A/N: It has been quite some time since my last update! I can only hope that there are still readers out there. I want to apologize for taking such a long time. The truth is, I did have a few chapters typed up in '06 but my step dad took my word processor without informing me and it was broken while in his care. Even then, 2 years of not updating is still an extreme amount of time. The most I can say is that a lot of stuff has happened and I sort of gave up on many things that I once loved to do. I have been stuck in a serious depression for a while now, along with a few other things. Again, am really sorry for not updating in years. I hope you all can forgive me. I promise not to leave you all like that again. Also, I am working on the next chapter as I speak.

Thank you all so much for the wonderful reviews. I don't know how to thank you all so much for continuing to support me in my absence. You all inspire me and give me hope.

Chapter 21: The Minds of the Criminally Insane

Harry woke what seemed to be a few short hours later, feeling rather comfortable and warm. Tepid sunlight splayed across his face, begging to open his wary eyes. I must be dead, was Harry's first conclusion as to why he felt so peaceful. If you were dead you wouldn't have gone anywhere that was nice and cozy, jeered a bitter voice in the back of his mind. This acrid remark was all that it took to bring Harry more to his blunted senses.

What was the last thing he remembered? Reaching as far back into his mind as he could he desperately tried to commemorate all that he could. However, all that he came across was something akin to a plain white wall. The more he tried to recall the stronger this wall seemed to get. The blank that he was drawing was frustrating him more than anything possible. It seemed to taunt him, mocking his short term memory loss.

A sudden scrape of a chair leg against the stone floor brought Harry into the present. Though he tried to open his eyes to see who his fleeing visitor was, it was of no use. His eyelids felt lazy and heavy; unwilling to peel themselves apart even for a second to catch a glimpse of his unknown surroundings.

Hearing whispers coming from the front of the bed, he strained his ears and tried to grasp what was being said. Only slivers of conversation met him but they hardly made any sense to him. Words like "mental instability," "breakdown," and "split personalities" both peaked his curiosity and angered him. Were they talking about him? They made it sound as if he were an escapee from an insane asylum. I am not crazy, he thought furiously. That same cold voice disturbed his reverie once again by throwing in it's own thoughts on the matter. If you're not crazy then why can't you remember anything? You're pathetic. This thought did not soothe him in the least, especially since it seemed to be perfectly logical.

"Harry? Are you awake?" asked a deep voice. The voice seemed anxious and mixed with a tinge of something else. Whether it was hope or despair, Harry couldn't discern. What he could tell, however, was that the voice belonged to someone he knew. Who, though? His mind reeled, searching for an answer to the question.

"Snape." It was a simple statement coming from Harry's own mouth, yet it amazed him that the answer had popped out of no where. Apparently he wasn't the only one who was surprised as he heard an exhale of air coming from the two wizards standing over his bed. Why were they so astounded that he had remembered a name; nonetheless the name of his mentor.

"How are you feeling Harry?" Snape asked softly, taking a seat in the chair next to him. Harry guessed that Snape was the person who had dashed out of the chair earlier. Thinking about what was just asked of him, Harry made a mental rundown of his body, trying to distinguish any pain that he felt. The only things that were bothering him were his paralyzed eyes.

"I can't open my eyes," Harry replied hoarsely, his voice raspy and raw. How long have I been sleeping? Harry wondered faintly. A shift in the seat next to him caused him to focus his attention on Snape. He sensed a kind of disturbance in the man.

"What? What is it?" Harry asked tensely. That's when he felt it. Something was wrapped around his head and covered his eyes. He reached an arduous hand up and came in contact with some sort of cloth or gauze that was fully blocking his vision.

"You've been sleeping fitfully for four days; screaming, thrashing... and trying to claw your eyes out." Snape hesitated a moment before continuing. "You would have been successful the second time if Poppy wouldn't have been able to control you. However, by then, your eyelids were scratched and bloody. We thought this was the best way to keep you from doing it again. It's not permanent."

Harry pondered on this before accepting it. Come to think of it, his eyes did ache a bit. Also, that would explain why his throat felt so scratchy, but what had been so terrible that he had done the to himself? Unknowingly, he asked this question aloud. An aged voice whom Harry recognized as Dumbledore chose to answer him.

"We were hoping you could answer that Harry, but it appears as if you have blocked out certain things that you only visit in your dreams. That happens sometimes when your mind deems it unsafe for the owner to know of the atrocious things that have occurred. In short, your own brain has put up a mental block which may or may not disintegrate with time."

Harry didn't know what to say. There could be a part of his life that he'll never remember. Even though Dumbledore said that his mind blocked out something that might be harmful to his well-being, Harry couldn't help but feel betrayed by his own body. They were his memories, shouldn't he be the one in control of them? Suddenly a question invaded his mind; something he should have asked at the beginning at the conversation.

"Where am I and how did I get here?" Harry inquired. He was certain this wasn't the Dursley household or Snape's manor, especially if Madam Pomfrey was here. Was he at Hogwarts?

"You're in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts, Harry. What is the last thing you remember?" Snape's voice sounded off again.

"I..." Harry thought a little harder on the subject. "I remember being at your house. I think.. we were getting ready for the trial." Harry's brow furrowed. How did he get from Snape's house to the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts? What did he see that turned his brain on him? Why was he trying to scratch his eyes out? Questions bombarded Harry's fragile mind, causing a dull headache to form. Not being able to see made his confusion all the more greater.

Snape, sensing Harry's distress, placed a warm hand on top of his. This did a great deal in calming Harry down.

"You lost the trial Harry. You were sent back to your relatives." Snape spat the last word as if it were putrid venom in his mouth. If anything, this confused Harry even more. Dumbledore took over from there.

"Something happened at your aunt and uncle's house. I found you laying nearly unconscious near an old alley. Your uncle had done a great amount of damage to you. Hence the reason why you're in the Hospital Wing." Silence ensued for at least a full minute before Harry's leery voice cut through the air.

"Can..can I see my injuries?"

"I don't think-" Dumbledore was interrupted by Harry's rising voice.

"Don't I at least have the right to see my own injuries?" Harry heard both Dumbledore and Snape sigh and he knew that he had won. Though a small victory, Harry felt smug that he had a little bit of control.

"Most of the cuts and bruises are gone.." Dumbledore trailed off, beginning to unwrap the gauze from Harry's eyes. "Nevertheless, a few cuts still linger." Finally able to see, Harry blinked rapidly in the bright light. He ran his fingers over his closed eyelids and felt a few thin scabs that stung slightly upon contact. Snape handed Harry his glasses and Harry slid them onto his face.

Once Harry's eyes got used to the sunlight shining through the entire room he began the process of checking out all visible parts of his body. His eyes came to rest on an ugly red mark on his arm which, upon further inspection, turned out to be two small, round scars that were about half an inch apart. Turning his attention to the other arm, Harry noticed the same marks. How odd.. Harry thought.

Flipping his arm over he saw something that nearly made him flinch. A grotesque scar in the shape of a D took up nearly half of his forearm. It was the most vile thing he had ever seen. He wanted to be sick just looking at it. It wasn't that it looked particularly disgusting as much as it felt. Many negative emotions lay behind it but he couldn't register why.

Suddenly he felt his whole body start to seize and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. An image flashed through his mind. It was of a whimpering Harry laying on blood-splattered carpet with Uncle Vernon hovering over him with a knife in hand. Uncle Vernon pressed the knife into his arm, tracing a pattern that was all too familiar. Then everything went black.