like it's a curse. It takes him a moment to realize that he just lost his composure in front of the entire class. He didn't even notice he had knocked over his stool in his hasty attempt to tower over Granger.

Potter then turns to face Draco directly, his eyes piercing into Draco's with that sweet, familiar fire of resent. "Next time I'll let you burn," he says frigidly.

"What is the commotion?" Slughorn asks from the front of the class. "Hermione, please return to your seat." She glances uneasily at Potter as she leaves.

When Draco has his anger in check and is sure that no one is listening, he leans close towards Potter and whispers in a low, levelled voice, "No you won't." Draco catches a strange expression flicker upon Potter's face, almost like a shocking revelation has just occurred to him.

Suddenly Potter turns away from him, his eyes appearing to hide a secret. "Pass me the Mortar and the Mistletoe berries," is all he says. Draco does so without comment, as he anxiously contemplates on what Potter could have just discovered.

~~~

Should have taken the longer route back, Draco thinks regretfully as blood dribbles down his nose and over his chin.

"Where's Daddy when you need him?" he hears Don Greenberg taunt as he throws another punch at Draco's stomach. Draco unsuccessfully tries to double over in pain, but the two Ravenclaws (that look like the Beaters on the Quidditch team) are tightly clasping his arms behind his back. He bites down hard on his lip, refusing to cry out. Instead he lets out a dry, shaken laugh.

"You think this is funny, Malfoy?" Greenberg hisses into his face.

Draco manages to catch up with his breath, "It's hilarious that you need to have me pinned down to throw a blow. And quite frankly, you fight like a filthy Mudblood." Draco grins at him smugly, tasting blood in his mouth.

At these words, Greenberg takes his wand out and points it directly at Draco. "I'll never understand why they let you go, why they didn't give you the kiss." He slashes his wand to tear away Draco's entire left sleeve. "The dark mark you were so proud to wear might be gone now, but you'll always be a Death Eater." He points his wand at Draco's forearm, pressing its tip into his flesh. "Don't forget that." At first his arm is only warm, but quite rapidly the heat that is emerging from Greenberg's wand becomes unbearable. Draco lets out an agonizing scream when the flesh on his arm begins to blister open. Greenberg quickly removes his wand and says to Draco in a haunting, empty voice. "That's what Voldemort did to my family, but only he didn't stop." He stares expectedly at Draco, possibly hoping for the Slytherin to respond with humility.

For a response, Draco spits blood squarely into his stupid face.

Greenberg lets out what sounds like a war cry and punches Draco across the head, making him see stars. Greenberg throws one, last blow to his stomach for good measure. Dazed and breathless, Draco finds himself being forced to walk backwards. He attempts to struggle against their hold but it's futile. The two Ravenclaws that are holding his arms back in place quite suddenly push Draco into a small, dark room. He feels himself slam against the back wall of the closet as the door shuts loudly in front of him. Draco holds in his breath, listening closely to the sounds of them walking away.

Once their footsteps can no longer be heard, Draco lets himself slide down against the wall lifelessly, his mouth gaped open in a silent scream. He furiously pulls his hair, urging himself not to cry. But the tears come anyway, and all he can do is bury his shame in his knees.

~~~