Harry Potter and the Moment of Silence

Through me you pass into the city of woe:
Through me you pass into eternal pain:
Through me among the people lost for aye.
Justice the founder of my fabric moved:
To rear me was the task of power divine,
Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.
Before me things create were none, save things
Eternal, and eternal I shall endure.
All hope abandon, ye who enter here.

Dante Alighieri

Chapter Seven: Forgive thy Blood That Leaveth Me

Harry Potter and the Moment of Silence

Healer Burgess was one of the most spiteful, hateful, nastiest people Harry had ever met. He was a short, overweight little man with big, brown glasses and the brownest eyes Harry had ever seen.

At the moment, Burgess pressed a hand on the middle of Harry's bare back, pressing hard. Harry winced and hissed, "That hurts!" His voice was low and hoarse from the potions they'd been poring down his throat for the past day and a half.

"Roll onto your back, Potter," Burgess hissed gruffly.

"You just had me roll onto my stomach!" Harry whined. He knew he sounded like a baby, but he was sick, miserable, and with a fever high enough to have him in a special room with twenty-four hour surveillance, by both Aurors and medical personnel. And now, after throwing up straight for three hours, they wanted to test him for any diseases.

Least of all to say, he was not in a good mood.

"Ow!" Harry jerked slightly, then pushed away at the hand that dug into the sore spot right below his ribs. "You know, my stomach didn't hurt before I came here and you started poking at it!"

The Healer glared at him. "Potter, I cannot do my job if you do not stop whining and start cooperating. I think you may have an ulcer."

For a moment, Harry stared at him. "An ulcer? What the hell is an ulcer? No, no, let me guess, it's a fatal disease and I'll be dead within a month."

"Harry, are you giving Healer Burgess a hard time?" Remus' eyes were amused, but his voice had an undertone of worry beneath it.

"No."

Healer Burgess growled at him. "Mr. Lupin, now is not the time for your daily visit. In fact, I don't think Potter should have any visitors for the day until he can sit still!" Burgess shouted the last part when Harry jerked away from his touch.

"That hurts!"

When the Healer sat back on the end of the bed, his pudgy little face flushing with anger, Harry pushed himself into a sitting position, his hands wiping the sweat off his face.

"Merlin, I'm so hot." Miserable, he sent Remus a look. "You the only one visiting?"

"Yes, everyone else plans on dropping by tomorrow. Thursday is the only day the Aurors are willing to let you have more than one person in the same room with you."

His breath was heaving, annoying Harry endlessly. He hadn't done anything remotely physical except sitting up in the last twenty-six hours, and yet he was panting as if he'd just run a million-mile gauntlet.

"I'll be back in five minutes, Potter, and we'll finish the testing whether your friend-" he spat the word out, sending Remus a disgusted, superior look that had Harry's blood boiling- "is still here, understood?"

"Go bugger yourself!" Harry shouted before the door closed, then continued to curse even as Remus pulled a chair up and reached forward to feel his forehead.

"Merlin," he breathed, his eyes darkening. "Merlin," he repeated, "are they giving you something for that?"

Tears of misery filled his eyes, but Harry just rested his head back against the wall and wiped at his eyes. "Are you kidding me? They've given me medications, potions, ice baths, charms. Nothing is bringing it down."

"Are they sure it's natural?"

"I have a fever higher than 112, Remus; I should be in a coma or dead right now." He sneered. "That's not natural."

Remus didn't scold him for the sharpness of his words.

"I brought you something." He handed the teenager something heavy and about the size of a football but rectangular. Harry turned it upside down, blinking at it, than looked up at him, puzzled. "It's a Wizard Wireless, sort of like a portable Muggle radio. Hally found one in the attic of Malfoy Manor and fell in love with it." A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "But she wanted you to have it so you could listen to some music. No one thought the fever was this bad. Dumbledore has your healers sending Arthur a daily report, but it just said you had a mild fever."

"Dumbledore and I decided it would be best to make everyone believe I wasn't that sick. I didn't want them to worry, especially Hallyanka. She doesn't need this kind of worry. Are you guys taking her to Diagon Alley today?"

"How did you know about that?"

"You guys aren't the only ones getting daily reports. Dumbledore comes here everyday to have breakfast with me and tell me what's going on. You'll make sure she spends all my money on silly clothes and shoes, won't you?"

He hadn't planned on going, but Harry's face was so pale and sweaty and worried that Remus nodded. "Of course. I'll make sure you're broke by the time she steps out of the first store. Don't worry, we'll be fine; we have Tonks, Kingsley, Moody and close to the entire Order shopping today so it'll be foolproof."

"I just keep thinking of Olean making an appearance and nobody will be strong enough to stop him."

"Lycander will be with us."

"Lycander won't be able to do anything but defend you guys. If Olean strikes him down, than you guys are defenseless."

Harry put a hand to his stomach, then pressed down a little as if that would eliminate the pain.

"Try not to worry, Harry." Remus sighed and lifted a hand before Harry could sneer at him. "I know, I know, you won't stop; I just felt required to tell you that, okay? So, what do they think is wrong with you?"

Harry's upper lip curled in disdain. "An ulcer, or so Healer Arsewipe thinks so."

"An ulcer?"

"Yeah. You know what one is? I've heard of it before, but I thought it only happened to old people."

"No, they happen to all sorts of people. It just means your stressed out and not eating right."

"Okay; then what's the big deal?"

"It's like a stone with spikes attached to it swimming around in your stomach, Harry. It's not healthy. It can cause all sorts of liver and stomach illnesses if it isn't taken care of." Then, just to remind him, he lifted an eyebrow and added, "Did I mention that digesting excessive amounts of alcoholic beverages only makes it worse?"

Harry let himself slid so he was lying back down on the cot. "Shut up, Moony." His shirt was sticking beneath his armpits and on his sides. Stabilizing himself on his elbow, he grabbed the bottom and struggled to pull it off his head. Then, winded, he collapsed back on the bed.

Remus' intake of breath had Harry looking at him, then at his chest. It was scarred horribly with deep pink and red ridges. They were barely sore anymore unless they were rubbed the wrong way, which rarely happened. He struggled to swallow past the sudden swelling in his throat.

"I can put my shirt back on if you want. I sort of forgot it was there."

Remus' hand fisted painfully. Speechless, Harry reached for the gray one the Minister had insisted he wore. Unlike the other hospital patients, he had a gray sweatshirt and a pair of gray light pants and normal t-shirt. He yelped, surprised, when Remus' hand snagged his wrist.

"Don't," he said harshly. He softened his voice when Harry's green eyes swirled with helpless tears. "You shouldn't have to cover them up." Nothing Remus had ever seen had made him more furious than the long, seemingly endless welts that lifted off the pale skin of his chest and back; there was even a few that slid down out of sight into the gray sweats. "Does the press know how badly Voldemort-" Remus took a breath and tried again, meeting Harry's eyes. "Do they know that they did this?"

"Haven't you been reading the newspapers? The entire world wants a picture of the marks so they can put it in history books. That's why I wore my robes and long sleeves the entire time I was at Malfoy Manor." Harry lifted a hand to the welt that went off his chest and onto his left arm a few inches below his shoulder. "Everyone would just stare at me. They're just scars."

Oh, the torment they'd put this boy through, Remus mused to himself. He wanted to pummel someone, something, but there was only Harry, with his overly bright eyes and flushed, clammy skin. They hadn't just humiliated him, but they'd left their mark all over his skin; shoulders, back, chest, abdomen, all over his arms, and Remus would bet his life all over his legs. And his feet had been burned, he remembered. Dumbledore had given him a copy of the hospital report that had been written the night they'd found and brought him to the hospital. They'd cut a layer of skin off his feet and put fire on his most sensitive nerve endings in a way of torture.

"Have you talked to Nelly about them?" he asked gently.

Harry's head snapped up, his eyes firing sparks. "Why would I? They're only scars," he repeated. "It's not like they mean anything."

"Don't they? Are you telling me that's not shame and humiliation in your eyes? If they don't mean anything, then why are you crying?"

The words were like a punch to the gut. "Of course they humiliated me, Remus! It would have been better if they'd put the damned Dark Mark on my arm. Of course these stupid scars are shameful. If I'd been strong enough, smart enough, not to get trapped, they wouldn't even be there, but they don't mean anything. They don't mean anything," he said fervently, but his eyes betrayed him and filled again. Furiously, he scrubbed his fists over them. "Dammit, Remus, they don't. They're only marks."

"If you say that, Harry, then why don't you believe it?"

He let his head relax and fall on the pillow, pulling his elbow out from under his body. He bowed that same elbow and curled his hand around his neck. His heartbeat pounded slow and thick under his palm, steadying him.

They both sat in silence, Remus sitting stiffly in his chair and Harry wiping constantly at his eyes. There was no room for embarrassment. The tears just continued to come; Harry tried -and failed- to stop them every time he raised a hand to wipe at them.

They were both, however much awkward the silence had been, angry at being disturbed by the reentry of Healer Burgess. Behind him, pretty McNara swept into the room, her smile bright and cheery. The moment she saw Remus, however, she stiffened like a board. Surprised, both werewolves stared at each other for several moments of extended silence.

Burgess missed the spark of heat that flew and glared at Harry.

"Are you ready to try again?" he said mockingly.

Remus didn't seem to hear him. "You're a-"

"Remus, stop staring." As if embarrassed, Harry sat up, wincing at the twinge in his stomach. "I know she's pretty, but she's the best nurse in the hospital. No need to be sexist."

"Hmm," Burgess said, giving Remus a weak but agreeable smile. "I agree. I don't think they should have ever let women into medical school. Foolishness, is what it is. Plain stupidity."

Remus continued to stare at McNara, who walked to Harry's bedside. Remus grinned. "On the contrary, Healer Burgess, women are what make work interesting."

The Healer grunted and nodded meanly at McNara. "What are you doing there, McNara? Get behind him and make him stay still. Werewolf," he barked at Remus. Harry felt McNara jump from her seat behind his head. "Help keep the boy still."

"I prefer Mr. Lupin, if you wouldn't mind, Healer Burgess." Although the way he'd yelled at him had annoyed him greatly, Remus concentrated on Harry. He pulled his chair closer to the bed and took Harry's hand, placing the other on the bare, fiery skin of his shoulder.

Burgess placed both hands on Harry's abdomen. He tensed, his body going stiff as those pudgy hands wandered over his stomach, probing and pressing down two inches into his skin.

"Loosen up, boy," Burgess growled.

"Well, what to you expect when somebody goes feeling my stomach up, you git!"

Burgess pressed even harder the next time, making Harry kick at him. The Auror at the door -some guy Harry remotely remembered as Mechins- stirred, but didn't come forward.

"Stupid, idiot boy! I thought I told you to restrain him, McNara!"

"Harry," she said kindly, squeezing the hand Remus wasn't. She pulled his head and his shoulders onto her knees, her hand resting underneath his chin. "When it hurts, next time just squeeze mine and Mr. Lupin's hands, okay?"

"Why hurt you when I can hurt him?"

"Harry," Remus said firmly, "stop it. I know you can handle the pain so stop acting as if you can't."

He'd handled things much worse than what Burgess was doing, but it didn't mean he had control over knee-jerk reactions. He sighed. "Okay, okay, I'll stop. Continue, Healer Burgess," he said scathingly.

The Healer, grumbling and cursing the entire time, proceeded.

"I told you, it won't work if you tense your body. Relax."

McNara's hand stroked his neck in response. It was soothing and relaxing. For a few moments, he concentrated on her hand instead of Burgess'. His body eased muscle by muscle until he was as limp as he would have been in unconsciousness. But nothing could have distracted him from the pain when Burgess pressed down hard right blow his ribs. He was embarrassed of it, but when Burgess pressured it the first time, he gave a muffled scream of pain.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow." It was like a mantra in his head and out. "Oh Merlin, I think I'm going to be sick."

Burgess pulled back and McNara reached beside her for the empty pail she'd left in the room. Harry released Remus' hand to lean over the bed. He retched, his stomach contracting each and every time with a painful squeeze that had him gasping and in tears within an instant. He hadn't eaten much, so he was heaving nothing but a little blood and the piece of toast his other female Healer had forced on him earlier that morning. When he was done, retching dryly into the pail, McNara put a soothingly cold hand against his forehead and leaned him back.

"It's an ulcer, Burgess," McNara snapped. "Can you get the potions or are you just going to stand there while he spits out blood?"

Burgess snapped something to her before leaving, but Harry missed it. He closed his eyes tightly against his painful, blurry vision and reached out for Remus. A hand -firm, calloused, large- wrapped around his and squeezed. Over the teenager, he looked up and met McNara's eyes. In a voice that only the three of them could hear, he stated, "Lycanthropes are forbidden to work in hospitals. It's against the law."

Equally as quiet, she replied, "I know. I'm not a full lycanthrope; I'm mild."

Remus nodded. "Did you tell Harry?"

Baffled, she looked down at the raven-haired boy. "No, I didn't. I don't know how he found out."

"Sensed it," Harry mumbled. Already, he was exhausted. "And you smelled like Moony."

McNara chuckled. "I smell like him?" The thought was intriguing. She looked up at Remus, grinned. "Maybe I should use more perfume."

Something liquid and pleasant rolled sweetly in his stomach. "You don't. Harry's senses are just heightened to the point to being like ours."

Uneasily, she glanced at the door. "Would you mind not mentioning it anymore in here? I can't lose afford to lose my job."

Remus simply nodded again and looked down at Harry. "You still awake, Harry?"

"Yup," he muttered, then opened his eyes slightly. "You don't have to leave yet, do you?"

"I'm sorry." He was being sincere. He didn't want to go. Harry was rarely affectionate unless he was either miserable or vulnerable. "But Molly has some errands that need doing. I'll be back tomorrow if you'd like."

"Yeah." Harry gave his hand a squeeze before pulling it back to curl under his cheek. "Moony? Would you mind making sure only a few people come tomorrow? Just Hally and a couple of the others, but don't bring the entire Weasley clan. I wouldn't know what to say to all of them."

Remus stood. "I'll be to do just that, Harry. Behave okay? Burgess may be a prat, but he knows what he's doing. Nice meeting you, Healer McNara."

"The pleasure was mine, Mr. Lupin."

Harry pretended to shiver. "Gee wiz, you two sure now how to steam up a room," he said sarcastically.

McNara giggled. "What, two old geezers like us being intimate?" She sent Remus a friendly smile. "We're too old, aren't we, Mr. Lupin?"

"'Course. Wouldn't want to cause ourselves a heart attack." He squeezed Harry's shoulder briefly, told him to take care, and strolled to the door.

"Oh yeah, Harry, I forgot to mention that Lycander will be coming tomorrow night after visiting hours. There'll be more Aurors and a Ministry official coming, so don't do anything foolish or rash, okay?"

Harry couldn't quite stop the moan. "Go away, Lupin."

Remus, smiling, left the room.

"Handsome devil, isn't he?" she teased him. She pretended to fan her face. "I think I may just have to leave you, Harry my dear, he's so much cuter."

This time he didn't have to fake the shudder. "That's gross, is what that is. No, disgusting, revolting. Nauseating. Go away."

She giggled like a schoolgirl. "Nope." She gave his cheek a sloppy kiss. "I have to wait with my favorite patient in the whole world so I can hold you down while Burgess has his way with you."

Pause. "Ewww."

* * * * * *

Through the night, McNara stayed at his bedside, wetting his brow, talking comforting nonsense, holding his hand. His fever was a genuine roller coaster, soaring higher into the low hundred and twenties before plunging back down again. Harry tried to hold on, tried to grasp it with all the willpower he had in him, but he was tossed off the ride to fall endlessly to the ground. Delirium was like a cloud of black mist, coveting deep inside his mind. More often than not, that mist covered his eyes and had Harry drowning in a sea of confusion, pain, and misery that he couldn't seem to swim out of.

There was visitors -oh, yes, many, many visitors. So many that their faces and their colors blurred; red hair merged into curly black and thin brown. Eyes that were blue mixed with brown and the occasional hazel. He heard voices, sometimes his own, but more of the people who squeezed his hand and felt his forehead.

Then there were other times when he awoke so hot and so cold that if felt as if tiny needles were being stabbed repeatedly into his skin, and he was alert of his surroundings and the people that stood by him. Of course, Burgess kept muttering about fried brain cells and the such, but Harry knew his brain was just fine. The fever only effected him by pushing him under the dark whenever he let it, or whenever it got strong enough. He also knew, thanks to Lycander's rare and vague visitations, that the fever was so high because of the magic inside of him.

It became common sight to see Lycander holding both of Harry's hands, whether awake or asleep, delirious or alert.

One time, when Harry was asleep, he thought he felt Lycander's large, mammoth hand on his forehead, murmuring something to him, but when he awoke, he wasn't certain if it had been another one of his hallucinations or the truth. All he knew was that after Lycander's visit, he'd had his first real good sleep in a long time.

He was sitting when visiting hours started on Sunday, propped up against the headboard with his legs pulled up. Lycander wouldn't be there, so there was just the same old Aurors guarding the door. They always enhanced the security when the two Mages met to meditate.

Since loneliness was annoying the hell out of him, he couldn't force himself to make use of the radio, or the books, or the parchment and ink as he usually could. Normally, no matter what he felt, he could forget it as soon as he picked up one of the three, but today, while he was waiting for his friends, it was impossible.

His skin was still clammy and flushed with fever, but it had lowered so drastically that everyone, himself included, was relieved. Now all he had to do was hope that it didn't skyrocket again.

When the door opened, he lifted his chin off his knee.

"Romane!" Hally dashed towards the bed to throw her arms around him, forgetting in her excitement to call him by his real name. "You are awake!"

She pulled back and pulled his face down to hers. Harry's hands tightened at her hips, than fisted before he pulled back. "You shouldn't be kissing me now," he said, slightly scolding. "I'm sick."

"I do not care." She hugged him again and let her head rest against his shoulder.

Over her head, he smiled at Ron and Hermione. "You the only people coming?"

Hermione sat in the chair by the bed and Ron sat on the end of the bed. They were dressed as normal Muggles. If Ron wasn't wearing a shirt that boasted about the Chudley Cannons, Harry could almost pretend they were normal Muggles.

"Yes. Hermione wanted just the three of us to come, and then she thought that Hally here might bash her teeth in if we tried to tell her she couldn't come see you."

Harry shifted Hally so she leaned against the headboard like him and lifted an arm around her shoulders so he could play with the tips of her hair.

"How are you feeling?" Hally asked worriedly, lifting a hand to Harry's forehead. A worry line formed between her brows until he smoothed it with the tip of his pointer finger. "You seem about right."

Harry chuckled. "I'm only on 108, Hally. That might be normal for a Mage, but it most definitely is not for a wizard."

"At least you're not delirious. You've been out of it for at least a week." Ron sent a dirty glare to the Aurors for no reason, then turned back to Harry. "I don't know if I still want to be an Auror. I mean, if they're doing stupid things like this, then I don't know if I want to be under Fudge's command."

Harry hesitated. "I can't really talk about anything like that, Ron. I'd end up saying something that they'd twist around and shove back at me. As it is, I might end up with a trial with the Wizengamot again. Because of my high profile," he added the last bitterly. "As if I encouraged the media."

Hally up closer to him, leaning her head on his shoulder again and reaching up to rest a hand on his other shoulder. Harry's hand rubbed her hip beneath her shirt unconsciously.

"It's not that bad, though. They don't talk to me or bother Remus when he comes in after visiting hours."

"Remus said he planned on reporting Burgess." Hermione smiled, but not over what they were talking about but the way Harry was acting. It was the old Harry almost, the one she'd missed so painfully over the last few years, and he was smiling.

"Is it true? Remus says this Healer Burgess is a real prat." Ron was staring at the ceiling after lying flat on his back so his feet dangled off the side of the bed.

"Horrible, that man is. Prodded the hell out of me when he tested me for an ulcer."

"That's what you get after the stress and worry and guilt you help put yourself through," Hermione scolded.

Harry stared at her. "I didn't put it on myself, you know! It's a little stressful to have a bloody maniac out for your blood."

"Technically," Ron pointed out with a snicker, "you have three bloody maniacs out for you blood, including Fudge and Lycander."

"Lycander isn't out to get you, Harry." Hermione kicked one of Ron's legs that dangled off the bed. He sat up, scowling at her. "I'm sure he just isn't used to showing emotion. He has gotten a little uptight since last year, though."

"Probably because I was stupid enough to get myself trapped."

Hermione waved that away with the utmost sophistication. "Don't be silly, Harry, anyone in your spot would have done the same thing. I'm sure he's just worried about how you and Olean will battle."

Harry straightened a little into a more comfortable position. "Did the Order find out anything about where he's hiding out?"

Ron shook his head. "From what we've overheard, it's hopeless."

Hermione expanded on this by saying: "He's used no more magic than a normal wizard might, and therefore neither the Ministry nor the Order has been able to single him out. There's been no sightings, although Dumbledore has wanted to put out a warning in the newspapers."

"Dad says Fudge won't allow it," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "I swear, if everyone above seventeen doesn't vote him out of office, I'm going to have to go into the Ministry myself and take his place."

Hermione giggled.

"What?"

"I just can't see you, Ron Weasley, as the Minister of Magic. More interested in Quidditch scores than political affairs, is what you are and always have been."

"I could do it."

"I didn't say you couldn't do it, Ron, just that I couldn't see you doing it."

"You don't think I could it!" Ron's mouth was in an O of surprise as he gaped.

"I didn't say that!"

"You did, too, Hermione. I could be Minister if I wanted to, couldn't I, Harry?"

Aware that if he said yes, Ron would grin, and if he said no, that Hermione would glare, he chuckled. "Yeah, mate, you could do it, but you have a long way to go if you're serious about it." There, satisfied them both, he mused.

"I didn't say you couldn't do it, Ron," Hermione grumbled. "I just said I couldn't see you being so executive like and serious. I thought you hated the Ministry."

"I do, but it doesn't mean I still couldn't be Minister. If Fudge could get elected, anyone could; including me."

Hermione looked ready to kick him again. Instead, she calmly cupped her chin in her hand and studied him. "You do know how contradictory and senseless you are sometimes, right?"

Ron chuckled. "How could I not know with you muttering it in my ear every five minutes?" Sighing, he looked at the ceiling. "I wish I could be Minister. All that money and people doing whatever you wanted them to. It would be great."

"You would be too biased a Minister, Ron." Hally spoke quietly, but with a content smile. Harry realized that she was already accustomed to their bickering and didn't mind it a bit. It pleased him that she could tolerate them so well when even he himself had often got fed up with it, and he'd known them since they were all eleven years old. At Ron's indignant look, she giggled. "You would be and you know it. A Minister of affairs and a whole entire society has a lot of responsibility and must have a lot of respect for efficient, if cold and prejudiced people, such as Draco. You are on good terms with him, but you resent him for many reasons. You are right to besmirch him in your mind, but a politician, especially one with such a high standing, would have to be more diplomatic and forgiving. And, of course, you cannot lie for your life."

Ron, as would have done years ago, did not get angry; instead, with a huge, smug grin, he sent Hermione a triumphant look. "We finally found someone better at making ad-lib speeches than Hermione!"

As they started another fight with each other, Harry wondered how Ron's vocabulary had gotten so heightened. Since when did Ron know such words as ad-lib?

He really hadn't talked to them in a while, he realized, pushing a hand through his hair. They'd always been there for him, and yet he barely knew them anymore. So concentrated on his own life and problems was he that he'd forgotten that Ron and Hermione had enough of both on their own.

* * * * * *

Faces swarmed in and out of his view, leaving Harry confused, disoriented, and on his own most of the time. He fancied sometimes that someone was reading to him, from something, but it was only a small notion in a head full of mist and black clouds.

Many times he was scared to close his eyes, for when he did it often scared the hell out of him. There was blood on his hands -his parents, Hagrid, Cedric, Percy, Lucius, Bellatrix, Voldemort's. Sometimes, he could clench his fists and feel the stickiness of blood between his fingers, underneath his nails, descending down his wrists in great rivulets, to soak in puddles upon the bed sheets. Harry remembered vaguely that, whenever he opened his eyes, he often heard screaming, shouts calling attention to blood on his hands, that that he was murdering someone.

He could remember his throat being sore from being force fed food, which he was often too sick to keep down more than a few hours, but he wouldn't know this till he awoke after 'the incident.'

Now, the day of that incident, he was sleeping fitfully, muttering and hearing the shouting that seemed to remain in his head at all times. It came to him more than once that Olean might be making him sick. That Olean was in his head, screaming at him, accusing Harry of killing Olean's dear old father. And then, when Harry had the sense of common in him, he would remember that Olean had despised his father and had barely known him, having been reared as an honorable Qaiulee in the Souriom de Solfiace. Sometimes he heard whispers, too, that plagued him even as the screams rose in volume in his ears.

He was holding a knife. He lifted it closer to his face, seeing his eyes, wild and glowing, staring back at his own body through the shine of the switchblade; the same switchblade in which Harry had stabbed Voldemort torso to ribbons. It was the knife that he'd found on the floor and then found again in Voldemort's robes. His hand -why was it so clawed and scratched? he'd wondered- fisted over the ivory handle, flexing. He could almost smell the stench of his blood, dripping off his body in drops of whipped blood and flesh, and hear Voldemort's high pitched shrieks of pain as Harry had slowly reorganized his organs and slowly, ever so slowly, closed his air pipe.

So slowly that Voldemort had almost stopped shrieking and turned gasping by the time it had finally been done, and had laid still, bleeding, as Harry pounded the knife into his snake-ish flesh over and over and over again. The knife lashed out, not at his stomach, but at his wrists. With a ferociousness that Harry barely felt, but with enough anger that had killed dozens of both the innocent and the devilish people, he sliced open the flesh of his own arteries.

There were screams again, male shouts and the colorful flash of magic as the Aurors finally realized what had happened.

Harry Potter had attempted to kill himself, although the thought wouldn't be processed by his own mind for at least two days.

As Harry looked down at the Auror that had dived at him and the knife, he saw the blood on his hands, dripping, sluicing down his arms to compress into the painfully white of the sheets and his shirt, even his pants. The blood was everywhere, seeming to gush out of every pore of his skin, but in reality its core was at the bone in his wrist.

Harry felt no physical pain, but the sharp, painful tapping on his head was enough to have him weeping.

And this time, because he believed the blood on his hands to be another's -several dozens, in fact- he screamed.

* * * * * *