This story is based in the Harry Potter fandom, and is not meant to offend any readers. If you are offended you have no obligation to continue reading. I do not own Harry Potter or any of the related material or franchise, and no infringement is intended. This story contains spoilers for the SIX current Harry Potter books. The Italicised section at the beginning is taken directly from The Half-Blood Prince.

ARRIVE

…Once back under the starry sky, Harry heaved Dumbledore on to the top of the nearest boulder and then to his feet. Sodden and shivering, Dumbledore's weight still upon him, Harry concentrated harder than he had ever done upon his destination: Hogsmeade. Closing his eyes, gripping Dumbledore's arm as tightly as he could, he stepped forwards into that feeling of horrible compression…

Harry realised that the world was beginning to spin in a way not normally associated with apparation. The sensation his confused head felt seemed similar to spiralling dizzily around and around, the circles becoming smaller and smaller as he reached the centre of some magical whirlpool. What will happen when I reach the middle? was where his confused analogy came to an abrupt end.

The normal pressure of apparation sucked the air around him stronger than ever before, compressing around his chest until he was sure his lungs didn't have enough power to fill themselves back up. The weight from Professor Dumbledore was still there, and Harry felt panic like he never had before begin to fill his chest. What had he done? Was this what splinching felt like? How the hell had he managed to splinch both himself and Professor Dumbledore at such a vital time?

Suddenly, it got worse.

The intense pressure that apparation normally caused tightened around his body to an unbearable extreme point. Pain flared up like fire in every part of his body. It ignited on every available surface – he could imagine that bathing in acid would be a similar experience. He opened his mouth to scream, but the pain seemed to enter, flowing down his throat like some cruel imitation of a medicine. It managed to reach a threshold of pain only rivalled by the Crucius curse, his whole body felt as though it was being torn to shreds, the whirlpool he had imagined in his mind becoming a howling vortex of nothingness.

He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. He was sure his heart had stopped beating, sure the nerve centre in his brain must soon short-circuit. He couldn't see anything, comprehending only pain. The only thing he felt was worse than Voldemort's cruellest torture methods. The only sound a voice screaming in the background… his own? The only taste was the blood chocking down his throat. The only smell was death.

This was no splinch.

Suddenly, painful in its shock, he became numb.

The pain stopped, and an uncomfortable, uneasy nothingness replaced it. He registered himself give a choked sob, the blood still lingering in his mouth sliding bitterly down his throat. Was he alive, or could he have died from pain? Never before had he felt so much pain. Never again, he vowed, would he allow it to happen. He could hear nothing, he could hear more than nothing. He could not see. There was no blackness, no light. Merely the knowledge that sight did not exist.

How long he hung there, senses suspended, remained a mystery. It seemed as much like moments passed as it did days. Slowly, as he lay, remembering the pain. Hating the pain. The numbness began to fade away.

There was the sense of falling, the wind both stinging and calming the wounds and abrasions Harry was beginning to feel again before he hit the ground. He had enough time to peel his eyes open and not recognise his surroundings, before a dizzying, exhausting darkness surrounded him completely, and all consciousness abandoned him.

Besides him, lay the equally battered form of an equally unconscious Professor Dumbledore.

When his eyes eventually peeled open, he found himself starring up at the bluest of all skies. The sun was already directly overhead, its midday rays beating down on his battered body. Sunshine reflected straight into his eyes, and spots of white continued to dance in his vision once he had closed his eyes tightly, biting his cracked lips.

The warmth of the sunlight as it lit upon the rest of his body felt like real magic, healing his wounds, revitalizing him. His head began to clear, and his teeth slowly unclenched. It gave him enough energy to take a deep, lung searing breathe, and pull himself up into a sitting position.

Either the oxygen or the sudden movement went straight to his head, and the white sun dots returned, this time accompanied by darker patches, obscuring his sight. He collapsed back down, eyes watering in pain as his tenuous grasp on consciousness wavered.

Minutes passed him by as he lay, eyes glued together with sticky tears, gathering the courage to try again. He listened to the slow sounds of a town going sluggishly about its business, registering that he must have made it to Hogsmeade after all. He didn't know what could have possibly gone wrong: none of his teachers had ever mentioned anything other than splinching as a danger in apparating. It wasn't like you couldn't carry a passenger, either. He himself had been transported as a hang-on while someone else apparated, and if it had any extra dangers, he was sure he would have been warned.

The warmth of the sun indicated that he'd been unconscious all night, and anyone had yet to find him.

He dragged himself backwards until he was able to lean against the wall of the alley he appeared to be in. The shadow of the awning cooled his face and soothed the beating headache he was starting to feel. He let out a sigh of relief as the support allowed him to finally catch a non-painful glance at his surroundings.

Apart from him, the alley was exactly as an alley should be.

Dusty cobbled stones and a few worn posters flaking off the walls proclaiming: 'Winnie and the Werewolves: Live in concert!' The date on the silently cheering wizard's poster told him that the concert had been performed almost three years ago. There was nothing else of any note at all. Harry closed his eyes in confusion, mentally calming his jagged nerves. Rationality may not work as well as it did in the muggle world, but that wasn't to say it was non-existent in it' magical counterpart.

Dumbledore! Harry's eyes flew open as any semblance of calm fled. Where is Dumbledore?!

The last Harry remembered was the pain of his apparation – he could distinctly recall the weight he had refused to let go of. He was sure that however he had landed where he was; he had not left Dumbledore behind. Yet the old wizard was no where to be seen.

There was no doubt in Harry's mind that Dumbledore would never have left him where he was. If it had been within his power, Albus Dumbledore would have taken Harry to Hogwarts immediately. And yet he was not there. This conviction led to only one possible conclusion: Albus Dumbledore had been unable to take care of Harry.

Horrible thoughts drifted through Harry's mind: was Dumbledore dead? Had the unexpected results of Harry's attempt at apparating killed the greatest wizard in known history? By rights, if Harry had felt the intense pain of the apparation then surely Dumbledore must also have. But it still didn't explain where the old wizard was!

Unless Harry was wrong, and he hadn't dragged Albus through the tempest after all. Unless Harry had dropped him; left him behind in his weakened state to fall prey to the swirling, viciousness of that inbetween place!

Now, Harry thought to himself, is finally the time to panic!

The sound of footsteps at the end of the alley didn't help his alarm, and his breathing became shallower and shallower. Dizziness clouded his mind once more, and he didn't have time to realize that he was hyperventilating.

For the second time that day, Harry felt himself sinking into unconsciousness, barely aware of the consequences his actions could have.

At the other end of the street a small girl was peeking around the corner, curious as to what exactly Harry was.

"Mummy," she said, trotting back to the flustered witch a few steps behind, "what's that down there?" she asked. The witch gave her an exasperated look as she adjusted the bags she was carrying, looking around nervously. She barely spared her daughter another glance as her hand never strayed too far from her wand.

"What's what down where, darling?" she asked distractedly.

The girl, honey blond pigtails swinging ran back to the entrance of the alley, and pointed down. Her blue eyes evaluated the object solemnly.

"It looks like a body, mummy." She said, her enthusiasm fading slightly.

In an instant her mother's attention snapped back to her.

"Don't go near it!" the witch said sharply, having followed her daughter to see what the girl was talking about. She pulled the daughter away, pushing herself in front as though to protect the child from something.

Nothing moved, and the girl whimpered.

The mother turned back to the daughter, angling her body so that she could keep track of the body out of the corner of her eye. Her mind was racing through the ministries brochure list, wondering where the brochure entitled: 'What do to when you find a body in a back-alley of Hogsmeade'.

"Stay here, Jemma." She instructed the child severely, not wanting her daughter to see what could very possibly be a dead body.

Five minutes later, the floo at St. Mungo's flared up brightly and three figures stumbled out.

"Look I need to get this guy to a healer," the woman said once she reached the counter, Jemma hanging off her pocket. She was supporting Harry completely, holding the still unconscious man up.

The receptionist looked up blandly, barely looking at the unconscious teenager.

"Well you've certainly come to the right place. We have a few of those here," she said patronizingly, curling her hair with a manicured nail.

"He's unconscious!" Jemma cried, pointing an accusing finger between the receptionist and Harry.

"If he's unconscious then I suppose he's at the top of the list," the blonde admitted ungraciously, "so take him through that door. Someone will ask you for your details. Next!"

The next thing Harry knew, the cotton wool clouding his mind was starting to leave. He was uncomfortably reminded that this was the third time he had awoken from unconsciousness in what he assumed was twenty-four hours. It was an improvement from the last time, though: his lips were no longer cracked and dry, his breathing was coming easily and the permanent pounding in his head had retreated to a dull ache. He could smell the slight bitterness of hospital antiseptic potions wash over him, and he inhaled. He was relieved to realize he must be in the hospital wing.

He opened his eyes slowly, constantly amazed at the capabilities of magic. Wincing, he realized that a pain potion could have been administrated, and the affects could wear off at any time.

There was a curtain hiding the rest of the wing from view, although he could see indistinct bustling shadows reflected onto the white fabric. He fumbled at the side-counter for his glasses, and slid them on, mind churning his memories of the last few hours over.

He still didn't know where Dumbledore was.

A certain type of dread ignited in the pit of his stomach, bubbling up through his chest. He had just realized that he could not possibly be in the hospital wing.

The roof was white-washed clean, the high ceilings and wooden beams were nowhere to be seen. The curtain was an off-green, different again to the white sheets of Hogwarts. The floor looked plastic, shining up at him in mockery.

"You're awake then, are you?" a gentle voice asked him. The curtains pulled back to reveal what seemed to be a bustling ward of St. Mungos.

There was a tall and familiar healer standing at the end of his bed, leaning down to glance at what Harry guessed would be his chart. Harry squinted at the man when he straightened back up, sure that he had seen him somewhere before.

"You're in St. Mungos, but really you can leave anytime. You're all fixed up," the man said, pausing. Harry wondered exactly how to respond to this dismissal. The healer clearly saw his confusion, and laughed easily. "If you want to stay any longer than three hours, then they'll start charging you real galleons. Not trying to kick you out, but you're perfectly good to go."

Harry finally found his voice.

"What was, uh, wrong with me?" he questioned hesitantly. He was beginning to get the impression that something was drastically wrong. Glaring inconsistencies were appearing in his mind, and now that he felt physically a lot better, he was able to focus on them.

Dumbledore would not have left him alone in a street, nor would he have taken him to the public magical hospital. Even if Harry had been taken there by accident, the fact was that the Order would have retrieved him by now, if they'd known where he was. Which left him with two possibilities: the Order couldn't retrieve him, or they didn't know he was missing.

The healer had pulled out his wand and summoned the chart, apparently too lazy to walk around the bed and pick it up. Harry felt a twinge of jealousy at the instinctive use of magic.

"Well. Best as the nurse could tell you were just physically exhausted. Had a concussion," he tapped his wand against the clipboard absently, "nothing broken. No recent traces of any common curses on you. Apparently, it was like you hadn't slept for several days," he looked at Harry, silently asking if this was correct.

But Harry didn't notice the unasked question in the healer's eyes; he was feeling sick again. The kind of sick that some called fear – it was what he felt when he wondered what had happened to Dumbledore. What if Harry had been wrong, again? What if, rather than just passing out for the night and waking up the next morning, he had actually been out of it for days?

It might explain the absence of the Order, possibly even account for Dumbledore's disappearance.

And if that was true, then he had an unknown amount of time to account for, and not a single memory to go by.

Seeing he wasn't about to receive an answer, the healer asked outright: "Do you know why you could have ended up here?"

There was something strange about the whole situation. It was not only the disappearance of Dumbledore, the unaccounted time gap, as well as his strange and nonsensical symptoms. There was something about everything that felt wrong.

"I can't remember," he answered, completely honestly, "but I think you were right before – I'm not going to stay. I don't really have any money,"

The look healer's face had changed to one of worry.

"You can't remember? If you can't remember then maybe you would like to stay, we might have missed something," he said, and Harry was again reminded of someone he knew. Seeing Harry's hesitation, if not understanding the reason for it, the healer homed in. "It's better to be safe than sorry."

Harry was about to open his mouth again when shouts from down the corridor diverted both their attentions. A short woman, who reminded him instantly of Mrs. Weasley, burst into the wing, scattering patients and healers alike.

"I need all available interns and healers! The Barnaby Ward – pronto!" she shouted, before whirling back out, leaving the wing in carefully controlled chaos.

Harry's healer was looking as though he didn't believe it was coincidence.

"Well I guess you're off the hook. You must have a guardian angel looking over you, buddy," he grumbled, hanging the chart up at the end of the bed, "I strongly recommend you to stay, but I have to go and help them." He turned, shaking his head, and left at a run before Harry could say anything else.

Guardian angel or not, Harry didn't feel like sticking around.

Grabbing his wand from the bedside-table, and checking that he was still wearing his dirty school robes, Harry apparated away. He was immensely relieved, for the first time ever, to feel the expected compression.

That's the whole chapter, composed in a physics lecture(I'm trapped in that room until the administration realize that I don't belong there) and squeezed in during the few chances I get to write something for leisure.