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Hello and welcome to my new fic! That feels so good to say. It's been quite a long time since I've been publicly active on here but, trust me, my heart never left, and I think about my unfinished stories often (see my profile for updates).

This story has been in my head for years, and I've finally found the motivation to sit down and write it.

Since this site doesn't have a tagging system, please be advised that this story contains: PTSD, a scene and the aftermath of rape/non-con (underage, between teenage minors), an eating disorder, self-harm, references to child abuse, an episode of selective mutism, discussions of suicide (no actual suicide), and a whole lot of angst, though it does have a happy ending. It is fully mapped and outlined, but I always try to leave room for the unexpected and will add any future warnings as necessary.

Set during Harry's sixth year and follows the books up through the start of HBP as far as Harry's summer and his lessons with Dumbledore go - anything else can be disregarded. Will be Harry/Ginny, and they have their moments throughout, but it's a pretty slow build as the focus is on Harry and his recovery.

Unbeta'd. Feel free to let me know of any errors, grammatical or otherwise. Constructive criticism is encouraged.

Also, a major shout-out to my dear friends Caitlin and Jack, who have been enormously encouraging about this project. You guys are the best, and I can't believe I get to know you. You keep me going.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Make No Sound

Harry was running.

His feet slammed painfully against the cobblestone floor and he clutched at a burning stitch in his side as he hurtled along the darkened corridor. The only light came from up ahead, around the corner, dull red flashes that pulsed over the walls like some kind of ominous warning: Turn back now!

But Harry couldn't turn back.

He had to keep going. He did not know why, he did not know what he was doing here…he knew only that he had to reach that sickening, dreadful red pulse, had to help whoever was waiting for him around that corner. He, Harry, was the only one who could stop it, who could fix it….

Every breath he took was a searing pain, and he felt sure his lungs must be about to burst, yet he pushed himself harder still, feeling as though he were moving through water, through molasses…he was almost there, but he seemed only to be inching forward…a sob built in Harry's chest, despair creeping into his heart…only a little farther….

A blood-curdling scream echoed suddenly into the silence, sending terror lancing through his body – someone was in terrible pain, he had to reach them, he had to save them….

Harry stumbled to the corner just as the tortured screams built to a frantic, chilling pitch…he reached out his hand, squinting into the now blinding red light-

Harry shot straight up in bed, breathing fast and heavy as though he really had been running. He blinked, wide-eyed, into the pitch black of his four-poster, heart thumping madly in his chest as his mind slowly emerged from the nightmare.

The familiar sound of Ron and Neville's snores drifted over to him across the dormitory and he slumped wearily as his heart rate slowed, resting his head on his knees and burying his hands in his hair. The strands were damp with sweat. Harry shivered, suddenly becoming aware that his pyjama top was soaked through, too. Disgusted, he quickly stripped it off and tossed it to the foot of his bed.

Harry hesitated for a moment before swiping his wand from beneath his pillow, feeling stupid and childish, but knowing all the same that it would help to ease the last remains of the dream from his mind, make it seem less real….

"Lumos," he whispered, and a narrow beam of light shot from the tip of his wand. He blinked blearily into the sudden brightness as his surroundings came into focus, everything appearing slightly blurred without his glasses. He absently rubbed his forehead and stared at one of the intricate, swirling patterns that decorated his bed curtains; he was infinitely glad he had pulled them closed when he'd gone to bed, and even more relieved he'd remembered to put up a Silencing charm….

He had been having the same nightmare for weeks now, since shortly after his arrival at the Burrow for the summer holidays.

Ron hadn't mentioned anything to him about talking (or possibly shouting) in his sleep, but there had been a few mornings over breakfast his best mate had seemed more blatantly concerned about him than usual, throwing Harry furtive glances, and whispering to Hermione when he thought Harry wasn't paying attention.

Harry couldn't explain why he kept having this dream, or what it might mean, but something told him he did not want to examine this particular one too closely.

Of course, he had had recurring dreams like this before; dreams about long corridors and mysterious locked doors…but Harry was quite sure this one didn't have anything to do with Voldemort. For one, his scar never hurt when he had it, and in any case Dumbledore had told him he suspected Voldemort was now purposefully blocking his connection to Harry.

Either way, he was relieved to be back at Hogwarts where underage magic wasn't off-limits. He did not need his dorm mates witnessing his odd sleep problems, or Ron reporting back to Hermione in a fit of unease.

Sighing to himself, Harry extinguished his wand and stashed it again before slipping quietly from his bed, making the familiar trek to the bathroom in the dark.

"You look terrible," Hermione told Harry, her eyebrows knitting together over the top of her copy of the Daily Prophet as he settled into a seat across the table from her and Ron.

"Thanks," he said dully, flattening his hair and reaching for a plate of bacon.

He hadn't got much sleep after he'd woken up the night before; he had tossed and turned for hours until finally managing a light doze just as the sun had begun to creep in under the edges of his curtains. He'd awoken to find the other boys already gone, dressed in a hurry, and rushed down to the Great Hall, arriving only minutes before breakfast was scheduled to end.

"You could have got me up," Harry told Ron grudgingly, straightening the collar of his robes.

Ron shoveled a forkful of food into his mouth and shrugged. "I tried," he managed cheerfully around a mouthful of eggs.

A groggy memory of swatting Ron's hand away and exchanging sleepy, half-hearted insults flashed across Harry's mind. He grunted and took a bite of bacon.

"Didn't you sleep well?" Hermione pressed, lowering her newspaper to look at him fully.

Harry shrugged noncommittally, having no desire to discuss the subject with her at the moment, and nodded at the paper. "Any deaths today?" Hermione frowned at him, and opened her mouth to say something, but Ron cut her off.

"Yeah, my Defence Against the Dark Arts mark," he said gravely, shaking his head and pouring himself a bowl of cornflakes. "I never did that essay for Snape yesterday," he mumbled to Harry out of the corner of his mouth.

Harry smirked at him, but Hermione had heard and apparently found this less than amusing, for she started in immediately on a long-winded lecture about the importance of sixth year studies and the impact their academic performance would have on their N.E.W.T. exams the following year-

Harry only half-listened as he glanced down the Gryffindor table.

A few seats away, Colin Creevey was talking excitedly to his younger brother, Dennis, holding what appeared to be a thick stack of glossy photos. Harry looked away quickly; making eye contact with Colin usually resulted in a tiring and repetitive conversation in which Colin asked Harry if he would finally be willing to pose for some Quidditch action shots, and Harry was forced to say "no" about a thousand times.

Harry's gaze landed on Ginny Weasley, who sat half a table away, chatting animatedly with her friends. Dean Thomas sat next to her, his arm curled loosely around her waist.

Harry's gut squirmed uncomfortably as he stared at them, and he dropped the piece of toast he'd just buttered back to his plate. He found he wasn't that hungry all of a sudden.

A soft thump jolted Harry out of the beginnings of a rather pleasant daydream about the games of two-a-side Quidditch he'd played against Ginny and Ron during his last stay at the Burrow, and he looked round to see that Hedwig had landed next to his plate. She held a small dead frog in her beak, which she swallowed at once with a flourish and ruffled her feathers, looking haughtily at Harry as though expecting praise. A gaggle of second years shrieked in disgust at Hedwig's display and sprang out of their seats, gathering their things and running off hurriedly to queue for their first class.

Harry stroked her white feathers fondly, chuckling. "Good girl. Been off hunting?"

She had brought him no mail this morning, but Harry hadn't been expecting any – she'd delivered a letter from Lupin just yesterday.

The letter was stowed safely in the bag by Harry's feet, though he didn't need to retrieve it to know what it said – like the one he had received during the summer from Dumbledore before the headmaster had come to pick him up from the Dursleys', he had already committed the words to memory:

Harry,

I hope your first week back at school is going well – try to enjoy yourself as much as you can, though probably your coursework is piling on already. If memory serves, your father was threatening to live out the rest of his life as a stag at this point our sixth year. You see the brilliance, it would be difficult to complete two rolls of parchment on Everlasting Elixirs for Professor Slughorn with only hooves to work with. (How are you finding Potions these days, by the way? I have no doubt how your new professor finds you.)

Molly told me you made Quidditch Captain. Congratulations – you deserve it. Have you scheduled tryouts yet? I want to hear all about them when you do.

I'll soon be busy with a favour for a mutual friend, so my next letter might be delayed. Don't worry about me, I'm perfectly alright. I want you to focus on your studies.

Take care of yourself.

- Remus Lupin

Harry assumed 'a favour for a mutual friend' meant Dumbledore had given him a mission for the Order and, whatever Lupin's reassurances, Harry hoped he would be okay.

He smiled to himself as Hedwig nipped at his fingers affectionately. He'd been hoping Lupin would write, and he was far more pleased than he was willing to admit. There was no longer anyone else outside Hogwarts likely to send him letters, not since Sirius….

Harry mentally shook himself. There was absolutely no use thinking about that.

Anyway it was a shame Lupin's next letter wouldn't come for a while, Harry thought regretfully, his gaze moving down the table again…it might make life a bit easier if his old professor could somehow know to offer advice, without Harry having to ask, on what to do about his strange, newly developed impulse to jinx Dean's-

"Harry!"

Harry gave a guilty start and looked up at Ron, who had already half-risen out of his seat.

"You still with us? C'mon, mate, we'll be late for Defence if you don't get a move on," he said, quickly snatching up another piece of toast. Sure enough, most of the students had already left the Hall; great scraping noises echoed around the room as the last-minute stragglers pushed benches hastily back from tables. Harry caught sight of Hermione near the great oak doors, shuffling along a group of dawdling first years.

Grabbing his bag, Harry swung his legs quickly over the bench and made to follow Ron, but a sharp screech behind him made him turn back. Hedwig was still sat upon the table, looking at him with what could only be described as a stern expression. She nudged his plate with her foot as if to say 'Finish your breakfast!'

Harry rolled his eyes and waved her off impatiently.

She'd been doing that a lot lately.

Harry caught up with Ron and Hermione at the doors to the entrance hall and glanced back just as the last few students hurried past them. Hedwig had gone.

Ron was not the only one whose Defence score was in danger, Harry reflected bitterly a half hour later as he and the rest of the class watched Snape stalk around the classroom, offering advice that was far more insulting than helpful and docking points for incorrect wand movements.

They were continuing to practice nonverbal spells, and Snape's mood was as foul as Harry had ever known it to be. It might have been the fact that not a single person (apart from Hermione, of course, though Snape had not found her success something to be celebrated) had yet to master the simplest of spells without uttering a word; or perhaps Snape was thinking, like Harry, of their detention together Saturday next, and the lesson in which Harry had earned it.

"Switch partners!" Snape barked abruptly.

Although, Harry thought with a hint of satisfaction as Ron stepped away to work with Neville and he turned to square off against Hermione, he was sure he had a fonder memory of that lesson than Snape did.

… "There's no need to call me 'sir,' Professor." …

Hermione had reminded him more than once since then that he ought to watch his tongue in class, but Harry couldn't find it in himself to regret it with Ron, Dean, and Seamus still maintaining that it had been the singularly most savage thing they'd ever heard anyone say to another human being.

"And what, pray tell, are you smirking at, Potter?" demanded Snape, halting on his way past Harry and Hermione and glowering.

"Nothing," said Harry evenly, then after a fraction of a pause added, "sir."

Snape held Harry's gaze for another moment before striding away again, robes billowing behind him as usual. "Ten points from Gryffindor," he threw over his shoulder.

Harry's grip tightened around his wand and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from opening his mouth. Ten points for breathing, more like, he thought as both he and Hermione glared at Snape's retreating back.

What Harry wouldn't give to finally see that great overgrown bat get what was coming to him….

Scowling, Harry turned back to Hermione and redoubled his efforts to produce a Jelly-Legs Jinx without speaking, determined to spite Snape in any way he possibly could.

Lupin's prediction about the sixth years' increased workload had unfortunately proven to be true: by the end of their first week, they had been set so much homework that Harry was unsurprised to see a few of his classmates burst into frustrated tears on more than one occasion as they sat tucked away in quiet corners of the common room or library, frantically reviewing complicated diagrams and attempting to decipher their own hastily written notes.

Transfiguration had become so difficult that not even Hermione fully understood the concepts McGonagall was attempting to teach them these days. Defence, which had always been Harry's favourite subject, was now one of the most dreaded by nearly the entire student body. A great pity, in Harry's opinion, as the curriculum was now more fascinating than ever, but this was effectively cancelled out by Snape, who seemed incapable of mustering any semblance of good temper, or indeed providing any truly useful guidance despite the fact he was now teaching the subject he'd been after for years.

Potions, to both Harry's surprise and Professor Slughorn's unending delight, had suddenly become one of his better subjects.

"I reckon it helps that we don't have Snape breathing down our necks anymore," Ron mused as he, Hermione, and Harry sat doing their Potions homework in front of the common room fire on Saturday evening.

"I reckon you're right," Harry said, moving his finger down a page of his copy of Advanced Potion-Making in search of an appropriate quote to add to his essay. "That, and Slughorn doesn't give me zeros whenever he bloody well feels like it…."

Hermione looked up from her roll of parchment. "Harry, did you write 'add five ounces of African Sea Salt' under step eight or nine?"

Harry blinked at her. Hermione had taken to checking her Potions work against Harry's over the past few days, and it still startled him slightly every time it happened.

"Eight."

"Good…." she nodded, turning back to her own paper. "That's what I've got….."

"I've got it down under step eight, too," Ron mumbled, a hint of annoyance in his voice. Harry glanced over at him and saw that he was scowling at Hermione.

Ron had taken to doing that quite a lot over the past few days, too.

"Hmm?" Hermione hummed absently.

"Nothing," said Ron, but he closed his textbook a tad more aggressively than was strictly necessary and tossed it aside, glaring at a couple of fourth year girls who'd been staring over at them and whispering behind their hands, and reaching instead for a copy of the Evening Prophet someone had left in an empty chair.

A stiff silence fell briefly over the three of them, the only sounds the scratch of quills on parchment and the rustle of pages as Ron flipped through the newspaper.

"Blimey!" He burst out a few minutes later, his irritation apparently forgotten. "These Death Eater loonies get worse every day! They're sick, they are…."

A cold hand seemed to twist Harry's intestines. "What's happened?" he asked quickly.

"'Family of four killed in 'brutal' slaying in Berwick-upon-Tweed'," Ron read aloud, grimacing. "Bloody hell, it sounds like they even tortured the kids…."

"Oh my God," Hermione said tearfully, her hand covering her mouth. She got up and moved around the table to read over Ron's shoulder. She looked sick as her eyes scanned the rest of the article. "That's horrible! How can they possibly think this stuff is…is fun?"

But Harry did not hear Ron's reply.

His fingers tightened reflexively around his quill, and he stared into the fire, seething.

Of course Voldemort and his followers were not above torturing kids.

Harry knew that firsthand.

The chilling reports of Death Eater activity had begun trickling in from every corner of the country. Hogwarts students were receiving more mail than ever, letters from anxious parents checking to make sure their children were safe; Hermione had informed them earlier that Eloise Midgen's father had already come to pull her out of school less than a day ago.

Voldemort was still underground, still working from the shadows, but there was no doubt that the war was on. It was inching slowly into every aspect of their lives, like some kind of creeping, sinister poison.

Harry ran his thumb distractedly along the tip of his quill...

Voldemort had to be stopped.

This thought had begun to dominate most of Harry's waking hours, ever since Dumbledore had finally told him the truth about the prophecy last term…he had to be stopped, before there were more families like the one in the paper, more families like Neville's...and Harry's….

The enormous scale of Voldemort's powers and influence was becoming clearer to Harry every day. Dumbledore seemed confident in Harry's ability to go up against him, even to defeat him; as Ron had pointed out, Dumbledore wouldn't be bothering to give Harry private lessons if he thought Harry was a dead man walking.

But with each new gruesome news story, each rumour passed around in hushed, terrified whispers, each fresh sign that the Wizarding world was gradually being taken over by a gathering darkness, Harry felt more and more powerless to stop it, and lately, once or twice, he had caught himself secretly wondering if they even stood a chance…if he stood a chance, when everything was said and done….

A sudden sting of pain pulled Harry from his thoughts, and he looked down in mild surprise at his fingers. He'd accidentally punctured his thumb with the sharp tip of his quill. Harry watched idly for a moment as the blood welled up into a tiny red bubble, then brought the injured digit to his mouth, nursing it.

Feeling relieved and anxious all at once that he was starting his lessons with Dumbledore tonight, Harry checked his watch and sat up with a jolt, startling Ron and Hermione.

"It's nearly eight," he told them, shoving his book and unfinished essay hurriedly back into his bag. "I'd better get to Dumbledore's, I'll see you later." And Harry left through the portrait hole with Ron and Hermione's assurances that they would be waiting up for him when he got back.

Five minutes and a very close call with Peeves later, Harry had given the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's study the correct password ("Acid Pops!"), ridden the spiral staircase up to the door with the brass knocker, and been told to enter.

"Good evening, sir," said Harry, closing the door behind him. The circular office looked just as it always had; the curious silver instruments were puffing and whirring upon their little tables, the portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses sleeping, or pretending to, in their frames, and Fawkes the phoenix was watching Harry from his perch with pure bright interest.

A sudden sense of awkward embarrassment stole over Harry. The last time he'd been in this office, he had tried his best to destroy quite a lot of its contents.

But Dumbledore was smiling behind his desk, and Harry felt himself relax a little.

"Ah, good evening, Harry. Sit down."

Poor, sad, miserable Merope Gaunt….

Her face swam before Harry's eyes as he made his way back to Gryffindor Tower.

The scene Dumbledore had shown him in the Pensieve had been…well, horrifying.

It had been a bit unsettling to be introduced to Voldemort's family, to see them in the flesh (so to speak, after all it had been inside someone else's memory, he supposed), to see where it was Voldemort had come from. But still more disturbing to Harry had been Marvolo Gaunt's behaviour towards his daughter. In his mind's eye, Harry watched over and over as Marvolo's hands closed around her throat, squeezing till she could no longer breathe, her pale face shining with terror….

Harry's hand rose absently to his neck as the phantom sensation of other, beefier fingers seemed to momentarily press around his own throat, and he was suddenly, viciously glad Marvolo Gaunt had been sentenced to Azkaban….

As Harry turned a corner, a sudden whisper of movement broke through his thoughts of Voldemort's pitiable mother, and he plunged his hand into his robes, fingers curling around his wand before he'd even fully realized what he was doing. He turned sharply about, heart thudding hard against his ribs, and stared into the darkness, wand held tight in his fist, listening hard.

The torches set high into the stone walls gave off a wavering, flickering light that seemed eerie in the stillness of the castle…several seconds of silence passed...

Harry dropped his wand slightly.

He had just come to the conclusion that it must have been one of the ghosts, or possibly Peeves again, when another whisper reached his ears – there was the hiss of a spell, a slight disturbance of air, and Harry instinctively flung himself to the side. He fell, hard, against a statue of Diarmuid the Daring, forcing the air out of his lungs in a great whoosh. He leaned heavily against the statue, struggling to draw breath and looking around wildly, wand still clutched in his hand – but...what...what was he looking for?

Harry straightened up slowly, clutching his freshly bruised ribs. His grip slackened around his wand, arm falling to hang limply at his side.

Why was he holding his wand?

He couldn't remember….

He looked up and down the corridor, but it was still and silent. There was no one here.

Come to think of it, Harry couldn't recall why he was here in this corridor at all. His brow furrowed as he turned slowly on the spot. Which way had he come from?

It was late – shouldn't he be in Gryffindor Tower? Unless...unless he was supposed to be out of bed. But why should that be? Maybe Ron and Hermione would know…he looked around again for them, but they were nowhere in sight.

That was odd.

They were usually with him.

Harry hesitated. Perhaps he should sit down here and wait for them? He stood stock still for a moment, chewing his bottom lip, wishing childishly that someone might appear miraculously to help him.

He decided he ought to just head back to the common room, but as he took a step forward he discovered he wasn't entirely sure which way to go. Had he been coming or going, just now?

A leaden feeling settled sickeningly in his stomach, a thin tendril of panic wrapping around the edges of his brain – how was he going to get back?

But just then a soft, steady voice called behind him.

"Are you lost, Harry?"

Author's Note: For the sake of textual tidiness, I left out the usual indicators so I'll say this here: not every word of this is strictly mine, as some small bits of narration and dialogue in this chapter are taken indirectly from HBP, and I've included two exact quotes.