Harry Potter and the Moment of Silence

Chapter One: Healing

Harry Potter and the Moment of Silence

Blood on his hands. He was used to the nightmares, the image, the sound of his voice when he said it. He told Nelly Simmons, his temporary psychologist, the exact same thing. He was a good actor. Only Merlin knew how good he actually was, but the guy sitting across from him was doing everything but believing it.

So he hadn't spoken of May fifteenth. So they'd found him holding a bloody dagger, no body, and perfectly docile with one hundred and twenty-three bloody lashes sprawled over his thin body. He'd been with Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy not even for ten hours, and yet the stir of what had happened had danced from mouth to ear and ear to mouth, changing each time as they added their own spice to the story. Nobody knew what really happened, and he planned on keeping it that way for himself as much as any other reason.

All they knew was that Voldemort was dead, and two other pureblood wizards were now buried in anonymous locations so as not to invoke grave riots. That happened sometimes, when people hated a person so much that they exhumed the corpse and burned it to the ground.

The Weasleys and Mal didn't deserve that.

At the thought of them, his friends, a deep well of sadness overtook his heart and he looked to the left. His streak of silence had hurt them more than anyone else. He wouldn't talk to them, not a single word.

He was too traumatized to speak about May fifteenth, Healer Burgess had told them.

Life was pain. Harry had known that, but at the moment it was nearly as painful as being whipped again. And again.

The Weasleys were almost as known to the public as him nowadays. The "Good Guy Story" was being written in every newspaper across Britain, and probably other places in the world too. It was an article by a new reporter, Lancie Gray, who wrote a biographical article on Percy, explaining his good, pureblood family, his loving brothers, his ambitions, and assumptions on how it led him to Voldemort. Nobody knew the truth since Harry had smashed his skull against a stone wall before he'd had a chance to explain himself.

"What are you thinking about, Harry?" Nelly asked.

Harry didn't look away from the window. He hated being here. He'd been at St. Mungos enough, and now, everyday for the rest of his stay, he had to meet this fool in dark blue robes. It was beginning to get ridiculous. He didn't care if the Ministry and the media shoved him in Azkaban for staying silent; he was not going to tell them what happened. He'd told Dumbledore what he'd needed to know before the Healers had carted him away to St. Mungos.

They knew what they needed to. Now Harry wished they'd let him be so he could curl up in a ball and die. At the age of sixteen -he had nearly two months more to go until he turned seventeen- he'd vanquished three grown wizards, one being the 'Dark Lord', who had been titled to be one of the most powerful Dark Wizards the world had ever seen. His world had literally ended. Who would talk to him now without thinking, He killed Voldemort! He'd make a good friend!

Nobody, that's who.

He'd already realized that, which was exactly why he wasn't talking. Nobody needed to know what he'd done, what he'd been forced to do.

He'd gotten blood on his hands for the world, and he knew the world would be anything but grateful. His friends would understand, but there was always the liability of them telling someone else, and whole gossip columns would be dedicated to him and insinuations.

In another month, he'd be awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class, and be signed in as the youngest person ever to win any Ministry award at all. It was amazing, and yet Harry only felt cold anger at the world. To him, it was just another trap to get him out in front of the camera.

He would have simply sent Remus and Mal to receive it for him, if Mrs. Weasley hadn't burst into tears at the very thought during their last visit.

The entire Weasley family and Order of the Phoenix was in an uproar over him. Especially since Ministry law restricted them from visiting him more than twice a week until he was released from the hospital in the care of one Arthur Weasley. He missed Mackenzie, but he'd already been told she'd left for France. He'd been given a letter supposedly explaining her reasons for leaving, but he wouldn't know that since he hadn't opened a single one.

It was just another raw wound the cruel, cruel world sliced into his flesh.

Nelly, a tall, handsome young man with bright green eyes, had spent three years as an Auror when a Dark Wizard had followed him home and killed his wife and baby girl. He'd told him that, Harry remembered. He could remember the pain in those pickle green eyes, how the sun had reflected off them. He'd told Harry something he probably only told to his other patients, and he felt honored, yes, but what did it have to do with him? He didn't need psychology. Just because he refused to talk anymore than a few sentences about the infamous event didn't mean he couldn't handle his emotional baggage on his own.

A vision of blood on his hands, eternally dripping, made him shudder.

"Harry."

Angrily, he burst out. "What, Nelly! What the hell do you want from me? My arms are killing me and those bloody whip marks are still healing and I'm tired!" He scrubbed his face warily. "I just want to go back to my room and get some sleep. Please."

"No, Harry. We've gone through this. Four times a week, three hours a session. You're under Ministry control, remember?"

Harry lunged to his feet and stalked to the window. "I'm always under Ministry control, remember? This is stupid! I don't need to talk about my feelings or my nightmares or the bloody twinges in my scar! I'm fine, Nelly," he said loudly, whirling around, "I am perfectly fine," he enunciated slowly.

Nelly leaned back in his chair and studied him from behind the rim of his glasses. He seemed to be considering something serious. A line appeared between his brows. He reminded Harry oddly of Dumbledore.

"I'm going to suggest continuing our sessions into the school year, Harry. And I'm going to want you to come and visit me very often during the week once you return home."

Harry felt an odd urge to spit in his face, but that reminded him of Voldemort so he refrained from the thought instantly.

"I don't need you," he uttered, staring out the window into the small Muggle neighborhood. He lifted a finger to colored glass, and stared at the soft white bandages that covered most of his hands and upper arms. His fingers were still scratched and bruised.

And covered in blood.

"You'll only make things worse."

Nelly stood and went up next to him. "I'm just trying to do what's best for you, Harry. You don't have a lot of people looking out for your best interests at the moment."

Harry snorted bitterly. "And you are?" he asked skeptically. "I doubt that. The only reason you took me into your busy schedule was for a bit of fame and cash."

Nelly shook his head, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder. The teenager jerked his shoulder, causing his hand to fall off, and looked back at his psychologist. "Don't touch me, Nelly. If you actually want to help me, don't touch me, don't look at me, don't even speak to me. If you really want to help, Nelly, leave me alone. Otherwise, you're not doing anything but making matters worse."

Harry stalked over to the door and grabbed the knob, then yelped when a strong shock went through his body.

Locking charm. Lycander's work.

"I hate you!" Harry burst out, slamming a sore hand into the door. "Do you hear me? I...hate...you!" He punched the door to punctuate each word.

"Harry, for Merlin's sake, calm down!" Nelly hurried over, gripping his wrist. When Harry grimaced, Nelly just tightened his grip. "You want to hurt yourself, Harry, go ahead. You like the pain, don't you? You can handle everything on your own, can't you? Well, you won't. You told the Headmaster once upon a time that you didn't want to turn into Voldemort, and you want to know what, Harry, this is exactly how he came to be such a horrible wizard. He was alone. He handled everything on his own, and look at what that did to him."

Harry pushed him backward towards the opposite wall. Gentle, so as not to actually hurt him. He'd seen what his powers unleashed could do a week ago.

"You won't let me out," he said quietly, "and, you know what, I don't care. I'll just sit here and stare at you. Let you do all the talking. After all, you are the one who wants to rant all day for hours on end about telling your feelings."

Nelly's eyes flashed dangerously, but he didn't get up. He pushed himself up so he was straighter, but he stayed seated on the floor, propped up against the wall. Harry mimicked his seating arrangement, crossing his arms as he did so.

And they stared at each other for the next two hours until Nelly's wand sent out harmless blue sparks, signaling the end of their session.

* * * * * *

Blood on his hands.

Shivering, Harry curled tighter into himself in his private room at St. Mungos. There was an Auror outside the door, and he could hear the light patter of Healers' feet in the hallway. The nights here were always colder than they should be. The place was large and spacious, and Harry imagined they were short on money.

He'd have to donate some so he could have heat the next time he came for a stay. As he laid there, teeth chattering, he thought of his appointment with Nelly. The guy was getting on his nerves, suggesting he write to his friends about what happened, about writing himself a letter explaining the events and how he felt about them.

Sometimes we don't realize the dangerous thoughts and feelings we're harboring, Nelly had told him. Harry made a face at the thought. He knew what he was feeling. He knew what he was doing, for Merlin's sake. What was he, a mental three-year-old? Why did everyone have to think he couldn't take care of himself? For Merlin's sake, what else did he have to do to prove his capabilities?

Harry shifted uncomfortably. His back was still cut pretty badly since the potions Voldemort had put on the cat-o-nine-tails had included poisons that prevented any magical healing from occurring. They wouldn't be healed fully for another two months, and after that he'd probably never be able to take his shirt off without causing a riot. After all, everyone wanted a peek at the newest, and last, scars he'd ever get from Voldemort.

There was no way Voldemort was coming back again. Well, that was if Harry didn't tell anyone how to. Mal had helped him with the spell, but he had created the incantation on his own. No one could ever get that information from him unless he was to deliberately tell them of his own accord. If he were under duress, the password would simply put him in comatose until the danger passed.

It was, quite literally, ingenious.

Slowly, because it hurt, he sat up, glancing at the clock as he did so. The nightly nurse was most likely en route to his room already. They always checked in on him every couple of hours, on request of Fudge. The fool actually believed he was going to runaway. As if, he thought sarcastically.

"What are you doing up again, Harry?"

Healer McNara swept into the room silently. He smiled. She was a dark haired woman with the second bluest eyes he'd ever seen. Of course, she was a werewolf. He'd smelled it on her the moment they'd met, although he hadn't said anything to her. She'd smelled a little like Remus, sort of musky and nature-like. She was pretty, though, with a sweet nature.

He adored her. She'd been the only Healer to treat him like a normal patient, scolding him when he didn't listen or wandered the halls too much at night, and she made sure he took all of his nutrition potions, unlike the others who all let him off the hook. Not that he was complaining.

"Couldn't sleep," he mumbled, flicking his wrist at the oil lamp on the bedside table. Dim yellow light filled a small portion of the room. "Have you written the Weasleys?"

She'd also taken up writing a daily letter to the Weasleys to tell them how he was doing. She'd told him, "Harry, if you won't ease those sweet peoples' minds', I'll do it myself, whether you like it or not. Deal with it." Instead of annoying him as she'd half expected, he'd burst into laughter at the fact that someone was calling the Weasley boys 'sweet'. The only sweet people in the whole bunch were Mrs. Weasley and Ginny, and the two of them had such ferocious tempers Harry barely even thought of them as such.

She smiled slightly, distracted. "Have you ever known me not to? It's three after midnight." Chuckling, she checked his forehead, then slid her arm to his neck to check his pulse. Harry was silent. "I don't like giving you more Sleeping Draught, but the only way you'll ever get out of here is if you start sleeping more."

"No, I have to spill my guts to Nelly Simmons to get out of here," Harry countered. And it was true. Medically, he was healing, if at a very slow pace.

But he was healing, and there was no reason he shouldn't be allowed to go back to the care of the Weasleys. Really, did it matter? No, not to him, but apparently it did to these idiots holding him here against his will.

"Nelly's not a bad person, Harry. I rather like the poor guy," she admitted, then flushed at his intense look. She was young, maybe only eighteen at the most. "I'm serious. It wouldn't hurt to talk-"

"Healer McNara," Harry said suddenly, lying back down as quickly as he could. He didn't care if he was obvious; he wanted her to go away now. "Are you done? I think I can get to bed now. I'm really tired." The lie slipped past his tongue easily, but unlike most of the Healers, she didn't budge.

"I'll leave when I'm finished talking to you, Harry Potter. Now, come on, don't be a baby. What happened with You-Know-Who was big. He's gone, after all these years, and you helped that happen. Hell, you were the only reason that it did happen, and now you're stuck with the notoriety. The best you can do is talk to Nelly, tell the world what happened, and hopefully they'll leave you alone eventually. And if they don't, well, you can always move to America under a disguise or something."

When he just lied there, pretending to be asleep, she stood with a heavy sigh. "I'll bring you a goblet of Sleeping Drought on my next round. G'night Harry."

When she was gone, he sat back up again, wincing as the pain came close to overwhelming him. He stood, his bare feet touching the cool tiled floor and instantly chilling. He wrapped his robe around him tighter and sat down at the old, worn desk in the corner of the room. He lit the second oil lamp in the room, staring at the dark yellow liquid for a moment, and then he picked up Hermione's favorite quill that she'd mailed him in hopes of making him feel better. It hadn't come with a letter, but Harry already knew what she and Ron and the others all wanted to say. He dipped it into the ink vial and pulled it out, then hesitated. An ink spot fell on the corner of the paper. Using his thumb, he smeared it upwards, then bit his lip and began to write.

Blood On My Hands, he wrote, then scrubbed a hand over his face. Most people who have murdered someone usually tell of a strong sense of guilt. They feel remorse and regret and wish that what they'd done had been reversed. I don't. The first person I killed was Bellatrix Lestrange. Following after that, in perfect unison, were Percival Weasley and Lucius Malfoy. I'm sure you've heard of Percy. Everyone has nowadays, but they don't understand. They don't want to. 'What made Percy go bad?' they ask. Well, if you ask me, the world did. I remember going over Ron's house one summer. All of his brothers were home -the entire mass of them- and Percy stayed up in his room working. He wanted to be the youngest Minister of Magic. He wanted a lot of things that he probably knew weren't going to happen.

But did it cause him to go to Voldemort? I don't know. I'll never know because I killed him before he even had a chance to explain himself, his actions. Maybe he wasn't even acting of his own accord. It doesn't matter now since he's dead. Most people don't understand that. They still ask why and how and where did he...? It doesn't matter. After that, I killed Voldemort, who most people refer to as...

Harry woke up to find the uppermost piece of parchment sticking to his cheek. He scrubbed his chin and glanced down. Some of the lines of ink were smeared a little, but still legible. Beneath them was twelve long rolls, filled to the rim with writing. There were scratched out sentences, circled words, ink spots and blank spaces where the line he'd written had been slightly crooked. Amazed, he leaned back and stared. He'd written so much.... His childhood, the Dursleys, growing up thinking his parents had died in a car crash. His first year at Hogwarts and the five that followed. The Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament had been the one thing that had taken up the longest amount of paper.

He grinned, feeling more relaxed than he had in days, yet a little stuffy, as if all the release of memories was clouding his head. Hermione would be so proud, he mused, and told himself she'd be the first to read it if he could bring himself to let anyone even know about it. Should he tell Nelly he'd taken his advice? No, the guy would just get an even bigger head.

He glanced up at the clock, then scrubbed his eyes. Dear Lord! He'd slept past ten! That meant someone must have been in to check in on him. He hoped it had been Healer McNara. She'd have kept it to herself, but the others...They'd go straight to the Daily Prophet for less than a Sickle.

A trickle of panic made him shudder, then search the pile of parchment. He hadn't exactly slept on the parchment. It had been in an easy position for anyone to take a good chunk of it.

Bloody hell! If only he had counted it before falling asleep! Cursing himself, he began to skim it.

When Healer McNara entered the room, his breakfast tray balanced on her hands, he was on the floor, parchment spread everywhere in front, beside, and behind him, searching desperately. McNara set the tray down hurriedly.

"Harry? What's-?"

"Whose been in this room?" Harry said loudly, not looking up. When she gaped, he looked up and yelled, "Who the hell was in my room since last night?"

Startled, she shrugged. "I don't know. Harry, I got off at four in the morning. I think Japhon took up the checks after that. Why?"

Harry's hands pulled at his hair. "He stole a page out of here." Dazed, he collapsed backwards. McNara hurried over.

"Stole a page out of what?"

Harry cursed himself and remained silent. And vowed to rip up every single piece of parchment afterwards and burn it before anyone else could ever get a hand on it.

McNara asked again, but Harry just curled up on his side.

* * * * * *

The article ran the very next day in the Sunday Prophet and countless other newspapers. Harry saw it only because he'd broken the lock on his door, Stunned his guard, and wandered into the patients' entertainment. It was the only place with a Wizard Wireless and chess. Everyone had stared at him as if he'd come from the moon, which was even worse than what he was accustomed to.

He took a collection of the magazines and newspapers and holed himself in one of the several janitorial closets hidden on all of the floors.

Healer Japhon had taken the one entry he'd written about Voldemort's demise, but it wasn't much considering the amount of parchment he'd written on for just that event. It was in his words and handwriting, telling about how Snape was released and he went after Voldemort. It ended in the middle of a sentence telling people about the organ shrinking (Dark Magic, unfortunately) spell he'd cast to immobilize him.

Harry closed his eyes, counted to ten, and made himself reappear in Diagon Alley, imagining himself dressed in a hooded black robe that shadowed the angles of his face. He didn't know how he knew about this little bit of magic. It just appeared one day in his head when he'd wished he'd known a way to get out. So he did.

Diagon Alley wasn't too busy. Hogwarts still had a week of school left. The only children who appeared were little ones, under the age of eleven. He saw three blonde girls dashing in unison past him, pushing him aside. They kept on running. Harry reached up with a hand and felt the velvet of his black hood. He probably looked like a bloody Death Eater, he thought bitterly. If only he didn't have that bloody scar on his forehead. At least then he had a decent chance of not being noticed.

Walking slowly with a noticeable limp didn't help the matter. Almost an instant after he'd first Apparated, he'd realized that he would probably have to stake out at the Leaky Cauldron or something. No, not the Leaky Cauldron. Both Dumbledore and Fudge knew he'd probably go there. But wouldn't that make him stick out less? They'd both think he'd realized that he couldn't stay there.

That night he pulled Tom aside and ordered a room under the name James Willem Black. No forms or identification.

At least there were people like Tom, a helping hand. Of course, Harry knew Tom would tell Dumbledore. Most likely within a day or two, but it didn't matter. He wasn't running from anyone. He just wanted a few days on his own so he could burn those papers.

Or...

When the idea burst in his head, he donned his cloak and set out for his destination. At least then it wouldn't have been a waste of time, effort, parchment, and ink.

* * * * * *

Within five days, he'd traveled down Knockturn Alley, all of Diagon, and another route called the Albany Route, which specialized in expensive, if shady, artifacts. Harry bought an old book called The Difference Between and Good Evil, and a Dark Arts spell book.

He didn't leave his little room, though. Hedwig found him, her leg bound with a letter from the Minister, demanding he come out of hiding. Just for that, Harry sent him a cursed envelope with itching powder littered on the blank parchment inside. He'd sent a different owl along, of course. No way would he jeopardize his Hedwig.

But, the day that the Hogwarts students were due for the ride home, Harry managed to navigate his way to #12 Grimmauld Place with his new power. Vaguely, he wondered if Lycander would be there or at Hogwarts. He pulled his hood down, then lifted his hand to knock. The thunder of it brought silence. Mrs. Black didn't start shrieking as he'd assumed she would.

Had she been torn down? Harry didn't have time to wonder since the door opened and he was looking into the red rimmed eyes of Remus Lupin. For a moment, both of them stayed where each of them stood, staring. Remus had thinned down as much as Harry had, giving him the illusion of an extra ten years. He was relatively young, but looked so much older than his given age.

"Harry," Remus said on a burst of relieved breath. He pulled Harry into the house, shutting the door distractedly. He studied the teenager, who shifted slightly and wished they'd been able to diminish the new scar on his cheek.

Remus' eyes, surprisingly, filled with tears. But Remus blinked them back. "Where have you been? The Ministry's given rights to all of England to arrest you. Molly's been worried to death over you."

Harry jerked a shoulder up. "I've been around. Is Mrs. Weasley here?"

"She's still sleeping. Arthur was up and early for work. Bill and Charlie have been staying here for Molly, but they're out for the count. Is this all you brought with you?"

Harry glanced at the small duffel distastefully. It held brand new clothes that fit him perfectly, his Dark Arts books, and a talisman that he could kill a man with. Remus didn't need to know that.

"It's just some clothes I bought in Diagon Alley. A couple of books. The people at St. Mungos never got any of my stuff from Hogwarts."

Remus' face was pale as a sheet. He gestured in the vague direction of the upstairs rooms. "Professor Dumbledore sent it here last week. Apparently, some of the boys in Gryffindor were trying to, uh, take a peak in your trunk. Ron got in a fight and punched some twelve-year-old. Thought it would be better to have it here, out of the way."

I didn't know I was in the way, Harry told himself, but discarded the thought instantly. He drifted off towards the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of tea from the stove and sitting down. Remus looked dazed as he sat down opposite him.

They sat in silence, neither of them knowing what to say or how to say it.

Then: "I don't know if it'll mean anything to you, Harry, but I'm proud of you. You did what you had to do and you saved a lot of people's lives. Your parents would be proud."

That I shriveled his intestines to make him stop walking? That, by the time I was catching up to Lord Voldemort, his blood was beginning to fill his air pipe, drowning him alive in his own fluids? That he was still conscious when I ripped his body apart into small, barely visible parts? Yeah, I'm sure they're grinning at how clever their son is, wherever the hell they were.

"I'd rather not talk about it," Harry muttered.

"Harry, you're going to have to-"

"Remus! I have a bloody psychologist on my arse for three hours a day telling me that I have to 'open up and tell the world,' that I have to 'have trust in my fellow countrymen.'" Harry set his cup down with a loud snap, making Remus grimace. Guilt swamped him as he realized it was the day after the full moon and Remus' senses were probably still going haywire on him. "Sorry. I'm just..." He chuckled mirthlessly, "a little stressed out."

He scrubbed his face. "You said something about Fudge and rights to arrest me?"

"Fudge wants to know what happened. Some of the people got upset about the article and you using Dark Magic and put pressure on him to find out what really happened."

His gaze wasn't accusing. Harry was glad because the last thing he needed was someone else he trusted betraying him. However, he could see just how far Remus's worry and curiosity went. Sighing, he admitted. "I did use the Dark Arts, Remus, and I didn't have to. I made a choice. I could have done it quick and clean, and I decided not to. So be it."

Remus gave him a strained, forced smile. "I would have done the same, Harry, if truth were told. You had a right to make him pay."

They were silent again for a while, Harry sipping his tea with bandaged hands and Remus staring at the table. They stayed that way, in companionable silence, until Mrs. Weasley strolled into the room and stopped dead in the doorway. Then she was across the room, pulling Harry out of his chair and squeezing him to the point of pain. He winced, but simply blocked the pain out.

"Oh, oh, oh! Harry!" She rocked him. "You scared me to death, young man! You have caused a lot of chaos! I expected better from you!" She pulled back, pressing a firm kiss to his forehead and smiling at him tearfully. "If you ever run off like that again I'll lock you in your room. Where have you been? Oh, I should probably take you to St. Mungos but-"

"No." Harry said instantly. "I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley, really. I know how to take care of everything. I promise."

Remus stood up from the table. "I'm going to owl Dumbledore. He has a lot of manpower out looking for you."

Harry didn't argue. After all, he didn't mind Dumbledore knowing where he was, which reminded him of something.

"Mrs. Weasley?" he asked as she ushered him into a chair and fussed over his nearly shoulder length, slightly curly black hair. "Where's Lycander?"

"Oh, don't worry about him. I'm sure he'll be right over as soon as Remus and Dumbledore contact him. He's been deathly worried about you, especially since Fudge forbid him to even visit you. The old codger seems to think that Lycander will take you away to his dimension." She winked at him, making him grin. "No idea how he got so paranoid. I mean, we'd never do a thing like that, would we, Harry?"

"Never," he said, then chuckled. "I've missed you, Mrs. Weasley."

And it was true. He'd missed seeing her and his friends and the Order of the Phoenix. Of course, they were a nuisance sometimes and worried overly, but he'd missed them nonetheless.

He just hoped his good mood would last until his friends came home. It would be nice, he decided, if he could have a good time for once in the past couple of years.

* * * * * *