Tears of Twilight

Chapter Two

First Breath

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale

It is one of the imperceptible reasons for life to go on

We breathe to live, we breathe to exist, we breathe to transcend

But there is nothing more sacred than that first breath

That first taste of a newfound world, beautiful and merciless

And after that, you can't stop or else you're gone

If the world that once seemed so wondrous has been tainted

Just what happens when one does not want to breathe?

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His eyes snapped open, wide and in shock. He knew. That's all that passed his mind for that brief second. The fact that he had the knowledge, that at that very moment he alone knew, it was the only thing that his shell-shocked brain could process clearly. It was a strange perception, a revelation that both exhilarated him and confused him with its immensity.

Twilight Manifest. Phoenix.

He inhaled his first breath and in a flood, everything else came back to him. He exhaled, groaning, closing his eyes in an effort to block the images that came. But it was pointless; they passed by him in their cruel dance, each moment so lucid that he knew that he could never forget. Even now, he could feel the traces of terror that had racked his body, which had chosen to betray him in one of his greatest hours of need, clawing at his mind once more in its frantic phantom talons, trying to envelope him again.

He opened his eyes again at the sound of the door opening. Door? But the last place I was...

It was then that he became conscious of his surroundings, most of which seemed to be made up of blurry white. He blinked bemusedly, turning to the side at the steady beeping noise. The monitors were too far away for him to see clearly what they showed exactly, but he recognized the IV pole beside it. He was in the hospital - a muggle one. Figures, really, as he had more or less ditched the Order guard (whoever it was) when he took off running from Nightmare. The two bags were filled, one with a clear substance, the other with a red liquid...blood? Possibly. His eyes followed the path of the tubes, watching as the two fluids ran down the plastic lengths until they found themselves at their destination. The IV tubes were injected into him. His hand was nearly the same color as the white sheets they lay on, but he could swear that what he could see of his arms was that white color. His other arm was in similar condition and beneath the blankets and sheets, his legs felt the same way.

The primary things that he noticed though were the fact that he felt pain all over and that it was cold. Not comfortably cool, but honest-to-goodness freezing ice-cold. Which didn't make sense to him, as the covers on top of him were heavy and thick, his chilled fingers telling him that the fabric was thick wool.

So why did he feel as if he had just taken a swim in the Arctic Ocean?

A short gasp alerted him to the newcomer and he tiredly moved to look at them, though he knew that without his glasses he wouldn't see them clearly. From the way they had walked around the room, the person looked like a woman. It was hard, though, to discern her from the rest of the room with her white coat and shirt. Whoever it was, they looked at the monitors and checked the IV bags before turning to him. Now that they were closer, he could tell it was a woman. Her hair seemed very...big. A light-brown color and she was wearing glasses - ones that had large blue frames. She knelt down to his eye level and spoke gently. "Hey there, you're finally awake."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but found his mouth dry. When he tried to speak nevertheless, he started coughing before a glass of water was put to his lips. He drank it down quickly, desperately needing to quench his thirst. He composed himself, nodding in thanks to the benevolent stranger. She seemed to take the hint, as she began talking again. Harry just let her talk; hoping that in some way, she would explain a few things.

"In case you're wondering," she said, "you're at Mercy Hospital in London, best you can get in the greater area. You were brought here from Surrey General when they got you stabilized enough for the transfer over. Specifically, the pediatric ward, which is a large improvement over the emergency and surgery rooms that you've been in for the past couple of days." Emergency? Surgery? He winced at the memory of the accident and the fire. He must have been a mangled mess when they found him. "To tell you the truth, the firemen and meds who found you didn't think you would even last on the way here. You're one lucky kid." He snorted slightly. Luck. That seemed to be one of the few things that he always seemed to have when in dangerous situations. Not that he was complaining. Though he would rather not be unlucky enough to get into the situations in the first place. "By the way, I'm Dr. Abrams. I'll be helping you get better. You'll have to see several other doctors, but I'm the main one that you're stuck with."

She put a finger under his chin, forcing him to look into her eyes. They were a light brown color. "Hmm...what's your natural eye color?"

My eye color? Why would she ask that? Can't she tell? Sure, his eyes were an odd shade of green. Like pickled toad, if what everyone commented in his second year was true. But this was a doctor, who went through years of training. She could probably tell he didn't have contacts (though he wished he had his glasses, badly). "Green," he answered simply, his voice scratchy and hoarse.

From what he could tell of Dr. Abrams' indistinct features, she looked to be even deeper in thought. "What's your name, kid? And your guardian's address? You didn't have any identification on you and even though there was a report in the news, no one's come to claim you. We need to contact them." Typical Dursleys. Though he averted his eyes to avoid showing the hurt, it still bothered him that he felt utterly and truly abandoned at that moment. He didn't know why he did feel that way. When wasn't he alone? Thoughts of Sirius flashed before he pushed them to the back of his mind.

"Harry," he answered. "Harry Potter. I live at 4 Privet Drive in Surrey." Secretly, he hoped that they wouldn't find the Dursleys, unlikely a wish as that was. There would be nothing worse than to see Uncle Vernon's purpling face right now. And he doubted he would be able to take some tirade about how he was wasting the doctors' time, that they should be worrying about other more needy - more normal - people, not freaks like him. Aunt Petunia would probably be standing on the side, her lips pursed in their usual condescending fashion, bony arms folded as she regarded him with contempt and annoyance. And let's not forget Dudley. Most likely, he would be waiting outside the hospital, thrown out by security for attempting to attack a patient (i.e. him). Yes, truly a Hallmark moment that family reunion would be.

Dr. Abrams then stood up, taking a clipboard from the side table that he hadn't noticed and jotting a few things down. On that table were his glasses, the black shape unmistakable. "Well, better rest up, Harry. You've got a long recovery ahead of you. You were injured pretty badly, amazing that you had no broken or crushed bones. Not even a fracture. And only a few minor contusions to the head." She shook her head - he could see that big mass of hair moving from side to side as she did. "However, you were burned pretty badly. The unbelievable part about that is that you lived!" Right, he thought wryly, I'm the Boy-Who-Lived after all. "Thankfully, the worse ones weren't near any of the important parts. Your legs, arms, shoulders, and back took the worst of the lot while we have some less serious burns and scrapes on the chest and neck. What makes the more serious areas tougher is that you were buried in the concrete for quite awhile, all that weight on them." Oh joy. Not only was he nearly killed, but also he was nearly burned to a crisp and he had been trapped under heavy slabs of concrete and stone. Why did everything happen to him? Why couldn't he be - for once - a normal wizard? Not famous, not getting into duels with Voldemort, not getting chased by mysterious people pleasantly named Nightmare, just a normal wizard. Fate definitely had it in for him.

Oh yeah...Voldemort cancelled out the prophecy. Eclipse Saturna. He couldn't say that he wasn't happy about that.

Wait...wasn't Voldemort in his mind when...it all happened? How funny. He had been so afraid of Nightmare that he completely and totally ignored Voldemort. That must really be a bruise to the old monster's ego.

"No worries, we'll fix you up. We did nearly all of the surgery already, so its just bandages and medicine for you." Bandages. That was making his arms look white. She patted him lightly on the arm, so lightly that he for a moment didn't believe that she had even touched him. Though judging from the pain that he was feeling, it was probably for the better. "We're still trying to figure out why you're so cold. And why your eye color changed." My eye color changed?! How?! "For now, just rest up, okay?"

He watched as she walked away, turning off the lights as she reached the entry. The door shutting closed quietly behind her, leaving him alone in the hospital room. Reaching over, ignoring the pain, he grabbed his glasses and put them on, everything falling into focus. The room was awash in a shadowy blue color. A large window was to the other side and he could dimly see the last vestiges of sunset sinking below the western horizon. It glinted off of the wide metal railings of his hospital bed. Reflected on the surface were the vibrant colors of a flower bouquet, which at a swift glance at the card showed it was from the fire department. Apprehensive at what he was about to find, he leaned over so that he could see himself.

He saw his face, small and pale, looking slightly scared. A bandage was pasted to his cheek; a white ribbon of gauze was wrapped around his head, covering his famous scar. The same glasses, the same nose, the same mouth. But the eyes...

One eye, his right one, was his own emerald green. The other was crimson red, with pupils like that of a cat's.

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Dr. Mehetabel Abrams walked into the faculty lounge of Mercy Hospital's pediatric wing at around nine o'clock, slightly exhausted but smiling as she walked in to meet the others. So far, things were going great for her. Her mysterious patient had woken up, she had a good dinner, managed to bypass her mother's questions about why she wasn't married (for a first) , and made it to the temple with no trouble. She now was on time for the meeting that the head of the ward called and considering it was an hour to get from her town to here with good traffic, she was lucky. Which was a good thing, considering how her superior despised tardiness.

Sometimes, she wished he would just lighten up a bit.

As she seated herself down at the table, she looked around at those out of the four (including herself) that were supposed to be here. The meeting's purpose, she didn't know, but if her instincts were correct then it had to do with the case of Harry Potter.

On one side of her sat Dr. Timothy Steadman, one of Mercy's best surgeons. For once the affable Irishman wasn't talking, but rather rifling through several sheets and clipboards at a frantic pace. He usually had a smile on his face - a true lover of conversation, preferably with a good drink - and this was a first she had ever seen him so serious outside the surgery room. Between the two of them, they had done the most work dealing with this patient. Even Tim was baffled as to how the young boy survived that disaster.

The police and the government were claiming at the moment that an electrical shortage caused a large fire, etc., etc. But she had her doubts. The building fairly imploded on itself. And considering that the boy was in the middle of it, trapped under concrete and fairly being cooked alive, it was a miracle that the child hadn't joined the thirty or so that weren't so lucky.

To her other side was Dr. Robert Dempster, though she had no idea why he would be here. It wasn't as if she didn't like him, actually they got along fairly well. Intelligent and patient, with a dry wit, he was swell guy to pal around with after work. But what would a psychiatrist have to with the new patient? Dempster dealt with depression and suicide. From the few minutes she had spoken with Harry, he seemed quite sane and stable of mind, a bit shell-shocked, and would do better to wear his glasses than not. Sure, there were a few suspicious marks on his arms and wrists, but they couldn't be sure. They could be old scratches from a previous accident or even a cat. Also, there were only a few of them and they looked quite a few weeks old, completely healed, already fading. As for the ones on the arms, it was difficult enough with the burns. The head better have a good explanation of this...

At nine o'clock exactly, Dr. Vijesh Parmar walked into the room, a sheaf of papers under his arm, dropping them unceremoniously as he sat down at the head of the table. The head of the pediatric ward, he didn't fit the mold of most doctors that dealt with children. For one thing, he was entirely too serious and blunt. He rarely ever laughed or smiled. Robert had claimed it was the result of seeing too many fall to AIDS in Africa before Parmar transferred to Mercy, but she hadn't asked. It didn't seem polite to. He was an older man, several years senior than the thirty-somethings that Robert, Tim, and herself were.

"We're here," he began, "to discuss Patient #0674814." He checked the topmost paper in his pile. "According to the nurses that finished interviewing him, his name is Potter. Suffers several abrasions, a few head bruises, and serious burns." He fixed them all with an intense dark stare. "What happened?"

"That explosion at the mall, sir," she answered. "Judging from his injuries and the reports from the site, he was apparently burned and then the concrete fell on top of him. Evidence points to that he was right at the center of the explosion when it happened."

Parmar snorted. "Better than that other poor bastard. Report says that as soon as they touched that body, it turned to ash. He had to be given the label 'John Doe'. Nobody has claimed him either. Kid should be thankful." The dark-skinned man flipped through more papers until he pulled out a familiar looking paper. "We'll discuss your findings in the examinations some other time, Steadman, when we actually have some of it. We're definitely hearing it because 'strange anomalies' are not words that I want to hear. Abrams, you claim there are several strange conditions yourself?"

She nodded. "Yes. First of all, he's colder than ice, even though we have blankets on him." She shook her head in disbelief. "Also, one of his eyes is a different color. It's bright red, with strange pupils. I've never seen anything like it." Mehetabel refrained the urge to shudder. When he first looked at her, she couldn't deny that it was a bit...freaky. His natural eye color was uncommon enough - she had never seen anyone with that shade of intense emerald green that didn't wear contacts. But that red...

"Have we contacted the family?" Parmar shot out. "What are they planning?"

Robert stepped in. "I handled that, sir." At the questioning looks, he replied, "The nurses had their hands full with a few scared toddlers that Dr. Hendricks was trying to immunize. You'd think that old Jimmy would have it down by now. Anyway, I thought I'd help Maude and Leah out and take care of the phone call." This clearly annoyed Parmar, but he instead grunted to indicate to continue. "I called the family at 4 Privet Drive, said it was Mercy Hospital, and if a boy named Harry Potter lived there. Another boy, named Dudley, had answered the phone. Sounded like a real brat, too-"

"I didn't ask for a report on the family's mental state, Dempster," Parmar growled.

Dempster smirked a bit. "I know. But I find it intriguing that when the boy handed the phone over to his father, the way he had done it was by yelling that someone was looking for 'the Freak'." She shared a shocked look with Tim. What kind of family was that?! She also felt guilty...maybe they called him that because of his eyes? It was a possibility. Lord knew that kids didn't accept anything that wasn't normal.

"Continue," Parmar urged. "I'm not making any judgments or calls to Child Services without decent cause to. I hate bureaucrats enough at home, I don't need them at the workplace."

"The father, Vernon Dursley, demanded to know who I was. He seemed relieved that I was from the hospital. What he was expecting, I didn't know. I asked if he knew the patient, he said yes. He described the patient as his 'good-for-nothing' nephew, who was always getting in trouble. I wanted to know where his parents were. Apparently, he was taken in at the age of one by Mrs. Vernon Dursley - his aunt - after his parents both were killed in a car accident. I asked several other questions, but most remain unanswered."

"Unanswered?" she put in. "What do you mean?"

"I asked a few basic questions," Robert explained. "Age, allergies, previous illnesses, etc. He didn't know any of it and he doubted his wife did. Out of curiosity, I asked a few more. Hobbies, personality." He reached into his bag and pulled out a sheet of paper. "What Vernon Dursley outlined was the accepted profile of a juvenile delinquent: impolite, ungrateful, failure at school, trouble with the law, goes to a school that is practically a penitentiary, it goes on. He knew of no hobbies that his nephew participated in, or even his favorite color or food-"

Tim gave a splutter of indignation. "What do ya mean he don't know anything?" he fumed, his Irish accent stronger than it usually was. "Honestly, he lived with tha kid for how many years?! Twelve?"

"According to Leah," Parmar put in, "Harry Potter will be sixteen at the end of the month." The head of the ward was subject to three incredulous stares, which he returned with calm ease. "Will one of you mind enlightening me as to why that is so incredible?"

"During surgery and post-examination," she clarified, "we figured he was about thirteen or fourteen, judging from height and weight. If he's sixteen, he's considerably underweight and shorter than most his age." Seeing her chance to speak, she added, "I spoke to him for a few minutes after he woke up and he seemed like a nice boy."

"Lovely," Tim put in. "Feel bad for the lad at school then. You seen the kids these days? More piercings and needles in their skins than the pins in me mother's pincushion!" He shook his head. "And trust me, there were quite a number of those pins in there, I tell ya."

"Moving on," Parmar interrupted. "So if the uncle's telling the truth, the kid's an aberrant one, then? Record and everything?"

Robert shrugged. "That's it, the uncle's lying." He put up a hand to quell the predictable influx of questions. "I'm telling the truth here. Dursley gave me the name of the school, St. Brutus'. I called the offices and they claimed that they had never had an 'inmate' named Harry Potter. Also, I checked the police stations in Surrey for any record of Harry Potter. Nothing." He smirked sardonically. "The irony is, I mention the name 'Dursley' to the sergeant at the station and he nearly has a fit. Dudley Dursley evidently is a problem child. Vandalism, drugs, bullying, harassment, some gang involvement - the whole nine yards. But the family bails him out every time he gets into trouble."

Before she or Tim could put in their two cents, Parmar asked, "Well, what are these wonderful characters going to do about their nephew? If they're coming 'round, I want to know so I can take an opportune break."

"That's it, they aren't."

"Fabulous. Mercy Hospital is spared," the head answered dryly. "Dempster, you're going to meet the kid and tell us what you think in a few days after he gets used to this place. Abrams, Steadman, keep working with this kid. I want detailed and accurate records. No one else but us four sees these documents, not any other doctor or resident, not even the nurses. I want them locked up, even when you take them home. Understood?"

"Why all tha secrecy?" Tim inquired.

"Listen to me well, I'm not repeating myself. We have here an extremely strange case," the head said slowly. "A young boy, underweight and underheight for his age, manages to survive a near impossible accident and lives to tell about it and he's supposedly some teenage budding criminal. Tell me that if that is normal. When I was in Africa, I was treating a young boy that had strange story. Some desperate poacher brought him in." Parmar scowled at the memory, his nose crinkling at the thought. "Horrible wound. The boy's leg was blown off. When I asked, he claimed that he and his father were tailing a rhinoceros and started shooting at it. The bullets bounced off of it and it charged them. The horn pierced the boy's leg and it exploded." The other three doctors were silent at the head's tale, listening with dread. "Next day, I come in after the boy had been stabilized. The other doctors and nurses never even heard of the child's name or his case. All his files were gone. It was as if he never even existed."

"And that is why," he finished sternly. "This is not getting out of Mercy Hospital."

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Harry awoke this time to darkness. Well, almost darkness. The streetlights outside cast a slight yellow illumination on the grimly white walls, the lights of the occasional car passing across the ceiling. The clock, after putting on his glasses (Had someone removed them when he fell asleep?), showed that it was a few minutes to midnight. The witching hour. Ironic, really. The wizard waking up just in time for the witching hour.

He wasn't sure if he liked it here or not. The nurses, Leah and Maude, were pretty nice. And Dr. Abrams had come in to check on him again. Another doctor, Steadman, was also with her. He demanded that he be called Dr. Tim in a cheerful Irish brogue. If not for the accent and the last name, he could have sworn the surgeon was a Weasley with his easy-going attitude. They checked his eyesight, height, weight, and everything. They also took blood from him - for testing.

They also removed the bandages to apply new ones. It was the first time that he fully saw his body after the accident. And though he had won the war, metaphorically, from the state of him it looked like he lost every single battle in the process. He closed his eyes to shut the images out, both then and now. Dr. Abrams and Dr. Tim both said that the burns were healing pretty well considering. But considering what? It was still a horrible sight. But they said when he was fully recovered, he could probably get some cosmetic surgery if he wanted to, though they doubted the results would be as bad as they could've been. What he did notice was that the pain intensified if he was touched. If it was light, it wasn't so bad. But it would be hard in quidditch (if he could play this year because of Umbridge). He knew that if a Bludger had a shot at him, he'd probably fall off his broom in agony.

"There're much more important things in the world than sports, child! Honestly, this generation..."

Surprised, Harry shot up in bed, wincing from the intense pain that soon racked his body from the sudden movement. He shuddered for a bit, willing the pain to pass, while looking around the room. At first, he could see no one. But then the shadows in the corner began to shift. The air then shimmered before a woman came to view.

"What you staring at, boy?!" she admonished, her strange accent grating on his ears. It was definitely not British. American? "Haven't you ever seen a lady before? Have some manners! I'm too old for this, honestly..." Slowing walking over to him, her cane rapping on the tile, she came into view. Standing at the side of his bed was an old woman, probably in her seventies, her dark-skinned face lined with laugh lines, worry lines, and wrinkles. Her silver colored hair was piled up on top of her head in some fancy chignon. Her dress was long and old-fashioned; its black fabric swept the floor as she made her way over.

It took a couple of moments for him to register that a short elderly black woman leaning on a cane was currently beside him. Her sharp dark brown eyes bored into his, as if she were seeing right through him. Unable to stop himself - more from his impatience at his horrible luck - he blurted out, "Who are you?"

"I'll assume you meant something more polite," she quipped back. "You know, like 'hello, ma'am, how are you this fine evening!' Definitely not that rude greeting you just gave me!" She snorted and waved her cane threateningly. "And you Brits are supposed to be polite and gentlemanly! My cousin Magnolia was more a'polite than you and she grew up in the backwaters of Louisiana, boy! Not a true blue southern Georgia belle, like me!"

"And you are?" he asked, different colored eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"I happen to be Miss Ancelin Ellery," she drawled out. "And you better not forget it or I'll have your head. That'll be Miss Ellery to you from now on. If not that, 'ma'am' would do just nicely. And you caused quite a riot, child, I'll tell you!" Miss Ellery rapped her cane on the floor, the sound loud in the silent hospital. He wondered why no one, like one of the nurses on duty, noticed. Well, this is magic obviously. She probably didn't want anyone to come in. "With a Manifest like Nightmare gone, the whole world is a gonna be in danger! The system's gone clear outta whack!"

Harry merely blinked in confusion at the raving woman. "What on Earth are you talking about?!"

"Manifest, child!" she yelled out, waving her arms erratically. "Like Nightmare! Like me! Like yourself!"

"That doesn't explain much," the teenager put in. "Miss Ellery, ma'am," he added after seeing the chastising look in her eye.

"Didn't Nightmare explain this to you?" she put forward. He was personally surprised how much spirit the little old lady had. He could already see her chasing down some poor bloke that forgot to call her 'Miss Ellery', waving her cane in the air while that chap was running like hell was on his heels. A sharp ringing on the bed rail brought him out of his imaginings, for she had banged the cane against the metal to get his attention. "Don't you go annoying me, boy. Because trust me, that little daydream of yours ain't too far from the truth! I've done it and I'll do it again if I have to." He blinked in shock, but was not allowed to think as to how she knew of what he was thinking. "Now didn't Nightmare explain all this to you?"

"Nightmare?" He shivered at the thought of that crazed man, that dark look of hatred meant for him, as a nightmare literally sprung up around him at that wrathful rage. "He didn't explain anything to me. He wanted to kill me."

The woman's whole demeanor changed with those statements. "I see," she murmured. "So, that's what happened." She made the sign of the cross, before shaking her head in sadness. "Out of all of us, I didn't expect him to go. Now I'm one of the few left. Pity. He was a good un', I'll give that boy that. Now he's dead. Horrible way to go."

"What do you mean?" he demanded. "I don't know what you're talking about! Who are you? Who was Nightmare? And what do you all want with me?!" Don't I have enough suffering to go through? What else is going to be thrown my way? He saw the look in her eyes and interrupted her before she could speak. "I'll pity myself if I please. What's going on here?!"

"Somebody's gotta replace Nightmare, child," she replied gravely. "And that would be you."

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Erumpet

M.O.M. Classification: XXXX

The Erumpet is a large gray African beast of great power. Weighing up to a ton, the Erumpet may be mistaken for a rhinoceros at a distance. It has a thick hide that repels most charms and curses, a large, sharp horn upon its nose and a long rope-like tail. Erumpets give birth to only one calf at a time.

The Erumpet will not attack unless sorely provoked, but should it charge, the results are usually catastrophic. The Erumpet's horn can pierce everything from skin to metal, and contains a deadly fluid which will cause whatever is injected wit it to explode.

Erumpet numbers are not great, as males frequently explode each other during the mating season. They are treated with great caution by African wizards. Erumpet horns, tails, and the Exploding Fluid are all used in potions, though classified as Class B Tradeable Materials (Dangerous and Subject to Strict Control)