hey, I hate the way I wrote this story the first time so I'm erasing it and revamping it. Yes, there will be sudtle differences.
Harry Potter, the-boy-who-live, or simply forgot to die, lay slumped against the wall of his cupboard. He couldn't sit up straight, let alone stand; 'besides,' he consoled himself, 'standing just makes me dizzy.' He figured that if he just sat and waited maybe someone would come for him. One of his friends? Harry couldn't remember what that word meant, but it always seemed important in a good way.
There was a rattle as someone cursed the lock. The small boy perked up for a second before he recognized his uncle. It seemed as if the small boy srunk into the wood of his prison, almost like magic. A long time ago Harry had learned how to make himself smaller. You see if he made himself smaller than there would be less of him to hit and maybe he wouldn't hurt so much. It always sounded good in his mind, but when Uncle Vernon hit, even if it was just his hand, it still sent waves of pain through his body. And then Harry would loose himself to it and would wake up in the dark.
Harry hated the dark. Sometimes, after his uncle was done, his cousin would come in and wait for Harry to wake up. That was the worst part. When he heard the breathing and felt it wisp by his cheek, that was when the bad thing happened. Harry lost that thought.
If there were someone there, they would hear the whispered words of 'no...please…no' over and over again as the little boy clutched crooked fingers to his chest, long ago broken, one by one. His uncle liked that.
Harry's Uncle finally managed with the lock. The door opened with a creak and the boy froze at the hatred that came off in waves. Vernon Dursley reached inside and grasped the boy's already broken wrist, squeezing hard. "Come out, come out," he said in a mockingly sing-song voice, " It's time to play!"
The world slowly swirled around the damned boy lying almost naked but for the few rags he still possessed. He finally caught consciousness, and then his body protested his wakefulness heartily. His chest hurt, but it always hurt so that didn't matter anymore. His upper part of his leg felt broken. 'Probably from the…' he stopped for fear of making everything more real. He pushed everything into the back of his mind. Head in the sand. Head in the sand. You can't see me.
Harry heard the darkness more than he saw it. The concept was silly really. He never trusted his eyes anymore because they never told him if he was alone or not, at least not in the cupboard. Magic could hide things from a person, but it still didn't mean it wasn't there. It was only logical then that it could show things that weren't there too, right? This was what he told himself when he saw the blurry outlines of the bottom of a black robe through one of the slim slots of the cupboard door. He wanted the reaper to come and get him, with his big black dog.
Snuffles has blue eyes.
How would you like your blue eyed boy
Mr. Death. (1)
His thoughts were interrupted as the tremor in his hands became apparent. It slowly swept through his body, quickly becoming more and more violent. His legs were kicking out against the walls of his "room." Uncle Vernon was going to be so mad at him. (I'm telling Daddy!) Cries ringing in his head. Make it stop! Make it stop!
Those thoughts were the only thing that permeated his conscious besides the pain because pain at the hands of his Uncle made the tremors of the phantom red eyes seem miniscule. Pain from his Uncle indeed was less, but the eyes didn't possess the same emotion of all-out hatred that his Uncle had when it suited him.
Still caught in the muscle locking tremors, he never saw the cupboard open nor the completely appalled look on the Potions Master's face. Only when the seizure had passed did he feel a hand supporting his head while the other seemed to be trying to keep the rest of his body from thrashing about.
Harry knew that this couldn't be real. There was no way that his Uncle would care enough to hold him while the quakes ran their course. His chest hurt more than before. Harry didn't know if it was from Vernon's ministrations or if he had hit something in the seizure. Breathing was becoming increasingly difficult. Something in his throat made a gurgling noise as he tried to rasp for more breath. He tried harder and harder. He was suffocating.
"Po-Harry, calm down. You are panicking," a familiar voice drawled as Harry tried to quell the feeling, "I'm going to give you a potion and you need to swallow it quickly, understand?" Harry nodded scarcely alert before feeling the cool glass press to his lips. He swallowed the syrupy contents quickly before feeling all of his muscles relax from the still tense position they were in just a moment before. The last thing he felt was someone lift him easily before he fell into the black void.
How could this happen? Harry Potter, of all people, kept in a space that even a mouse would have trouble living in. He never expected this kind of treatment for Dumbledore's Golden Boy. Wait, not only Dumbledore's Golden Boy, but the entire wizarding world's.
The boy had been having a seizure. Snape thought that Poppy had had those repressed or some other rubbish, now they seemed to be back with a full vengeance.
Finally, the tremors ceased and the Potions Master gently laid the boy on the floor. He didn't worry about that group of whales that were there to "welcome" him. They were currently occupied at the moment until such time that Severus or another Order member felt the need to release them.
The shallow rasps of breath shook him from his thoughts. Harry was beginning to panic. He needed to give the boy a temporary healing/relaxer potion before he could safely apparate to Hogsmeade, but the boy needed to be able to swallow it, let alone to breathe as much oxygen as he needed.
"Po-Harry, calm down. You are panicking," Severus said in the calmest tone that he could muster, "I'm going to give you a potion and you need to swallow it quickly, understand?" Without opening his eyes the boy somehow managed to nod through the stiff muscles. Severus quickly tipped the concoction into the boy's mouth making sure he swallowed without further suffocating. Harry lost consciousness soon after.
Dizzy, Dizzy, Dizzy. Harry felt so dizzy, but the sensation felt familiar somehow, like he had done it a million times before. He didn't remember though. The green lights were pretty though.
Someone held him. Harry struggled against the familiar restraint even if it came from unfamiliar arms.
"Uncle Vernon, please. I'm sorry." Harry cried as his uncle Vernon grabbed his hands, slowly lowering them and holding them there on the angry metal stove.
"Boy, you know the rule," he said it with a gleeful madness as his nephew's unpitied screams filled the room, "You burn my food and I burn you. Now do it again," he then added almost casually, "without oven mitts."
Harry stayed curled on the floor from where his uncle released him, curled around his charred hands. That was the day they threw him in the cupboard. He only came out for "playtime" after that.
"Harry, Harry listen to me," a voice finally broke through the memory of only a few weeks prior, "you are safe now. We just flooed to Hogwarts. We are almost to the infirmary."
The word 'Hogwarts' caused him to pause. He should know what this Hogwarts is. It made his insides feel slightly warm. Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hogwarts, what's a Hogwarts? Something that took his mind off pain, but was it? Pain, Pain, Pain plays a part in everything, Because all the world's a stage and the men and women merely players, chess pieces, all the men and women merely chess pieces(2). Ya, that's right. Pawns and rooks and knights and --
Something was in his throat. He couldn't breath. Harry started coughing with his hands barely making it up in time to cover his mouth. (You must always cover your mouth when you cough, my poor Dudders does not need your disease.) The blood seeped through the gaps in his broken and twisted fingers. It dripped onto his chest and the man who was holding him.
'Sorry, sorry, so sorry, didn't mean to make you bleed. I'm leaking again. Uncle will be so mad.'
"POPPY!"
Everything seemed fine from the apparition from the Dursleys to a secure Hogsmeade fireplace to the fireplace in his dungeons, but as soon as he stepped out of the fireplace towards the infirmary, the boy (he was too small and fragile looking to be a man, though Severus knew that he was of age) started to gasp and struggle in the Potions Master's loose hold.
Harry started mumbling, so Snape lowered his head to try and make it out.
"Uncle Vernon… please…sorry," whimpered the boy as he continued to struggle.
Severus tried his best to calm him. The professor was speaking words that he hoped were calming. It surprised him when the boy's eyes snapped open. A hacking cough came from his throat. His mutilated hands came to his mouth, but they could not stem the crimson that traitorously flowed through the gaps.
"POPPY" he yelled as he finally came to the doors of the infirmary, kicking them open.
The lone woman dropped all of the bandages she was transferring to a cabinet at the sight in front of her. It was the only sign of panic that showed as she deftly levitated the broken boy onto one of the beds.
Severus knew that as soon as the woman gathered her wits, she would be okay. It never surprised him how fast she could deal with situations because usually he was the patient.
With a quick scorgify the blood was gone from his and Harry's robes. A more complicated spell that sounded faintly Asian caused the blood to clear from Harry's throat, it was only a momentary relief however as it soon started again.
Poppy pailed as more and more damage came to light. That was when he knew it was bad.
Severus Snape was not by anyone termed a caring man, even Dumbledore thought this. In fact, the only reason that Snape had been to #4 Privet Drive was because the previously mentioned Headmaster had deemed it necessary to check on the boy. Snape was selected because, as Dumbledore said it, "My boy, even you need to get out of that lab sometime, get some fresh air." And of course this was all said with that despicable twinkle in his eyes.
Then, walking into the boy's house, smelling the blood one could immediately tell that something was not right. When that fat man started blabbering about how no one by the name of Harry Potter lived there, he knew the man was lying just by the hate he used to pronounce the name.
That was when the steady beating started and the man started to turn a white that would do any ghost proud. Thinking back now it reminded him of a short story by Edgar Allen Poe. The man was the only muggle author that the Potions Master cared for. Indeed, "The Tell-Tale Heart" was one of his favorites, except that this time the guilty was not the only one who could hear the thump of a beating heart, or in this case legs kicking in a seizure.
Suffice it to say that it did not take Snape long to figure out the situation, put that boy's relatives in one of Snape's favorite spells, and get the hell out of there.
And that is what brought Snape here. It had only been five days from when he had brought Harry here, and, but for the rise and fall of his heavily bandaged chest, there was no other signs of life.
Harry's hands were hidden behind thick white bandages that were liberally soaked in a strong aloe-like potion. Poppy had explained that muggle appliance burns were not affected by normal wizard healing spells, and could only be dealt with through potions. She also said that they would be very stiff and he would not be able to grip anything for at least 6-8 weeks, and even then, she said that anything thinner then a wand would be difficult to handle a while after that. His arm, shoulder, and broken wrist were easily mended, but while his femur was healed, Harry would still probably have to have a cane to lean on for a few weeks because of both the weakness of the bone and the severity of the several brakes.
Now that he was stable, they only had to worry about when and how emotionally he would be when he awoke. They only had to wait another day to see those emerald green eyes again.
Harry had decided to go swimming with Ron and Hermione in the lake. They all changed into their swim suits and headed toward the shoreline. It did not take them long to be completely surrounded by water.
Two faces smiled mischievously, reminiscent of the Weasley twins, and Harry knew at once that they were plotting something. Before he could figure out what, they had each grabbed a shoulder and pushed him under.
He wasn't in the lake anymore, but in the bathtub at the Dursleys, his head at least. Harry tried to force his uncle's hands from his death-like grip on his hair, but he was so tired. The water thickened like syrup down his throat filling his lungs and stomach.
And the struggle stopped…
Poppy had always found that when administering a potion herself it was always quickest to put her hand over the patient's mouth and nostrils, so as to both inhibit the ability for the potion to fallout and she also found that it caused the throat to swallow immediately in hopes of gaining air.
It was a complete surprise to her when she looked down to see weak, bandaged hands bumping against her wrist in an attempt to move the impediment. Pomfrey removed her hand, looking at the still weak person in front of her.
The school nurse did not have to look up to know that the Potions Master stood up from his bed on the opposite side of the patient where he had been reading a potions journal.
The closed eyes opened into the smallest of slits. "Mr. Potter," said Madame Pomfrey with relief apparent in her voice, "welcome back," and at that the young man's eyes slipped shut once more.
Another three days had passed since Harry had last awakened. Poppy had explained to Severus and later Dumbledore, when he returned from the ministry, all of both his magical and physical power would go into the process of Harry's body as it was healing. She went on to explain that he had been malnourished for a long time and his body had to deal with "normal" amounts of vitamins, proteins, and so forth (this meant that his body would actually get these things.)
Finally, after eight long days, the boy-who-slept woke up.
With bleary eyes, the young man who had seen too much and been through more, raised his eyelids into the almost iridescent white room. The three shapes seemed to lean closer as his eyes opened. One was light blue with a silver type shadow at the top, another was purple with a long white something down the middle, and the third, the third scared him. Everything screamed darkness about this thing. The way the thing seemed to stay completely erect and the color, darkness, darkness. The reaper came for him, but he didn't want to go now! Harry needs to stay! Harry needs to stay! Harry likes the warmth!
Harry tried to move from the darkness, but something stopped him. He couldn't feel his hands. "No…please not that… Harry did not mean to… Harry's hands hurt… why he dropped the cookies… please…" By this time Harry had lost again to the memories.
The three adults looked on in shock as Harry seemed to fight a loosing battle with himself. He had beaten the great wizard Voldemort, but against the mere muggles that were his family he lost repeatedly. And then the screaming began.
It started out as a babble, the words talked of hands and dropping cookies, if the situation had not been so serious, Snape would have mocked and even taken points from the boy, but the situation was certainly different from what he associated with Potter. Babbling quickly escalated to a keening scream that shook the very minds of the people in the room with its despair and sickness, reminding each witch and wizard of the worst times in their lives.
Poppy, shaken out of her own memories, came back with a calming potion. Was the bottle shaking or her hand? It didn't matter, the potion needed to be given before the boy became even more distressed. She did not want to find out if that was even possible. She forced the potion down his screaming throat, pinching his nose and not promising air until he swallowed.
After a minute of weak struggle, the boy swallowed the draught and Poppy released her hold on the boy's face. His breath came easier as he went into an induced sleep…
It was Poppy's idea to take shifts to watch the boy. Dumbledore had him in the morning, Poppy herself had him in the afternoon, and Severus had him at night, which was where he found himself when it all started.
Severus just started to nod off when there was a light thud and a gasp. Snape was immediately on guard when he opened his eyes to find the bed empty. Heavy breathing came from the other side. Severus leaned over to see what had happened. He rushed over hurriedly to look at the boy, either shivering or trembling, he could not tell which.
Severus quickly and gently held Harry's head and tried to keep harm from falling on the boy's already delicate body. This one now appeared to be a full seizure, Severus had no doubt. At that, it was his second seizure in less than two weeks, the first being the day he was taken from that place. This one seemed to last longer then the other. The boy was on the cusp of regaining control when Poppy literally ran in.
"Seizure," Snape quickly explained at her worried stare.
The woman briskly walked over to the potions cabinet pulling out a much stronger muscle relaxer then the one that Severus had previously used. She deftly handed it to Severus in complete trust and he took it.
"Harry," Severus said in a tone that Poppy had never heard from the supposed Evil Potions Master of Hogwarts, "try to concentrate on my voice, okay? I'm going to give you something to make the pain go away, but I'm going to have to open your mouth," he said this while in the act of doing that and then he poured the midnight blue concoction down his throat, "Can you swallow for me?" again the supposed evil git helped him by gently massaging the young man's throat.
The potion seemed to work almost instantaneously as the few muscles Harry had managed to keep went from frozen to almost completely limp. The boy's weak, scraping gasps for breath reverberated through out the large empty hospital room.
Harry's eyes seemed to jump around in their sockets, like one Alastor Moody, before they settled somewhere between the present and the past. "Uncle Vernon, Harry is sorry…didn't mean to wake…" the garbled words slowly became louder and more urgent "…No Please Uncle- no-No-NO" the last few words were the screams of every fear echoed in the world.
That was when Poppy came in, knowing that Severus knew nothing of this area, at least she thought. Poppy held the whimpering and screaming boy in her arms, gently rocking back and forth whispering calming words into his ears. After what seemed an eternity the pleas for this Uncle Vernon to stop, finished leaving an exhausted and freely crying child on the floor with a potions master and school nurse watching all the while for anymore signs of distress.
Minutes later the boy was sound asleep of his own accord, both the Professor and nurse afraid of leading Harry into dependency of the sleeping potion as it was highly addictive.
(1) poem by E.E. Cummings "Buffalo Bill"
(2) poem by shakespeare, anyone tells me the title gets a harty pat on the back.