Blood Clot

Harry's POV

PART SIXTEEN

Resurgence

I almost cried out, wanted to reach out to hold them back from abandoning me, but then they disappeared: the twinkling lights, bright and comforting colours of a rainbow. Then, with a jolt of the most uncomfortable, nauseating feeling washing through me, I opened my eyes.

Suddenly, everything seemed dulled, dead, objects that meant nothing surrounding me. Nothing had meaning, because everything was blank, white, a horrifying loss of colour. I shifted slightly, and that was when I realized that something was terribly wrong, that I wasn't where I should be, and could barely remember who I was. Quickly I blinked a few times, and shifting slightly again, my skin met with the soft touch of cloth. I took in a deep breath, and with a few more blinks of my eyes, came back into the real world, fully and truly awake.

I was in a room that was all white. White walls, white tiled floor, every strange machine was white. The room was very narrow, but very long, and the row of windows running the length of it had thin films of a pale purple dust covering them. I realized that I was lying in a bed, but after that things got fuzzy, because suddenly I had a pounding headache. The last thing I saw before I lapsed into unconsciousness was a uniformed woman who I strangely felt a vague recognition for.

-----*-----

I awoke once more to that brilliant white slamming against my vision torturously, and that feeling of discomfort and nauseous confusion buried deep in my stomach. Wishing I could sink back into obliviousness of this unfamiliar place, I reluctantly turned to see if the woman from earlier was there.

She was.

I remained like that, frozen, staring into those glassy eyes and the tears spilling down her cheeks. Who was she? Why was she crying? Oh god, what had happened? What was wrong with me, with the world? Something was wrong. I hated this confusion, this unfamiliarity with every thing and every one nearby. I had come to one hazy conclusion: I was hospitalized somewhere. But why?

Feeling like crying myself, I slowly reached out a trembling hand, and placed it over hers, which rested on her knees. She shrieked, stumbling backwards and falling off her chair. I pulled back, frowning. This was frustrating. Had I turned into an alien? This was insane! I didn't know why I was here, who she was, and I was in the most ridiculous hospital room I'd ever seen!

Sighing, I lay down on my back on the bed again. Pulling the sheets over my head, I mumbled, "Please tell me where I am and why." No answer came in reply. This was getting really frustrating.

Feeling my nails dig deeply into my palms, I inhaled a shuddering breath before saying, "Please? I need to know. No matter what it is, please just tell me. I need answers."

I peeked out from underneath the sheets to look at her as, now reseated, she scooted her chair the closest it could get to my bed. Placing her fingertips at the edge of the bed, she stared at them as if they were tentacles. I glanced down at the carefully manicured nails, once again wondering who she was. Then, my gaze locked with hers as she looked up. I stared into that face, and upon searching for familiar features, I finally realized who she was: Pansy Parkinson.

Why on earth was she here? I mentally listed reasons why it was absurd:

1). She was Pansy Parkinson

2). Pansy, in her school days, had been a Slytherin

3). She--

Wait a second! 'In her school days'?! The person I'd once known as a girl was now a woman? Eyes widening, I felt fear unlike anything I'd ever felt before shoot through me, threatening to blast away my sanity. Breathing quickly, and feeling suddenly tired as a headache pounded at me again, I turned to tightly grip her shoulders, almost wanting to shake her vigorously. Panting, I asked as calmly as I could--which wasn't very calm at all, "What happened? Why am I at the hospital? Tell me everything!"

So she did. It was a rush of paragraphs that would make a three page essay, but through the daze of my sickness, headache, sleepiness, and smack of shock, I caught the information I needed.

Three years and some months ago, at the beginning of my second semester in my sixth year at Hogwarts, Voldemort had devised yet another plan to kill me. Currently, only Dumbledore knew exactly what that plan had been, but the public knew that his plan had involved the breaking of the spells which fueled the Hogwarts train, thus resulting in the crash. As I remembered with sudden horrifying clarity, I had landed badly when the train got back onto the tracks from its accidental flight.

Three facts were pointing their spears at me, threatening to push me off the cliff's edge of hysterics I was already teetering on: One, I had missed my last and most important year of school at Hogwarts. Two, I had missed the war which left the wizarding world bereft of hope and happiness; our side had defeated Voldemort and his cronies; however, the damage was severe, mostly on the hearts of the brave and cunning who had sacrificed everything for justice. And three, the cause of my having this patch of important events ripped from my heart of cloth was this: the train crash and my fall had resulted in two things for me: A concussion, which was now all fixed up, and a coma, which would certainly scar my life forever, having made me lose so much time.

-----*-----

A few months later, and I was out of the hospital. It was wonderful to be free of it. Regardless of visits from Hermione and Pansy, letters from Ron who now worked with the Ministry, and the nice way people treated me, that hospital had been hell for me. I had had too much time to ponder over and remember everything that had happened, and too much time to think about things that had troubled me and, I found, still did.

So many wishes came to my mind, so many what-ifs. I quickly banished them from my head, however, and donning my cloak, stepped out once more into the wizarding world.

Everything had changed so much. Everyone looked grim, or sad, or at the least, very stern and serious. Children were no more the solace of others and the gems of this earth, but instead their vacant expressions only increased my fear and pain. What hurt me most was the thought that I hadn't been there for them. Not for one moment had these children had their innocence returned to them, not for one moment had they had anyone to hold their hand, to give reassurance that all would be set right again, to shield their eyes from further death and pestilence.

I was so-calledly a hero, the Boy Who Lived, a rare survivor against a demon with a wand. But in the final battle, the ultimate plow forward of good against Voldemort, I hadn't been there. Useless, hopeless, I lay in a coma while all around me people died and suffered for their freedom. Now, free, they lived a world of torment. I didn't think myself special, a man to defeat all evil, I didn't think that if I had been there I would be the world's savior. But I felt that, somehow, if I had been there to give these soldiers aid, it might have given someone the inspiration to continue fighting, to not give up, and it would have wiped from my heart the dust of pain and turmoil that had settled there. But because I hadn't been there, had done nothing, this dust still lay, thickly layered, to further hinder my steps forward in life.

Harry's POV

PART SEVENTEEN

Bleakness

All alleyways and shops of Diagon Alley were drab, dull, and every gaze I dared to meet was filled with the remnants of pain the war had left. It was sickening, horrible, and so I hastily left there as soon as I finished getting the necessities: money, robes, and some books.

Finally, evening was coming, and I wondered where to go. I couldn't think of any wizarding places to go, and was too tired to rack my brain, so I decided to go to Hogwarts. It was the only place I had ever felt to be home, the only place I could consider a real shelter, especially at this point in my life when I was re-adjusting and adjusting to changes and to similarities in life that I had missed. I felt vulnerable, so it seemed natural to go home.

The nurse who had cared for me, Pansy, had told me a few useful pieces of information on how my coma would effect me. She'd said I would get attacks of drowsiness at unusual times, have headaches, occasional difficulty with or unsteady breathing, and at the worst, seizures and vomiting. Apparently, I had gotten a minor concussion, as well as my impact with the train wall causing my brain a bumpy little ride in my skull, and blood.

It was all quite overwhelming and horrifying, to tell the truth. I knew next to nothing about the inside of a human, so all the scientific talk of what had happened had been way over my head. As for the symptoms I would suffer, they sounded truly harsh, yet tolerable. I would not complain.

However, as soon as I got onto the subway, Mr. Symptoms said otherwise, and I had to quickly sit down due to yet another pounding headache; this one was the worst yet. Also, I wasn't sure if it was me, or the air from outside, but I suddenly couldn't breathe that well...Eyes widening, I felt once again that now-familiar feeling of fear. This was scary. I hadn't expected the symptoms to be so serious, but they were. Not only had I lost valuable time in my life (and only now did I realize how special time was to me), but I had to deal with these symptoms from the coma. I already felt vulnerable enough as it was, having lost years of my life, suddenly waking up as an adult, and feeling like a stranger in my own world. I had no one to turn to for comfort, either. Would I have to deal with this for the rest of my life? Oh, god! I felt a stinging at the edge of my eyes; Christ, this was making me get too emotional!

Blinking away the blurriness from my vision, I let my hands drop from their press at my temples, and looked up. That was when I saw him. He was standing but a few feet away, looking mightily disgruntled by the fact that he had to stand and hold onto a pole, whereas others got to sit. He wore a long sweeping black cloak, which almost covered the uniform underneath it as well as the tall, sturdy, heavy-looking boots he wore. Thick cloth, sleek and loose, formed the bottom part of the burgundy colored uniform. For the top was a white button-up undershirt covered by a long sleeved burgundy overcoat, which was underneath his black trench coat. He must have been some place cold. On the elbows of this uniform were leather patches upon which were inked his full name: Draco Lucius Malfoy.

I took the sight of all this, as well as his flaxen hair--now slightly curled and wispy--and his almost too slender frame all in a glance. His back was facing me, which saved me the awkwardness of conjuring up an appropriate reaction to having him look me straight in the eye. When he turned his shoulder slightly, that was when I noticed the badge over his collarbone, the badge Pansy had warned me of: First Offense Wand Second Defense Captain Btl 111.144

My body went numb, and I knew if I wasn't sitting I would have dropped to the floor. He had been a captain, the captain of the first charge of attack and of the second back-up defense call. Moreover, he had been in this final battle against Voldemort almost 24/7, giving 6 days of his time to the 7-day frenzy. I could barely believe it. He had fought for the side against Voldemort, against the Death Eaters and his very father; he had risked his life in a battle I would love to have been in his shoes for. Draco Malfoy had been a soldier.

-----*-----

Surprisingly, I was met without the usual grandeur and cheeriness of what had been usual in the past. Back in my Hogwarts days there was always someone who stared and pointed at me. Back in my Hogwarts days. It seemed so strange thinking that. I had always thought, somehow, that I would always be at Hogwarts. I had never lived life with my heart when I wasn't. So the prospect of actually leaving Hogwarts, permanently being deprived of walking through the castle corridors, it seemed implausible.

But change had settled upon the world. It always did. In things relating to Hogwarts, I never had liked change much. Things remained generally the same: who I associated with, the result of Quidditch matches, how the year went by. Of course, there were the changes such as who would teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, how Voldemort would face off with me near the year's end, and the gradual increasing of trouble and fear in the world.

Now was the climax of it all, I supposed. It was the time after the ultimate battle, when danger turned to despair and loneliness, and the world was swarmed with the dark and sick remnants of death and loss. It made me shudder just to think of it. The thought I kept in my mind to cheer me up, however, was this: If I make the right choices, I can change myself, and if I change myself, then I will have the courage to change others.

After a subdued and non-enlightening chat with McGonagall down the familiar corridors, I finally arrived at Dumbledore's office. I could barely believe that he was still Headmaster. It seemed impossible. All the professors that had taught in my day, aside from McGonagall, were gone...Retired, quit, handicapped, or...deceased.

Of all the people I expected gone, of all the people I wanted to talk to and see again but thought I'd never have a chance to, Dumbledore was on the top of my list. He looked older and sterner than I had ever seen him, and I heard that this was his last year as Headmaster. It was unnerving, almost frightening, to see someone I had relied and admired so much in the past now so frail looking. I felt that if a gust of wind blew in, he would be whisked away in a moment. But when he greeted me, and I looked at him closely, I knew he was as wise and spirited as ever, for he still had that glinting twinkle in his eyes, although it was dimmed some. With help, this man, my mentor and my friend, had defeated Voldemort--his intelligence and courage had done for the world what I had been unable to do: save it. As hero of the wizarding world, I had always assumed that was my job. Now though, that job had been done. Without that responsibility that I had gotten used to having on my shoulders, without that goal of defeating a dark lord and saving the wizarding world, I felt somewhat as a loss of what to do with myself.

After a go-over of what had happened while I was hospitalized, which was nothing very new from what Pansy had told me (the final battle had happened, that was what), we sat down for a cup of tea. I found out that Voldemort's final plan to murder me had ended almost as soon as it had begun, and all because of his loss of one person, namely Wormtail. That man had been like a slave to Voldemort, and, apparently, his obedience had been valued by Voldemort more than we thought, and his sudden absence at a crucial moment of the plan had proved fatal to the Dark Lord. I was too tired to ask for every detail, but apparently once I and all other possible victims had been put to their proper places to heal after the train accident, the panic had lessened. Eventually, the summer after sixth year, was when the ambushing and invading began.

The Death Eaters had not gone down easily nor without pride. What would have been my last year at Hogwarts was shortened, as all over sixteen who were willing to risk their lives joined the army, and the final battle began. Chaos had filled every street. Diagon Alley, which had been used as the main battlefield, had been destroyed; ransacked, ambushed, and witness to the spill of rivers of blood, its remains were now mostly gone.

There had been three types of people who fought in the war: Captains, defense rush soldiers, and offense soldiers. Offense were the people that came out first each day and strived to decrease the other army's soldiers as much as possible. Defense rushes were the people that rushed out afterwards and defended the tiring wizards and witches, those who fought to make sure the army numbers didn't decrease. Captains were those who either lead the defense rushes, directing the soldiers where to go and what formation, if any, to take, or they lead the offense, telling them when to charge, when to split up, and where the opponent's army was weakest.

Pansy had told me every detail about the war, I had been so curious. Soldiers had worn blue, captains burgundy, and those meant for defense rushes--teams that rushed out to defend the tiring witches and wizards--wore green. Those with badges were special, either captains who worked as both offense leaders and defense rush leaders, or one of the members of the team of first offense, the people who had been first to step on the battlefield.

I felt a sick nausea swim inside my stomach as I heard names of some of those who had died. I had either known them closely, been acquainted with them, or merely known them by name: Cornelius Fudge, Victor Krum, Ludo Bagman, Narcissa Malfoy, Professor Sprout, Bill Weasley, Cho Chang, Blaise Zabini, Padma Patil, Lavender Brown, and many, many more.

It was torture, pain, terror, fury, and sorrow all mixed up to create a horrible mix of emotions rattling my entire body and beating my brain incessantly. Barely hearing the Headmaster's words of comfort and accommodation arrangements, I stumbled my way to a bed and lay there. I felt a wave of regret, grief and longing wash over me, ashamed that I had wished to have participated in the bloody horrors. Then I fell silent, swearing I would do all I could to mend what I had been so fortunate as to not be subjected to.

Harry's POV

PART EIGHTEEN

Re-encounters

I awoke the next morning to the sweet smell of cinnamon rolls and lavender. It had a soothing effect on me, for although I soon remembered the nauseating information that had so hurt me to hear it the night before, I remained calm and relaxed. Troubling thoughts, images, information, and memories were still in my mind, but with the coming of such generous hospitality from Hogwarts, I was able to push them away and just feel refreshed.

Sitting up, I breathed in deeply the sweet smell and clean air, and quickly went about showering and dressing so I could feast on the cinnamon rolls and orange juice that sat on a plate on a tray on the coffee table. It was quite a nice room that I was staying in, as I soon found out. The shower was better than those we'd used in the boy's dormitories in my school days; a spacious bathtub as well as nozzle-equipped, treats such as bubble bath of many colors and other such magical luxuries available. It was better than the prefects bathroom I remembered so well from fourth year. The four poster bed I had so enjoyed had its head against a wall, the foot of it facing the doorway out across the room. To the left side of the bed was a walk-in closet. The bathroom was to the left of the doorway, opposite the doorknob, and there was a comfy chair and a coffee table in the corner to the right.

I had just eaten the last bite of cinnamon roll (the middle part; I decided to save the best for last) and was about to finish the orange juice when I heard a loud sneezing sound. Finishing my breakfast, I got up and peered down the corridor, actually noticing it. When I got out of bed I had noticed that the wall by the chair and coffee table stopped at a door, which turned into a long, narrow corridor. Now, looking down that corridor, I saw that it was dark, the two flat light blue walls path interrupted by no doors. But there was one door, chestnut colored, alone, and closed, at the end of the corridor. I became curious; did I have a neighbor?

For some reason I didn't even know, I walked slowly and sneakily down that corridor, creeping along carefully, my feet padding silently against the smooth wooden floor. Once in front of the door, I paused, before lifting a short-sleeve robed arm to rap my knuckles thrice on the painted mahogany. For a minute or two there was no response except for another sneeze, and then a deep, rich voice replied, "Come in."

I paused, hesitant, before slowly opening the door. The room I was in was exactly like mine, except it was set up a little differently. The cinnamon roll and orange juice sat untouched on the coffee table as well as a few charred remains of lavender--whoever was staying in the room was apparently allergic to the decorative plant that, I supposed, was in all of the guests' rooms. The walk-in closet was slightly opened to reveal emptiness but for a gigantic suitcase which was wedged halfway inside, as if someone had rested it there until they felt like unpacking later on. Lying on the bed, which was very neatly made, was a dark burgundy uniform. I immediately recognized it as the colour that captains in the war had worn.

Feeling even more hesitant about being in the room than before, I looked up and met gazes with Draco Malfoy for the first time in years. His gaze had lost all sign of the blue they'd had in his youth that had always given me slight reassurance about those otherwise cold and unfeeling eyes. Now, with that intense grey boring into my skull, reading every passage in the journal of my mind, it was sheer purpose that kept me staring back at him.

I couldn't read what it was he thought as he looked at me, but I knew that this time he would not win again. I would not let him defeat me. He had always achieved small victories against me with his constant insults, glares, and arguments with me. Although I had proved more than a match for people much more dangerous than him, somehow he had always had a power over me, an attitude about him that drove me mad with fury. I had always hated this about him, and now I kept my gaze steady, pulling the shades down the windows that were my eyes, the windows he had once been able to peer through to see into the depths of my very soul.

He seemed to have expected this. Not a flicker of surprise or any other emotion shone in his gaze, not a twitch or a sound came from him. He had predicted everything about me, like a fortune teller who knew my future and everything about me just by glancing at me. The problem with this was that in order for me to also know what he knew, there was a price I had to pay. I knew he wanted that payment, at least he had when we were boys, he had wanted something of mine, but I had never known what; I still didn't know.

I refused to believe that the words he had said, or anything that had happened, had meant anything to him, for I disliked the way he looked at me now, or the thought of liking him. He cared for nothing, and no one, that was plain in his gaze.

I saw not an inkling of the boy I used to know in this man. Oh sure, the same feline physique, the same fair hair and caged emotions, the same air of esteem and pride and strength. But I couldn't imagine that this man, toned and hard-muscled, his gaze on everything without a care in the world, was the same boy who I hated for most of my Hogwarts years because of his arrogance and insults, whom I had so tenderly kissed at the beginning (and end, I decided with fury) of our non-hostile relationship.

My gaze narrowed; every aspect of him angered me. I didn't want revenge for anything, didn't want to kill, humiliate, or dominate him. I wanted to be alone. I wanted him to never take one step in any direction in order to get emotionally or physically close to me. I didn't need to know why I had so quickly regained my hatred for him, all I needed to know was that I hated him, hated the bastard's guts. Saying not a word, I walked out the door and back the way I had come.

-----*-----

Unfortunately, I later found, there was no way to change rooms. The particular area I was staying--a corridor that had a dead end and led to floor four and thus the rest of the castle--was saved for guests: wizards and witches who were emotionally damaged from the war, or had been freed from Mungo's but had been rejected, or with no family, or people like me who had not fought in the war but needed a place to stay. To me, Hogwarts was my only refuge. The Dursleys presumed me dead, so I was free from them, but Sirius was working as an Auror with Lupin on the other side of the world, and as of yet couldn't come get me. Besides, I couldn't think of going any other place. Hogwarts was home.

I found it hard to explain why Malfoy made me so angry, even to myself. For half the night I had tossed and turned, trying to realize what had made my hatred for him burn again inside of me. There were many reasons.

He had frustrated me greatly with his teasing. I had realized, upon thinking deeply, that although I hated him now, I still wanted answers. By seeing him again, by meeting that gaze, a little spark inside me had hoped to get those answers by merely showing up in sight of Malfoy. It obviously had not worked. I had thought that, now an adult, he would have a semblance of maturity and know how to get straight to the point. Instead, he gave me that infuriating smirk while I switched from tactic to tactic to try and get an answer from him--an answer to why he prevented my being able to understand him.

Also, I had had a tiny ray of hope that, somehow, our hostile relationship of the past would disappear with adulthood. I thought that maybe he would treat me differently, that I would have someone of my age, mature, understanding, and feeling as horrified with the world as I was, to talk to. But he had been as arrogant, swaggering, and exasperating as ever. He had always been one to pick fights. I hated conflict, but had never stepped my way out of verbal battle with Malfoy when we were younger. I had hoped to avoid that now. But he made it impossible.

In youth, his battles with me had always been verbal, and Crabbe and Goyle had been there for physical bullying. I had considered that cowardly, stupid, pointless. If he was going to pick a fight, he should do it on his own, I had always thought. But no, he had made sure to have back-up just in case I actually did something to him--which I never did. His trice's with me had been too pathetic for that; he'd never gone through with any threats, and any actual attack on me had been underhanded tricks on my friends.

Apparently, all these frustrating traits about him were still in him. He still had the ability to make me furious with a single glance. I never had been one to lose my temper, and still wasn't, but plagued constantly as I was by Malfoy with no letting up, every once in a while I had let my anger erupt. Even after our meeting last night, my anger still sizzled.

The next morning, I was met with yet more unwelcome and utterly infuriating news: There were three tables set up for guests, and they were alphabetized, as were the rooms. Two of them were long tables that fitted ten people each. Table 1 was for people with last names A-J, table 2 for K-T. The third table was set up for people with last names U-Z, or in two women's cases, people who had had memory spells cast on them.

I was sitting at table 2, calmly and quietly drinking my pumpkin juice with space on either side of me on the bench, when suddenly a shadow fell over me. A familiar voice said, "Could you please scoot over?" I scooted over to the right towards a lady with frizzy brown hair, allowing space for the newcomer. But then I looked up, and immediately regretted my actions. It was Malfoy. Looking around, I realized that there were tiny pieces of paper with last names written on them. It was alphabetized. To my right Povvner, to my left, Malfoy. Blimey. What a day. What a hellish, hellish day this is. I'm eating breakfast and going to bed next door neighbor to Malfoy. I have to sit to the right of Malfoy every lunch and dinner. What could make it all worse?

Unfortunately, I found out only a little while later what could make it all worse...