Chapter Two – Monologues

In which Harry asks many questions and receives unpleasant answers. Time is liberally spent to heal, and he meets a rather eccentric healer.

-

Silence is golden, they say. Well, what is silence: the lack of action, the lack of violence – maybe even peace? If that's so, shouldn't I want silence? Wouldn't the person I was and should be...desire silence?

I'm not surprised that the noise of my rather 'violent' reaction earlier brought me attention, given those thoughts. So much for peace and quiet. Though, I suppose bashing my head into a nightstand to shut up the voices in my head may be a tad disruptive to the usual workings of some people's day.

And now someone is there, watching me as I stumble and careen back into my bed. An unfamiliar someone as well. A lack of glasses didn't mean blind, and frankly I've been laid up in Pomfrey's care for so long and on so many occasions that seeing her without my glasses is as good as with. That actually applies to a number of people, to be honest: Hermione, Ron, Luna, Draco, the Headmaster and McGonagall.

Like Pomfrey in her kingdom that was the Hogwart's infirmary, this person moved confidently about, checking something at the end of my bed, walking up and making some rather familiar yet unknown gesture over me. I can't see it, but I imagine a wand there. I could faintly see a narrowing of eyes, as I regarded them with open scrutiny.

"Is there something wrong, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes," I reply, still swallowing to get moisture to my throat. "Water. My glasses," managing to croak out the requests, I lay back, hoping she'll at least help with my thirst.

"I'm afraid your glasses are in the hands of some of our curse-breaking staff, as they have a rather profound enchantment on them," she replies, the form resolving itself into a 'she' by voice and a rather distinct profile. "As for water, one moment."

I blink, which stings as my entire body feels dehydrated. Curse on my glasses? What the blazes? Where the hell am I, and where was Pomfrey or Hermione?

Shortly the woman returned, and helped me to sip the water offered. I try to just bolt down all I could be she patiently held the cup away till I promised to be slow about it. Good thing, as well. I nearly vomited the water onto my sheets after it seared it's way down my throat. "Wha-why?" My sputtering question takes the last of my strength, and I fall back onto the pillows panting, unable to sit up.

Again I'm reminded of why I hate being in the hospital wing, if for not the obvious reason of being injured, but also for being so vulnerable. Here, usually I was not my best, or even able to defend myself. How often could one of Tom's just waltz in, and smother me with a pillow? It's amazing Draco hadn't bothered, but then he was as low on the practical Slytherin side as things got. Seriously, the kid had the cunning of a brick, ambition by the ton to match an ego that could possibly eclipse the sun – which was made even more preposterous by the fact he was even at his best, only mediocre at anything. Maybe that was why he and his bookends got along so well. The crown ponce of Slytherin really wasn't much above their level.

My nurse draws my attention as she simply shakes her head, helping me with another, slower, sip of water. "I can't say yet, as your physician is still figuring out the repercussions of your other issues, and trying to sort out what's happened."

Other issues. My eyes narrow, but I try not to hiss out a sigh at the woman. I have a thousand questions and the energy to maybe ask five. One thing seems more important than the rest, and may lead to those answers as well, "Where's Pomfrey?"

To say the womans demeanor went colder would be an understatement. I wonder, briefly, if she'd had some Dementors in her family tree. "She will not be attending you, here at St. Mungo's." Turning on her heel, she spares me another look, softening her posture a bit for what I could see. I could imagine her smiling a little, apologetically as she added with a less hostile tone, "Your doctor will be with you shortly," before leaving.

St. Mungo's. Well that didn't bode well for the question of severity. Still, I wonder why not Pomfrey and Hogwarts, as it seemed every other of my injuries from stubbed toe to cracked skull was handled there. The obvious reason I could guess would be that Pomfrey was either too busy, unavailable or that my condition too severe. That worried me, almost as much as losing my memory temporarily to whatever had happened once we reached... A blank spot in my memory crept up, much like an elephant. Where had we gone after the meeting?

That pushed a sudden spike of apprehension through me. What the blazing hell did happen? I remember the meeting with Narcissa, that utterly preposterous counter-demand and... then the hospital. At least I think it was the hospital I woke up in... "Damn it."

At least I'd drank enough water to swear properly.

Alright, time to take stock. I'm alone, in St. Mungo's, wearing...

What the hell is this?

Looking down under the sheets, my eyes take in a formless, coarse, white smock or long apron looking thing with little blue Pixies littering it, flitting about madly. I'm suddenly recalling lessons with Lockhart and smirk, wondering if I could stun my gown into submission.

"Merlin's balls," laying back, I try to let my head settle after the dizziness of watching the things a few moments wore off. A vague memory of a hospital stay, complete with gown flits through my mind, and the smock I'm wearing begins to make sense. Another memory of what the back of these things looks like – and lacks – makes me groan and run a hand through the bird's nest that is my hair. Christ I need to do a grooming charm.

Hold up, wait a minute... I backtrack and replay that thought and wonder a moment. Grooming charm? Have I ever done a grooming charm? Have I ever been in a real hospital? Most of me thinks, "No, of course not, I've never learned one, but I think I've heard one of the guys mentioning them before," while a small, barely heard voice counters with, "How the hell do you think we started notching wands so early? Certainly not by the 'subtle science and exact art' of dunking your head in a cauldron of cooking oil like that git Snivellus."

Despite chuckling at the image, I wonder... where did that come from? Hospital... I know for a fact I've never been to St. Mungo's and that I've never worn this kind of gown at Hogwarts in the infirmary. And 'notching wands'?

Shagging, pup. Merlin you need to get out more, Sirius's exasperation was apparent, but it had a sad tone.

Again I set my vision to spots and bright colors by shaking my head so hard I can practically hear my brain bashing against the sides of my skull. "Ok. No reason to get panicky. I'm just... dealing with his death very, very badly. I keep hearing his voice because I want... I wanted him to be around. I wanted a family, and he was my Godfather. And maybe I'm in denial. Or something." Something!

Once my dizziness and nausea from trying to unseat my skull pass, I swing out of this gurney and onto the floor, wobbling in place a moment. Merlin I feel weak, how long have I been here? Probably need to shave-

"Damn it, do NOT make me go back to the nightstand," I snarl, hands pressing in at my temples hard. I don't need to shave, because I've never shaved, and that's because I've never had a beard that grew so fast I ended up with a five o'clock shadow by three PM. Getting nothing but silence in reply, I draw in a steadying breath and look around, trying to locate a few key things that seem to be missing.

I feel like I'm losing myself. Need to find me.

Clothes, wand glasses. Glasses first because that'd help me see the rest. Glasses... right curse-breakers, so that's a no. Wand... wand? Here wand... damn it. There's no way my wand is here, because there's little of anything for it to be on or in. I'd hoped my vantage from the bed was just limited, but the room, once standing, was as barren as I'd already seen. No desk, no closet, no... "Oh you are shitting me."

No bathroom.

Big white box, with a bed and a nightstand to bludgeon myself with when the voices get out of hand. Taking a flying leap I try that trick I did back when the spooks were trying to suck the stupid out of Dudley, "Lumos!"

I try the spell a few more times, scanning the room for the possibility of a disillusionment on the furniture or closet, but get nothing. I even try a wandless summoner but... well that's really not working for me. Can't even feel the familiar tingle and flow of magic. Too bad too, that one has some real potential... A snicker distracts me as I picture the havoc a wandless summoner cast on the knickers of one of Draco's little flock of witch fangirls, in the Great Hall, cut off mid way leaving them out between the tables. Or maybe cast just so they end up in front of the little ponce...

My hand flies up and slams into my forehead, palm impacting my brow, "Where the hell did That come from?!" Now, given I wasn't exactly blind to girls – Hermione had proven that the night before... or was it some nights ago? Nevermind! I'm not a eunuch, but what the hell?! Pranks and jokes on the Ferret were one thing, but... Why hadn't I thought of that before? I mean it was a rather elegant and simple plan, unlikely to backfire-

I settle back on the bed and blink at the far wall. My pranks and jokes had been really tame considering, and usually only happened at all to get further along with things that had to be done. Ron, the twins and I could have really caused a stir if we'd gone down that path, working on the female population as well. A sudden claw of terror grips me as I realize precisely why I've never considered it – Hermione. If we got caught, either by staff or her, that'd be the end of... I swallow a knot in my throat.

No wandless summoning of knickers in my future. Nosir.

While my mind was going back and forth on the virtues and dangers of 'practicing' my wandless magic on the dear Gryffindor chaser team, the doctor that my nurse mentioned managed to show up. Well, my guess is the somewhat stocky man is a doctor, as he's wearing white and there's something rather reflective on his head. I could really use my glasses about now...

"I see you're up and about Mr. Potter," The man says. I have to give him credit, he's got a stunning grasp of the obvious. "My name is Nigel Williams, resident specialist in dark magic recovery. How are you doing today?"

Feeling an irrational spike of anger, I roll my head around on my shoulders and level a glare at the man. "Well enough," I say, guarding my expression. The man seems to still be waiting for something, and my eyes narrow. "Up but not about, considering," I grind out, wondering why I'm so irritated at the man, considering he's a doctor. Considering what Hermione said about an attack. Considering I'm hearing the voice of my dead Godfather and can't seem to shut him up.

I can't see the man's face, but I get the impression of a smile. He moves a lot like Poppy, I notice. You get used to people's body language after a while, and it's frighteningly easy to see sometimes how open most are with their emotions and thoughts. Being quiet has the effect of letting your mind focus on other things, than what you say next, and for me it's been body language. You learn how to read people quick when it's the difference between sleeping with a little food or sleeping off bruised ribs, over a noticed snatch for crumbs. Slight bounce on the heels, arms going slack but clasped, hands around wrists. Slight jerk of the torso, bob of the head. He's stifling a laugh. "Yes, the room isn't precisely the most... furnished. That's mostly for your protection."

"From?" I won't lie. The anger lasted just long enough to exhaust me somewhat. Now I'm just tired, somewhat scared, a little lost and wondering what the hell is going on. The mood swings are starting to take a toll.

The pleasant demeanor drops, like someone had cut the strings holding it up. Sighing, the man comes a bit closer and drops a tiny block of wood on the floor, by sound. A moment later he's transfigured it into a chair and is sitting, facing me. "Are you aware that your physical condition is somewhat... suspect?"

I bite back my laughter after one or two short barks. "You could say that I've been suspect of it for some time."

"Why have you never sought out St. Mungo's?"

Leveling a gaze at the man, I feel about as weary as the room was featureless. "Honestly? I don't know. Hogwarts was... sanctuary. I've been so used to Pomfrey's care, that it's just never entered my mind."

The man blinked. "But," pausing he seemed to consider me hard a moment. "Your companion mentioned you had a complicated background," when I stiffened, he held up a hand, calming me. "Relax. She gave us no details – despite our inquiry.

"Are you muggle-born? Is that why you never came to us?"

"No," sighing, I just sit. There's no desire in me to go over the recent and recently resolved issue of the Dursleys. It was over. Done. Or try to reason out why I never came here. I had the hospital wing of the castle, why would I need St. Mungo's? I voice my next query to the man, "Why does it matter?"

Considering me with a tilted head, I curse again at my lack of glasses. "Because you've acquired several issues and injuries that simply are beyond a simple school healer's capabilities."

A cool wind seems to have slipped up my back, and I know it has nothing to do with the lack of material there. I don't like where this conversation is going, and am realizing that there are other people who are going to like it even less. My reaction, that is. "I'm afraid I don't understand," my words are ice-rimed. I'm breathing winter, when I look back to the man, centering my glare at darkening pools that indicate his eyes. "Explain."

He does. In detail, but with pauses as I stand up and pace slowly about the room, my mind's state unable to simply allow me stillness. I can tell there's more to this as well, but he does a good job of diffusing me before I go up like a bomb. Three of my fractures – acquired during Quidditch games or practices – never healed fully. Malnutrition complications, that my starving then gorging at Hogwarts has only worsened. That one seems to have negatively affected my growth – big surprise. I imagine my father was a tall, lanky but capable man, and if the Dursleys had understood anything, it was intimidation. Knowing I had that potential in me, they'd do whatever it took to squash it. I shake off the bitterness and focus on the man's words again. Weakened growth potential of my magical core, which they don't really think is able to be remedied. That one took a while to calm down after...

Then he drops the bomb on my head. "Are you... do you know anything about your scar?"

I turn from my pacing and level a look at the man that sends him scooting across the room. Yeah, we're not in a good mood here, "What do you mean? I know a lot about it. What do you know?"

Regaining his composure, the man straightens his smock and robes a moment. "There are... very complex ailments. Magical backlashes and strange things that happen in our world every day. Some magics are powerful enough to cause lasting, permanent changes, damage and effects in people, and when those go wrong, or right, the results are sometimes uncertain..." he says, before heaving a sigh. "Let me be frank, Mr. Potter.

"We've observed your 'conversations' through the rooms monitors and warding. We're not ignorant to exceedingly dark or light magics. We are likely the only institution outside of the continent that has as strong a background in soul magic injuries, thanks to the last war," pausing, his voice somewhat thick with emotion for some reason, the man motions for my bed, silently asking me to sit. I refuse. He continues. "The original trace magics we found from the scar indicate you'd had a fragment of a soul, trapped within your own."

I sit. Hard. I know... who's. I can't think of any other, more logical way to explain it now. All the visions. The pain. The Parselmouth ability. Tom's ease at possessing me. "Voldemort," I whisper, but then something else clicks. "Had?"

If the man flinched at the name, I missed it. "Had. The trace shows... damage. A tear, that isn't healing well, in the fabric of your self that we've come to identify as the soul. It's a complex art, in mapping and detecting alone, something involving auras, your magical core, the natural flows of your body and the way your mind behaves," pausing, the man heaves a breath. "Whatever happened a few weeks, maybe months ago, tore that fragment loose, and there's now another... something, there."

Sirius.

You son of a bitch.

My hand snaps up to my forehead and I run a slow finger along the jagged line. "I... think I know. Oh..." The world spins a bit, but I shake it off. "That's... a lot to think about."

"There's more."

I blink up at the man. More? He's joking. He has to be joking...

Clearing his throat in a way that screamed 'I really want to be somewhere else', he regarded me sadly. "There was by all appearances, massive, fatal damage done to your soul, indicative of the killing curse. It's the nature of the thing... it tears and undoes the bindings between the things that make up what we think of as the soul. There are traces of a binding spell, a massively dark and immoral binding spell that used the material of another life essence to shield and ensure your own survival."

"What? What..." the blood wards? Could he means Dumbledore? I start to look around the room frantically, something feeling wrong, fundamentally wrong but the damned doctor clears his throat again.

"Your mother." The room spins. I sit – was I standing? I'm on the floor... the cold tiles seeping their chill into me. "Whatever she did... it made sure you survived. But it cost her, and you something... terrible.

"Harry, I... don't know how to say this," frustrated the man reaches up and runs a hand through his hair. I see his skin, how pale it is, almost as white as his hair. Will my hair be that color, I distantly wonder, after so many horror stories? "You didn't survive that curse. Not in any way that we'd describe as such. What dwells in you, is more your mother's essence than what we could identify as Harry Potter."

I'm... who? What? There's a quiet and grateful sweep of relief when the noise in my ears and head dull and fall away as blackness sweeps up and over me.

-

When I wake back up, I'm strapped down, in a different room. This one's... colder. The walls have details, I can see a door, but it feels more... antiseptic. Cleaned of life. That scares me more than a little, above and beyond my initial panic at being unable to move. I remember Nigel's words, the meaning behind them. Protect me from myself. I begin to appreciate the effort.

"Harry?" Hermione.

She's close enough so I don't need glasses, which is a relief. Then she leans over and I see her deep eyes, deep like the shade of a forest in the morning or early night, and in them... something that stabs at me. She's afraid. Of me. I look away and close my eyes so hard it makes my lip curl in a grimace, as something feels like it snaps inside me. It feels like wet rope, in my chest. Pulled too tight and snapping, strand by strand at the strain, each fiber echoing as they part.

She knows. He's told her and now she's... I can't even begin to sort out the mess in my head but one thing reverberates. "You don't have to be here."

I feel her hand brush at my hair. At my forehead – I jerk away, hard. The bed I'm strapped to rattles with the motion; her hand draws back. "But... Harry-"

"There is no Harry!" I scream, my throat raw after, and a pressure like all the air in the room pushing back down on me. "There never was!" My magic is trying, desperately to get out, to coil loose and do something to release the pressure inside me trying to get out but it's like the room, the air is fighting me. Through it all I hear her. Some perverse comedian decides that I need to see, despite my closed eyes, or maybe I've opened them and just can't come to grips with it. Maybe I'm insane.

Hermione has drawn back, hand over her mouth and eyes huge, staring, watery. She doesn't blink, or look away from me, despite the distance. Tears well and fall, huge and glittering, down her cheeks. She turns and looks like she's going to run away but stops like something, like she ran into, something. Swallowing hard I force my eyes open and watch the aurora play over me, fading down as my magic fades back and the restraining wards relax as well. It would have been rather pretty if I hadn't been in fear of my very self at that moment. The conversation with the doctor gnaws at me, taking great pieces of me with it, tearing. Ripping. Shaking the bloody portions before discarding them to seek more.

She's biting back tears, her own hiccuping breath and something else as she faces away, hair lifting slightly as the wind of the room's and my own magic quieten. "That's a lie."

Panting, eyes unfocused I wonder if it was her, if... "That's a lie!" Her scream rips at me, as she spins and is back over me, glaring, sobbing down at my face as it's held paralyzed.

Her hand comes up, cradles the curve of my cheek. The rise and edge of my cheekbone, the hollow below, traced by her thumb. "You are you," her conviction raining down on me, rolling down her cheeks. "I know you. I've been with you for years. Does knowing... what makes up the person I know change it? Don't you see that? What difference does it make! Knowing! It changes nothing!" I see her saying these things to me but there's a wall in my mind that the words can't pass. I'm in my tower, she's by the gate, and I won't let her in. The monster isn't out there. All the while she's shaking all the denials that are welling up in my throat back, denying them just as strongly. "You are you," she says again softly.

Then my world disappears, as all the focus in the universe, all the ideal of me, focuses on the featherlight, desperate but gentle press of her lips to mine. My eyes are open, but I can't see... only feel. She's been worrying at her lips with her teeth – I can tell, the edges of the bitten skin there rougher. I feel her heartbeat, in that slight contact.

And then she's fleeing from the room, but not from me. Not from me. That I know.

-

Places like this, situations like it have a way to destroy your sense of time. How long ago did I get here? When was Hermione here? Why haven't I seen anyone else? What day is it? I know by the time I needed a drink, something to ease the dryness and unpleasant sticking ache in my throat that mine was blown to hell. I didn't begrudge it, really, the lack of any sign that one moment was as good as the previous, or that the one prior would have any bearing on this one. It was liberating. I had... I had no limits, on how long I could take to sort myself out. Given that, some part of me clung to that idea.

I clung to Hermione as well. The things she said.

One day I'll wise up and realize the girl really is usually right. With a sigh I stifle the urge to reach up and trace my scar.

Padfoot's voice creeps in from the sides of my mind, How are you doing, pup?

It's been... days? Possibly. I can't really tell anymore. I sleep when I can't stay awake and when I do I feel... something in the room has changed when I wake up. Still though, I'm strapped to this bed. Still held down. They, whoever they are, are making me think by giving me no other option. I've used it, having little choice. I've made progress getting used to this idea, this wild, mind-shattering truth that I'm not really me at all. I'm some strange concoction – like a potion. One part Harry, Two parts Lily, add killing curse, a dash of Voldemort, simmer for sixteen years. Skim off the Voldemort, add Padfoot and let chill. Serve and enjoy. I chuckle at the way my new – is it new? – sense of humor unfolds. I'm getting there.

Of course, being so intimately connected to me, or rather being a somewhat still... undiluted? Undissolved? Bah! Sirius is still separate in these conversations. Maybe it had something to do with that 'badly healing wound' that the doctor mentioned, but he hears my thoughts well enough. As much as you may worry on just being some strange amalgam of you and your mother and Voldemort, I must ask: Why?

"Why what?" I reply, lapsing into a silent conversation with my former-currently-cranially-cohabitant-Godfather. "We seriously need some new pronouns."

Snorting, Sirius' voice slips around me again, Worry on it at all. You didn't know this was even the case till recently. What does it change now?

What indeed. "You don't think I'm just... well a shadow of Lily, thrown into a new body and raised by her bloody horrid aunt?"

I knew Lily, well enough I think, Padfoot's thoughts reply, a pause after. I'd say, as best answer as I can to that question, what is it that makes a person who they are?

"You're talking about experiences shaping someone. Nature versus nurture."

You've spent too much time around Granger, he replies with a chuckle. But yes, in some ways. Hell, even a right bastard like Tom would be different if he were given a different view.

"But that's just it, Sirius!" I close my eyes, trying to keep my thoughts together as best I can. There's a lot of noise... turbulence inside me. I know why – all my life I've believed me to be myself, and now there's this looming doubt there, in the room of my mind. Memories, ideals, opinions are all coming under the microscope. What part of Lily said this? What part of Tom was that? Where's Harry?

Where's Harry?

"You three had already had a life. Had your time and experiences. Your lives were already lived. Who you were was shaped," that's the worry, then. I've finally given it words, a face and reality of it's own outside of formless fear. These three people, adults, strong and rigid in their convictions and beliefs, were the shapes that now formed me. Though Voldemort's fragment had been ripped free and was, apparently, lost with the body of Sirius, he'd been a part of me as long as Lily's had. Was that sudden lack why I felt the need to break free of my home, rather than simply suffer there? Was it Lily's compassion and fierce protectiveness that kept me from simply lashing out at the Dursleys? Some knowledge that at heart, there was a redeeming quality to them? Or that she was protecting me by inaction, to give them nothing to use against me.

I shake my head hard. Too many questions... "What, who am I?"

Harry Potter, Sirius replies calmly.

"Damn it, I'm serious here!"

Padfoot laughs like a storm. In some ways, literally!

"Nightstand!" I snap, but fall back from my straining, knowing too well it's an empty threat. A grin slips along my features and instead I picture Molly Weasley and Sirius in what can only be explained as the most unforgiving display of teenage hormones gone inexplicably wrong and out of control I can possibly imagine.

SWEET MORGANA, NO! I feel Padfoot's... self, that small, knotted core of undiminished memory and personality flee the tableau in my mind. As quickly, I banish it. Shivering slightly at my... inwardly focused sadism. With a chuckle I recall one of Hermione's books, and my light, half-voiced laughter becomes gales of body-shaking bellows.

"We are our own most loyal demons," I wheeze, turning my head to the side. A peace, real this time settles over me. Seizing it I drift off to sleep.

-

I can't imagine how much time passes, as I'm sorting out my mind. Those endless, featureless days that pass while the only thing I have is my own internal landscape to explore. The lack of any options forces me there, any time I wake. Maybe I should be bitter, or scared, or feel wronged by it, but the truth is I need this. I know it, and so rather than rail helplessly at the circumstances I make the best of it.

I try to find Harry.

One day when I wake, the restraints are gone. I'm feeling weak, but not from a lack of nourishment or harrowing mental strain. I just need food and to move around like a living body and not a stubborn, warm cadaver. It seems someone's predicted my needs, and there on the ever-present nightstand lay a tray of what looks like some kind of grain bar and a milkshake. Sniffing at the slightly sticky things, my nose wrinkles. While not really smelling bad, they do have an odd aroma, something like yeast and raisins. Putting the thing back down I rise and stretch, noting for the first time in a long while that the room isn't hazy, out of focus.

Impulse has me reaching up, foundering about my head for the glasses I'd always worn, finding them absent. I blink, look across the room, rubbing at my eyes again and waiting for my natural focus to resume, but the room stays clear, sharp. "The devil is going on," I murmur, eyeing the 'milkshake' in the same way as the bars, wondering what this latest find meant.

My hunger had nearly gotten the better of me by the time the door opened.

What I'd expected was a doctor, or nurse. I hadn't seen anyone else, really. In fact I'd not really seen any of the St. Mungo's staff I'd thought would be teeming in a hospital setting, which threw me off for a few days till I began enjoying the solitude. Maybe I was in the crazy ward – honestly it fit. I mean, I could be a danger to people around me... though I doubted it.

The time let me get my head sorted out, or at least lay the groundwork. I can't pretend to be one hundred percent, but Padfoot's voice now doesn't send me into histrionic fits.

The nightstand is grateful.

Those idle thoughts are left behind when a mass of brown hair attached to a rather intent ball of repressed emotion slams into me, and barrels us both back onto my cot. With a muttered 'oof' and a groan I blink up at deep, rich brown eyes that threaten to drown me in their depths, and the smile, hesitant and growing below them. "Hermione," I say stupidly, somewhat surprised at the catch in my voice.

Her smile grows a bit, "Hey," she says simply, before burying her head in my shoulder.

I don't know... why. Why she insists on staying by me, like I'm the last raft out at sea, and she adrift. I also wonder some times, at my own very similar behavior. My arms drift up, back to where instinct had set them when she dove into me, later falling back to my side. "She's warm," I think quietly, closing my eyes and sighing, breathing deeply, the scent of vanilla and books making me smile. We stay like that for what feels like hours, and I'm nearly nodding off when she pulls back, looking at me with half-closed eyes.

We regard each other quietly a few minutes. It's not uncomfortable, we've always been better at not speaking and just being around one another than she and Ron were. A comfort in simple closeness. I've missed it. "You got comfortable, laying about all day," she remarks, apparently mirroring my thoughts, and I chuckle. I know I've not grown soft – it's just her way of saying she's missed me.

I sit up, as she hops up and looks about the room, stretching, getting blood back to my lazy body. I see more now, and it worries me. She's thinner, her skin paler. There's a hollowness to her eyes I don't like, and where her hair was always a curled, unruly mass like mine, now it lacked even minor luster. "How long has it been?" My question stills her, and the smile I'm wearing falters.

She turns and faces me, the face presented the one she's so used to taking when something unpleasant needs doing. I've seen it since first year. There's a tautness about her eyes, a tension in her face. Refusal to react, to show her own opinions of what must be done. "A month," she says simply, and waits.

My mind slows, shuts down. A month. I've been... where have I been? Is this really a hospital? I shake my head, clearing the sound of my blood rushing out of my ears. They... whoever they were, gave me time, time I needed to stop being so bloody out of sorts. "Well... that I can somewhat understand. I guess my next question is, where am I?"

Shaking her head slowly, Hermione returns to my side, sitting on the cot. "I don't know. After I explained a few things to the doctors, they called Amelia, and between the two of them set up this situation practically the night I took you to St. Mungo's. I don't even know, really." Smiling ruefully, she held up a small keychain. "Timed portkey."

"But... why?"

"Dumbledore." I blink, as she meets my gaze. I've heard her furious, babbling in excitement, and stiff with fear... but never quietly venomous. I don't know what to think about this new side of the girl I counted my closest friend. "I knew that after that mess at the Order meeting, Dumbledore would try something. Try to send you to the Dursleys, or take you to Hogwarts... Something. We never gave him the chance." Sighing, she tucked her feet up and under herself, reminding me of all the times we'd sat, chatting, talking in the common room of Gryffindor tower. "He had tracking charms in your glasses, and a compulsion in them. Also a mild curse, but the whole thing was so tricky. Once you got to St. Mungo's, he was a minute behind. Once they figured out what was going on, you became the next big secret."

I blink dumbly at her, again. "My glasses? Secret?"

Nodding, she stifles a sardonic little laugh. "You've slipped though the cracks. Supposedly your treatment for some sudden illness has had you rushed off in secret to special healers. At least, that's what Rita's telling everyone," she replies, making me chuckle. "As for the glasses... it would seem innocent enough, really. The initial scan on you nearly missed them, but I was so frantic they let me in with you. When they cast the medical charm, your head lit up like a blaze... I had to think fast about your scar but then that old man, the doctor said and guessed enough that I... well I thought I could trust him. I mean, he barely looked at you and was telling us things Dumbledore hadn't even hinted at yet," she adds, voice gone cold. Looking away suddenly, Hermione's cheeks colored darkly. "I'm sorry."

"No, no don't be," I reply, trying to gather all my thoughts like snitches scattering on the wind. "So he knew something about it already?"

"Apparently it's really blazing obvious to healers that aren't being paid off," the young witch spat, this time with less than repressed anger. "They found so much... so many things that had never been properly treated. And we trusted them!"

She buries her head in my shoulder, fists clenched about my sparse gown, reminding me with a flare of anxiety the thing's thin nature. Swallowing, I wrap an arm about her, as she shakes. I don't know if it's from anger, sadness or some other strong emotion.

It's so unlike her, I think quietly. So angry, so betrayed by those people she'd trusted – and on my account. I know well the limits of loyalty: how far one can be pressed before those bonds seem to snap. Hermione on the other hand seemed to have a well of respect and trust that never dried up, for those people that taught and were part of the magical world she loved so much. Not knowing how to comfort her, not knowing even if I should, I fix on the one thing that seems so wrong, so unusual about all this, that we'd barely touched on. "Hermione, tell me about the glasses. You just said said something about a scan..."

"Oh, sorry," she murmured around a sniffle. Taking a breath, to steady herself it seems, she begins to explain. "After the charm, I notice something wrong. I mean, I'm no healer, but I thought, 'If it's his scar, then shouldn't the charm make it glow? Not your whole head?'. So, I asked the healer, that old gentleman that's been looking after you.

"He got an odd look, and asked me how long you've worn those specific glasses." Hermione laughed, and I heard a healthy dose of self depreciative scorn in it, "Brilliant Hermione Granger – who's parents both wear glasses. Who's parents every year get their eyes checked, and at least once during my time knowing you, changed prescriptions – and they're adults!" Sighing, she leaned back and seemed to stare off, lost in thought. "So he did the check again, with the glasses off."

I had an idea where this was going, by now. "So, the glasses had the... whatever the charm found?"

"Mostly, yes," she answered. "Well, the glasses had a compulsion charm on them, for you to wear them, and the curse which is what showed up then."

"Well, that almost makes sense, considering I need them. Still, why?"

"That's just it," Hermione seemed to get irritated here, and her hands played at the hemline of her blouse. "You don't."

I'm tired of looking like a fish around her, but this bit of information just confuses me. "I don't understand. I've always needed glasses."

Her brown eyes found mine, and I worried about the guilt I saw there. "But Harry, you don't now, do you?"

The gears all ground together then. "Compulsion. Tracking charm. Curse... my vision?"

"Yeah," her voice small, she stood and paced about the room slowly, much as I felt the need to do. I'd join her, if not for how little energy I had. "It's a nice little setup. Keep your vision bad, so you need the glasses, so the tracker is always there. The whole thing resets itself once you put the glasses on."

"That bloody..." I really need to get something to eat. We've barely been talking for ten minutes and I feel winded and stretched thin. Something to settle the bile in my gut would be welcome as well. "So, not to completely derail the conversation, but what had me in St. Mungo's to begin with? I remember you mentioning an attack? Was it Death Eaters?"

Hermione turned and blinked at me a moment, before raising a hand to her mouth, looking for all the world like she'd forgotten something, and just realized it. Then she blushed scarlet. "Oh, no... Oh. I can see why you'd think that, with meeting Narcissa and Draco. No, nothing like Death Eaters," she said, laughing quietly a moment, blushing furiously.

I stared, watching as she fidgeted and seemed utterly unwilling to proceed with an explanation. Finally, the curiosity won out and I put voice to my question, "What happened?"

"Kreacher had... well the portkey took us back, but he'd set it to the master bedroom."

Made sense, I reasoned, but still something-

They appeared with a small pop in the main bedroom of Grimmauld, the one he'd awoken in before. The same bedroom that had once housed Buckbeak, later renamed Witherwings. Currently, it was his bedroom.

It was also currently decorated and organized much like a bridal suite. The walls were lines with white draperies, diaphanous things that floated even in the small movements of air they made walking around. The floor had been lined with an odd glitter than didn't come off, while there were petals of some flower leading them to the bed. Along it as well, there were petals, strewn about on the exposed sheets. "What the-"

With a pop, Kreacher arrived, bowing low to them both. "Master and Missus, welcome home."

Looking about, I wonder what the crazed elf has done. I also don't miss the addresses. "Kreacher, why is the room like this?"

The elf tilted his head and regarded them curiously, "The Master shared his bed with the Missus last night. Kreacher assumed this would mean a deepening of your relationship, with your long history."

Hermione looked between me and the elf with something like horrified shock. I imagine, given a mirror, we could compete on who looked the more dumbfounded.

Then the implications of what the elf was implying hit me. I spun to look at Hermione who had slowly turned to look at me, cheeks glowing a rather impressive cherry red. "I had no idea!-"

"-I didn't mean to give anyone that impression," she blurted. We spent a solid minute trading denials, apologies, vague noises that could have been answers or just nervous panic before a pressure started building up in my head. Though I was familiar with the scar and how it in turn reacted to Voldemort, this seemed... different.

Clutching at my temples, I fell down to the floor on my knees, vision going white all over...

The memory, lost till now, leaves me blind and with an aching head. I grunt and run a hand along my forehead, the unmarred side, while Hermione comes and lays a hand along my shoulder.

Blinking, I shake off the memory. "No, no Death Eaters. I was having an 'attack' like the ones I had with the scar," she nodded sadly as her blush rose and looked away. I make a point not to embarrass either of us again, with that memory. "So rather than turn to Dumbledore and his, you brought me to St. Mungo's? Why? You've... I'm sorry but it's always seemed like you trusted them. Why now?"

With her back to me, it was... odd, listening to Hermione speak. She always was so adamant about her topics, never nervous, unsure like this. "They said that all the travel you'd done had upset the... scar," she said, dodging my question for a moment. "That after a while, it just shook things up enough for it to start behaving like an injury again."

With a sigh, she looked to me, and the walls came down. The tension in her face evaporated and was replaced by a sadness I never wanted to see in her, "As for why? You. You're why. What you said..." sighing, she crossed her arms and turned away, holding herself tightly. It seemed such a lonely, unsure motion, and that stabbed at me. It hurt, to see her so unsettled. I struggled, fighting the weakness of a month's time convalescing to rise as she continued, "The Firebolt... that Sirius got you. I remember that day as being, well. My first lesson, in people. Outside of books and cleverness." The wry tone in Hermione's voice made me wince, and to answer it I struggled more, unsure but standing finally.

"You had reasons. Of all the people that could, or should be questioning Dumbledore's actions, you've got the most right. I've sat by all this last year watching you get spat on by the Ministry's little toad Umbridge, the Prophet, your own house... all because you were telling the truth. So, this time, rather then run to them I trusted... you." With that word, I wrapped my arms around her. Hermione stiffened, startled but only for a moment. Her hand, small and warm tucked into mine as my arms crossed her own.

"Then the healers got to work looking you over... and that cemented it. I never want you to be subject to that horrible man again," I remember the doctor's words as well, the road map of my history played out in scars and healed bones. Brief, outlining my previous injuries to be sure, but now so much made sense.

Why, despite the severity of my injuries I'd never been here. Why, despite how badly my relatives had treated me, it never seemed to matter. Why suddenly my eyesight was wrong one day, and I 'found' my glasses, that miraculously fit and that I'd never been without, even with them broken, for a day since. My arms tightened around her small form, as I buried my face in the mane of her hair.

She believed me. Trusted me. Above them, above Dumbledore.

Maybe all this, all the work and worry that I'd put into striking my own path was worth it, after all.

Still, now there was a larger issue. Hermione made a small, unhappy sound as I untangled myself from her. "The scar... what happened doesn't bother you? Knowing that?"

Hermione turned, looking up at me, our heights similar but I was just a bit taller, still. "I told you before. You are you. I've known you for five years," her turning left my arms around her. Any other day I'd wonder out our closeness, how easily I fell into the habit of keeping her close, but for now I was simply grateful. We'd always been comfortable around one another, more so I realize, than with Ron or anyone else. She'd broken down many of my barriers through sheer stubborn willpower. Having spent so much time in my own head. Her next words though stall all these happy musings, "Do you want proof?"

"Proof?" I raise a brow, as she gets a smile that makes me worry slightly.

"Yes," she continues, sighing expansively and bringing our bodies back into slight, but intimate contact. My arms were still loosely wrapped around her, from where they'd been crossed with her own before, but now they circled her, resting along her back. With her sigh though, I realize with a start that my gesture to relieve her discomfort had possibly backfired, causing an even more uncomfortable situation – I hadn't intended on embracing my best friend in a backless slip of cloth and certainly hadn't intended on feeling through that same pointless garment the rather obvious truth of something I'd discovered in fourth year.

Hermione was very much a girl.

With an embarrassed noise and jolt I hop back, setting us both off balance, landing me on the floor and wincing at what will likely be a bruise, come morning.

And now she's laughing at me. "There's your proof," she say between giggles, walking over, offering me a hand up. Shortly I'm sitting back on the cot, with her curling up along my side. I can't help but stare incredulously at her, as she lays her head along my shoulder with a content sigh, wrapping her arms around one of mine. After a moment, she looks up, "If you weren't the Harry I know, you wouldn't have panicked there. If you weren't my Harry, you wouldn't have gotten embarrassed by your best friend being an utter girl at you," there's something sad in her eyes, and it pulls a small frown into my expression. Seeing it, she seems to loose some of the smile, already fading, that she wore as well. "I'm not worried," she adds after a moment. "You're still the same old Harry."

-

She'd finally managed to talk me into eating the weird sticky bars once she stopped laughing at me. I admit her reasoning was sound enough, but I still had doubts. Its impossible not to, but she understands I'll need time, understands it without me telling her. Not wanting to dwell on the sadness I'd seen in her eyes, I concentrate on the 'food' that had been left. "These aren't so bad," and they weren't. Strange, filling but the taste wasn't something I could really say I enjoyed.

"They're healthy, but... well not made specifically for flavor I suppose," she mumbled, biting off the corner of one and chewing thoughtfully. "I think they're something to help you recover."

"Recover," I mumble, staring down at the thing in my hand. "What happened, while I was here?"

Hermione looked up, then away. "The Order hasn't gotten into Grimmauld if that's what you're worried about. The goblins arrived the next day when the staff here ran me off to sleep a while," She was fidgeting with her hem again, and then it hit me.

I had no idea where Grimmauld was. I knew it existed... still had memories but couldn't... place it. It felt like recalling a movie I'd seen years before. Memories and impressions without any substance or definition. "The Fidelius!"

"They cast it that night. I'm sorry, Harry, they needed a secret-keeper and you were here-"

"No! It's ok, really. I think I would have insisted it be you anyway," grinning, shaking my head I relax. There's a part of me that really doesn't like the old house, or rather doesn't like what I remember of the place, but still, it's what I have. I won't mourn Privet drive, not now or any other time, but it was always there. It had been home for over a decade and now... I realized part of what had kept me so unsettled, adrift here as my mind mended was that knowledge that after, where I'd go wasn't a certainty. Knowing it was safe now eased something inside me that I couldn't name.

After all, I couldn't stay at the school. Hogwarts... would put me again in the hands of Dumbledore. Did I want that? Could I trust him, with what I knew? With the memories of his failures to me, and more importantly, to Sirius? He'd spend my entire life planning and securing me in some way... maybe it was, as he said, for the Greater Good. But whose?

Who was he to decide those things? What trust had he earned, from me, to allow him that grasp on my life? Sirius bubbled up while my thoughts were scattered, offering his own voice to the noise, He's yet to really do anything for your good, or mine. Don't lose your resolve, Harry. You know what's best. It's not his life, to live through you after all.

To the wizarding world perhaps, he was the vanquisher of Grindelwald. The opponent of Voldemort, and a force for good wizards and witches. The kindly grandfather, ushering them along their early lives, showing them patience and understanding, and most of all kindness. Sirius and I both agreed to that. I knew those things. Understood them. And it was true. He was a great man, and a good wizard.

I also saw his human side, and now had the memories and reactions of Sirius and his life to back up my own reasons. Was it unfair of me? To single my experience and feelings of the man down to only my own? The nutrient bar seemed like ash in my mouth, thinking in this way.

No. I couldn't get past my history with Draco any more than I could simply gloss over Dumbledore's manipulations, hand in my life. He knew about the fragment of Voldemort inside me – Padfoot's memories, the reason I had those memories was proof of it. Sirius wouldn't have sacrificed himself to displace it otherwise.

He knew about his innocence. Knew about the wretched way the Dursleys treated me. Knew about Voldemort's half-state. Living death. Why? Why did he do nothing then? What did it serve to all but assist the murderous fanatic in reclaiming his body? Quirrel's Occlumency couldn't have kept Dumbledore from seeing into his motives, his plans. By his own admission, only Snape had shields that strong. The man had been a teacher for years, and suddenly acquired a massive stutter, a drastic change in demeanor, and if not mental shields that could exceed Snape's, then memories of something that could doom the world they knew. Yet, Dumbledore suspected nothing?

The Chamber, a monster loose in the school yet what did he do? Call for help from the Ministry? No, he waited till thing had targeted a pure-blood, something that couldn't be covered up to act. Oh, Harry had no illusions on the man's blood-purity agenda. It was political at that point, the Headmaster unable to hide the events spiraling out of his control.

Then Sirius... I knew more than I wanted on that matter.

The Tri-Wizard. Moody was Order, how could Albus not know he was a fraud? Did Barty have such skill and knowledge of a man he impersonated, who was supposedly so paranoid and capable that even the Ministry feared him, yet the man Moody reported to couldn't see through? Was it not Dumbledore's own wards, that he broke to put me into the Tournament?

What the hell was his agenda? Was there one. A cold knife of worry stabbed into my heart. What if there wasn't an agenda? What if... the question seemed incredulous, impossible but... the man was old. What if it was just that? Senility. Shaking off those musings I sigh.

No. There was no way I could consider Hogwarts safe, an option. I couldn't just let Dumbledore's actions go by without some kind of reaction. This raised another question, one that settled a leaden weight in the pit of my stomach. Hogwarts... what would I do for school?

Putting that conundrum to the side for now, I return to the simpler ideal of home, with a rueful sigh. There were other options, of course... well one at least. Hermione's words at the Hog's Head came back to me then, reminding me of the places my family, the Potter side of my family had still. My legacy. I want to find them, in time. That time wasn't now, not while there were bigger things to do, things like Voldemort and Death Eaters. I want a life after this... after the war, such as it was. Then, I'd indulge in learning who I was.

Who... Harry was supposed to be.

Maybe by then I could really consider myself Harry Potter again. A smirk bent my lips, as Hermione's eyes turned curious, searching. I realize now that I'm laughing, a quiet, mirthless chuckle.

If I could kill Voldemort, then I really was still Harry Potter. Because only he could.

My resolve returned with Hermione that day. I had time to think on things, before Hogwarts began again, before I was forced to make a decision on whether to put myself in danger, at the Headmaster's whim and questionable capability.

Not only myself, but others as well. Voldemort wanted me, and it was painfully obvious he'd go to great lengths to have me

Another week of daily visits and for only the second time, Nigel came to me, during my visit with Hermione. "Mr. Potter, Ms. Granger, it's good to see you both in good spirits," the man said, and now that my eyes are clear, I see him clearly as well. He was shorter than me, by a few inches and had wispy, cottony hair where it still grew. This seemed limited to a wreath that rested just over his ears and around to the nape of the man's neck. As like the last time he came, I saw the odd reflective disk attached to a band that he wore around his head, a curious thing. It still confused me. His face was clear, open, with a generous smile and lines that spread along his brow, cheeks and eyes that spoke of years of laughter, and other strong emotions.

Despite knowing of Pomfrey's duplicity, he reminded me of how the woman felt. "I'm feeling better," I say with a small grin, looking over to Hermione. She's watching us both, face neutral. "How much longer do I need to stay?"

Nigel shrugs and checks a clipboard he has. "When you arrived, your magic was in such a state of disarray you were a danger to everyone near you. That, more than anything, was why we took the measures we did to give you time. There is no magic that can heal what was wrong. Only time."

I consider that, my own reasoning during my convalescence and nod, "Hermione mentioned I'd been here a month last week," I reply, but the sudden frown the man's wearing stalls any other words I'd have spoken.

"I'm afraid it's been somewhat longer than that, Mr. Potter."

Hermione's glance to me was confused, as was mine, regarding the doctor. It was her sudden motion, standing that started me wondering...

"What did you do," she asked quietly, and I see her reach for her wand, hand closing on air then clenching. Blinking, confused I realize I've never seen her with a wand here.

Nigel produced another block, and transfigured a chair, much like that first day he'd met the man. Sitting with a grunt, the man took a deep breath and crossed his arms. "One day, for twelve."

One day for twelve.

Hermione's voice was shrill, unbelieving, and it penetrated the haze that had settled around my mind like a blade. "How... why?!"

"Amelia," Nigel said simply, as if that were the only answer. We both watched the man, too shocked in my case, probably too angry in Hermione's to do anything else. "You two are young. You haven't been in my line of work. Let me explain.

"Another case of soul damage... ah. Yes. You are acquainted with a young Mr. Longbottom, yes?" At Harry's nod, the man continued, "His parents are currently in our longterm care center. They were driven to insanity by their body's inability to cope with the pain curse, used for a long time. It's similar to other injuries, some more direct than others. The nature of magic is that, even the most trivial spell, cast with the intent to harm can do terrible damage."

"I'm sorry doctor, but what do you mean? Magic is either light or dark, it's what we've been taught since beginning Hogwarts. I mean, there's a Defense class based solely on those ideals," her tone, familiar, was the one that spoke her resolve on the matter. I'd grown used to that, as she often lectured Ron and myself using that same tone of voice.

"Indeed? Well, let me demonstrate, before I continue then," chuckling, the man simply drew his wand, putting us both on edge. Shortly he conjured a medical mannequin, and seemed to offer us an apologetic smile.

Paling, I watched as he cast and canceled a dozen charms, watching the mannequin react, the lights and signals of damage, severity flashing above it. A bubblehead charm, inverted so as to be a vacuum, with a body bind. A strong summoner aimed at the dummy's third cervical vertebrae, which caused Hermione to pale as well. A simple engorgement spell aimed at the figure's torso confused me, till it's ribcage burst the thing's chest open, making me want to vomit. Transfigurations, switching spells, charms, jinxes... all harmless, unless the intent and cunning in their casting was deadly. "These aren't practical of course," the man replied, but sighed regardless. "Any spell, done with dark intent, is a dark spell. The opposite can be said as well."

Hermione stared at the man, shaking her head obstinately. "I cannot see the Unforgivables being used for light causes. It's not possible."

"You can't see, because you are young. It's not a fault, simply a lack of experience." Heaving a breath, the man leaned back in his chair, regarding us both sadly. "Shock patients, those withdrawing so deeply into themselves as to eventually lapse into coma are a rare situation for wizards. So often we can stop such things from happening. Tell me, Ms. Granger, what are the physiological effects of pain?"

"It... it stimulates the fight or flight response. Adrenaline, heightened responses. Or can be used to reinforce behavior."

Nodding, the man continued. "Localized, the pain curse cast correctly can reverse the effects of some shock victims, by forcing their bodies into a more active and reactive state, which if we catch it before the mind retreats, will also force it to become active again. Now, you are familiar with the imperious curse? Can you tell me a way to make it a positive thing?"

"To stop someone," I say, thinking already along the lines this man is attempting to explain. "Suicides. To keep someone from hurting themselves or another."

Nigel looked at me and gave a half nod. "Would it be easier to use such crude devices as muggles do, these IV devices, or would placing someone under the command to eat seem more humane? Mr. Potter, do you realize your body would be little more than that of a wasted husk by now, if we had not used the same curse to force you to eat, sleep, move these twelve months? Ms. Granger? Do you begin to understand now?"

Hermione turned to look at me, in the same way I was looking at Nigel. I'd been... had I been so far gone? "What was wrong with me that..." I trail off, shaking my head slowly.

Nodding curtly, I realize he's steered us back to the original conversation again, "Your body had suffered too much strain, too soon. We have no way to predict or even attempt to try beginning to understand the things which happened to you. There has only been one survivor of that curse, and he's sitting here." Sighing again, the man seemed to age before me, his hands limp and pale in his lap. "My point is this. Soul injuries, dark magic, darkly used magic... it takes time to heal. Your soul is not a broken arm. We gave you the time you needed, but we also had to consider that time was of the essence. Amelia could not keep you hidden away from Dumbledore for a year, perhaps two or more. Some didn't want to, but she entreated to us as healers, to heal, and keep our ears and minds closed to the man. We could not keep you at St. Mungo's for such a time either, as we've found even among our own, elements of the enemy. Not to mention the lack of proper facilities." Grumbling, the man stood with a groan and a creak of bones.

Gesturing for us to stand, Nigel lead Hermione and myself out of the one door, into the hall. "We had a staff that volunteered. Mostly former Ministry Aurors who were part of the last war, that had gone into medicine, wanting to heal rather than harm after the war. We are in an annex below a small city by the coast, an old muggle military base that had been converted to a makeshift medical ward in the late seventies. You were moved every day, then that day replayed. It only took minutes to move you to the next room," waving, the man indicated the twelve doors branching off the hallway they walked down. "We were host to a very peculiar guest, this last month."

I look to the doors and try to imagine being behind all of them. All at once. "So... for every day that you felt, I was... recovering twelve? Each day replayed in a different room to avoid running into myself?"

"Essentially. There are details of course that are trivial, but essential to the workings of such a thing," the man replied, reaching to stretch his back noisily. It was while they walked, outside of the room that I realized... I was taller than Hermione by a span of more than just a few inches. I hadn't really paid it much attention, with how rarely I could stand, how often doing so I was stooped a bit in my weakness and weariness. Now, walking, back straight and paying attention it was more obvious. "There of course, is another reason, one Amelia had thought of as the only feasible solution to your issues. Once that had been brought to light, we had little reason not to go forward."

We continued to walk until with a gasp Hermione stopped, causing me to run into her, nearly sending us both sprawling. "But... that can't be legal!"

Nigel favored her with a smile that would have looked at home on Salazar himself. "Oh, but it is. You did know that all Time Turners are monitored and recorded by the Department of Mysteries? Harry has spent one year in recovery – indisputable. His time. Magical documents, records and measurements will all say the same, because to him, and more importantly his body, he has spent nearly seventeen years on this earth."

"Hermione," my hand closes over her wrist, and I shake my head as she starts looking frantic. "It's ok. I mean, it'll be ok," I amend. "They did what they needed to. You know that time would have worked for Dumbledore. Given enough desperation, he could have done enough damage to undermine any other methods. He needs me. This way... he never knew. He's only lost me for a month, and though I lost a year, at least I'm not broken, incapable now.

"Can you imagine what would have happened if I was at Hogwarts, instead of..." grimacing, I realize I can't say the name of my own home, and sigh. "Where I live? When I finally fell apart?" With an unsure nod, she relents and I manage to lead her on, to the door where Nigel is waiting.

Am I ok? Hell no! I missed a year, a whole bloody year of my life... but. Would it have mattered? If I spent a year holed up in a straitjacket, gibbering and drooling on myself would it have been any more... Lacking words I sigh. With my mind made up to speak to Amelia about this, and soon. "I do have one more question, though."

"I imagined there'd be more than one, but go on."

I don't bother trying not to laugh at that. "Why? Why do all this?"

Nigel looked to me with a small, sad smile. Only then do I see the age on the man, the weight of years I've not seen on even Dumbledore. "Because of who I am, who you are, and what all that means."

He didn't elaborate, and in truth, I didn't pursue it. Maybe I'm used to abstract answers to direct question, or maybe I didn't want to see what the guilt in his eyes when he said that meant. Nigel lead us then to a small sitting room, where I find a change of clothes I don't recognize, my wand, and various personal effects. There's a pair of glasses, new and unfamiliar there as well. "Get dressed, I'll lead Ms. Granger on ahead. The door to the right is where we'll be waiting." So saying, the man leaves me to shed this preposterous gown. Hermione gives my hand, which I didn't notice she had been holding this entire time, a gentle squeeze and retreats after him.

I look to the parcels there, and frown. The clothes are fairly modern, and don't clash with what could be expected out in London. I wonder who picked them out.

Not bad taste, if this was Hermione's doing, you should let her pick your clothes more often, Sirius quips, and I smile.

"I may do just that," I reply, running a hand along the materials. "Merlin knows I'd be useless in a store."

Picking up the supple, low cuffed black leather boots I stifle a laugh, revising my earlier thoughts. Dragonscale accents may be a bit too obvious for London proper. A pair of gray denim trousers and a simple heavy cotton button down, collarless in charcoal leave me feeling like mostly a person again. The fact that they were sized to my slightly larger frame relieved me, as I was worried that my previous clothes were likely too small now. Peering through the glasses, simple things with a thin silver frame, I see they're blanks, plain glass. Whoever shopped for me seems to think I need to keep up appearances. Still, the familiar weight of them is reassuring, if unneeded. Old habits.

The holly wand felt... strange, when I picked it up. It still held a warmth, but there was a sense of difference now. Writing it off as something to look into later, I tuck it away and hurry to the next room, unwilling to leave Hermione with the man Nigel, regardless of his seeming good intentions. I'd seen where those lead, and wanted no more part of highways to hell.

My wish to see Amelia is granted, as I walk into the main floor of a sparse, but comfortable looking villa. Amelia Bones, Director of Magical Law Enforcement stood there, looking more weary and severe than I'd remember. "Director, Mr. Potter seems well enough to be released," Nigel said shortly, standing to the side with Hermione, the young witch looking pensive and worried. "Any pertinent records are on the desk there, and if my services are further required, you know where to find me."

"Indeed I do, doctor," the lead of the DMLE replies, putting some harsh emphasis on the last word. I'm somewhat taken aback at her frosty tone. "Have a safe trip back to Dresden."

With a gruff noise and a glare, the man stomped his way to the floo. Blinking after the doctor, I wonder at this change in personality, a difference that would have set me off the man entirely had it been apparent when we met.

My confusion isn't lost to to Amelia, who waits until the floo finishes flashing green to release a held breath. "Sorry, for that."

"What do you mean?" Glancing around, I take in the room, seeing accents that I don't recognize easily. It feels foreign. Not only that, but the windows, unnoticed before, offer me a view of the sea.

Gesturing to where Hermione is already sitting, Madam Bones settles herself behind a nearby desk, reaching up to rub the bridge of her nose. It's a tired gesture, one I'm familiar with from Susan. "Nigel is... an old acquaintance. I'm surprised you were in such a good mood when he brought you out of the basement rooms, honestly. That aside, there are a few things, mostly follow-ups to the Department of Mysteries fiasco that occurred recently, that I want to talk with you two about."

Seating myself by Hermione, I spare the witch a glance, getting a brief smile in return. She seems nervous, but I can't really blame her. Being that I've recently spent most of my summer, what I recall of it, either dodging or infuriating authority figures, it only seems fitting that the head of the DMLE should be next on the list. Still, her own and Nigel's animosity roused my curiosity, and I'm sure Hermione's as well.

Careful where you step, pup, Sirius warns, to which I silently chuckle. This one's got a bite, unlike that moron Fudge.

"Duly noted," I reply silently, as Amelia brings us, rather me, up to date on the world that I've been absent from for a month. Hermione adds in some details, where Madam Bones has either missed something closer to home, or to add a different perspective.

After the meeting, I had a lot to think on. Fudge being sacked, a rumor that Snape would be taking over the Defense class, and more Death Eater activity. A witch, name unknown by Madam Bones and Hermione had been killed, out in greater London. My home – Hermione hadn't felt secure enough to pass me the secret yet – was under surveillance by the Order but the bright witch had managed to get Kreacher to allow goblins inside to set up a secure apparition and portkey point. They'd also warded and put a security screen up on the floo, something I was unfamiliar with. Up till then she'd been using my invisibility cloak to come and go, and there was a significant look to me, when I mentioned her going home. I remembered her talk of sending her parents to Australia then with a cold weight in my chest. Resigning to speak with her more about it once we were back, I returned my attention to the news.

Lupin had been absent since that night, as obviously, had everyone else, and though Kreacher had mail, for both myself and Hermione, she'd done little to read it. It was only by the grace that I'd left some measure of instruction at Gringotts that she could access and use the vault there in my name, and even then it wasn't until she'd exhausted her own moneys that she'd done so. On hearing this, I leveled my own significant look her way.

We each signed statements about our involvement with the battle at the Ministry, but left Amelia unsatisfied, when we wouldn't go into detail about the prophecy itself. Hermione simply didn't know it, and I wasn't trusting enough of the Ministry at this point to give them my shoe size.

With a promise to come by her offices before the start of term to discuss not only further issues but to address the issues of my age and the repercussions of that unique situation, Hermione took my hand and activated a portkey, the same phoenix amulet I'd used, it seemed like an eternity ago.

-

A/N: Can't leave you hanging so badly, as I did last time. At least now there's a little resolution. Less dialog, next time.