Chapter one:

I had no idea where I was.

Time slipped in and out; darkness and light alternated in a strange dance I couldn't keep up with. I tried to anchor myself to something, but even my thoughts seemed to slide out of my reach.

The only idea I remember contemplating was that I must be dead. How else could I account for the soft noises and the white lights? I was unable to think beyond that, and it was such a comfort to simply exist—or not exist—in this strange dull fog.

But when my brain came out of the fog—six days later, I was eventually told—everything changed. The noises were sharper. It was as though every footstep, every conversation, was amplified. I could hear disembodied voices bouncing around inside my head and wondered if I had finally gone insane. The soft white lights were now harsh and overbright. But most disconcerting of all was the fact that I was chained to a bed and Albus Dumbledore was staring at me from a nearby chair.

"You are in St. Mungo's Hospital," said Dumbledore, as though reading my mind. His voice was casual, but there was something about his expression that unnerved me. I wasn't sure if I could trust the bizarre situation in front of me as real, and I could only stare blankly back at him. "I do not suppose you will remember being brought here—the transition can be quite a shock."

St. Mungo's.

Why the hell would I be in St. Mungo's?

The lights were too bright and the voices too loud; St. Mungo's was like hell. But more disconcerting was the look in which Dumbledore was watching me. His old face was impassive and blank, but his eyes were sharp and clear. He was looking at me in exactly the same way everyone had in my nightmares.

"Do you recall our last conversation at Azkaban?" he continued.

Just the name made my heart stop beating. The simple mention of that dark black hole sucked the air out of my lungs and I suddenly felt suffocated. How was I not there anymore? Was I dead?

"Do you remember my coming to Azkaban?"

It took me a moment to realize he was asking a question, and I racked my brain for an answer. My thoughts didn't have a clear timeline; everything was blurred and out of place. Before I could come up with a reply, however, Dumbledore spoke again.

"Peter Pettigrew was found several days ago, in perfect health. Evidently life as a pet rat offers its benefits. I came to see you in Azkaban, and asked whether you would be willing to submit to some questions regarding the afternoon in which Peter supposedly died."

Oh. That's right. I remember now.

"And I am here today to determine whether you are still in agreement," Dumbledore added in a pressing tone.

"What about it?"

My voice surprised me. It was obviously my voice, because Dumbledore certainly hadn't spoken, but it sounded nothing like me. One day Dumbledore would tell me how mutinous I sounded, but right now all I could do was marvel that my throat hadn't wasted away into dust.

"You don't have to answer now," said Dumbledore in the same calm and collected voice. "I'm sure the Ministry would like to hear in on this one."

No.

Fuck no.

Panic and anger seized up in me. The emotions were so sudden that I almost felt sick. "I don't want to talk to the Ministry."

"We can wait until you have recovered more fully—"

"They can fuck off," I clarified.

There was a pause in which Dumbledore took a steadying breath and sized me up. His pale eyes were hesitant, watching—looking for some explanation he wasn't going to get. "But you are talking to me," he said pointedly after a long moment. He straightened up in his chair. The lights surrounding him were so bright that Dumbledore almost looked like a ghost. It was hard to see his face clearly.

And the noise.

The constant footsteps, the slamming doors, and inane chatter inside my head was overwhelming. I wanted to just sever my brainstem and cut the lights. I wanted silence.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

It was like having someone invade my mind and control my thoughts. Suddenly I was wrenched into a blown-apart street. Red hair was sprawled out in front of me. Dust fell from the collapsed ceiling like snow, and the air tasted like iron. Somewhere in the distance of my hollow mind was laughter, and the scurry of a single grey rat down a hole. How badly I had wanted to tell someone—anyone—what really happened. For years, while I rotted away in Azkaban, I had wanted someone who would listen to ask me that simple question.

"I will come back tomorrow," said Dumbledore, getting to his feet. As he did so, he set a handkerchief on the bed near my free hand. I stared at it dully, not understanding the meaning of its presence until I tasted salt on my lips.

Somewhere in the distance a door slammed. The lights were over bright before everything fell dark again.