We Are Nothing
Part V
By Ruskbyte
Title: We Are Nothing
Author: Ruskbyte
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Summary: Snape’s Occlumency lessons have shattered the last defences of Harry’s mind. Now, unprotected, his dreams have become home to a nightmare other than Voldemort. A nightmare that has taken on a life of its own.
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“We are nothing; less than nothing and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name.” - Charles Lamb, Essays of Elia, Dream Children
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/oOo\
Part V
In the Midnight Hour
\oOo/
Not to anyone’s surprise, it soon seemed as if every Auror in the British Isles had descended upon Hogwarts. It would almost have been impressive, were it not for the fact that two students and one professor were dead.
Snape’s passing during the night caused very little stir amongst the population. In truth, while everyone was shocked and appalled by his brutal slaying, the details of which had somehow leaked, only the Slytherins were particularly saddened by his death. Much like Draco, the potions professor had done little to endear himself to the rest of the students.
Seamus’ murder, however, lit the proverbial bonfire under everyone’s collective rears. Unlike Snape and Malfoy, the Irish wizard had been reasonably well liked and his death seemed to herald the realization that anyone could be next.
Of course, considering his confrontation with Harry the previous night, witnessed by most of Gryffindor, it was also no surprise that the Boy-Who-Lived was now the prime suspect.
Naturally, Umbridge was delighted.
Harry, on the other hand, was an equal mixture of furious and resigned.
Most of his anger was direct at himself, for being so totally stupid as to have threatened Seamus the way he had. He was also angry at Freddy, for putting him in this situation by killing someone in Harry’s own dorm room, thus depriving him of an alibi. He was also ashamed to admit to being angry with Seamus, whose inconvenient death had lead to this situation.
His feelings of resignation came from the fact that he was certain Azkaban would now play a prominent role in his future. He could not see any way around it, as he had no way to prove his innocence. Not while Freddy lived on in his dreams. His only hope now was that Fudge and Umbridge would hold some sort of trial, rather than simply tossing him into prison on what little evidence they had.
His ears picked up the faint sound of approaching footsteps.
Doubtless Umbridge and her Aurors were coming to arrest him. For a moment he contemplated the idea of trying to escape, but discarded the thought just as quickly as it formed.
His wand had been taken away from him earlier that morning, when he had been removed from Gryffindor tower and locked up in Professor McGonagall’s office. Once trapped inside there was no way out. There was no floo connection in the room’s fireplace and while the windows might have offered egress, the office was on the third floor. Without a broom, he would not be leaving that way.
The sound of the door unlocking seemed to echo throughout the room, as did the creak of the door being swung open.
Relief swept through him when the first person to enter the room was Professor McGonagall. For a moment he hoped that someone had realised the obvious; that he was not a murderer and thus arranged for him to be released.
His hopes were dashed when Umbridge followed on the deputy-headmistress’s heels. Worse still, the dreadful woman was accompanied by a pair of Aurors. One of them, Harry did not recognised, but the other he knew to be Dawlish, who had been there when Fudge had tried to arrest Dumbledore.
“Professor--” Harry began, trying to plea his innocence the only other person in the room that he knew would listen to him. He was cut off, however, by Umbridge.
“Sit down, Mr Potter,” she ordered.
“But--”
A sign from Umbridge had Dawlish and his partner grabbing Harry by the shoulders and elbows and forcing him into one of the chairs in front of McGonagall’s desk.
“There’s no need to be so rough, Madam Umbridge,” McGonagall protested.
“On the contrary, Professor,” Umbridge countered snidely. “We are dealing with a deranged animal that’s already killed three people and caused untold amounts of public unrest.”
“I didn’t kill anyone!” yelled Harry, struggling to rise. Dawlish grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him back down. A quick wave of the second Auror’s wand trapped him in place.
“Protest as much as you like, Mr Potter, but I know you’re behind this,” asserted Umbridge, coming stand in front of him.
“I’m not! I haven’t done anything!”
Umbridge smiled nastily at him and held up a small vial of clear liquid.
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll be finding out everything you have done, Mr Potter. Every dirty little secret of yours, your friends and Dumbledore!”
Harry’s eyes locked on the veritaserum in her grasp and a massive lump formed in his throat even as the bottom fell out of his stomach.
“How dare you?!” huffed McGonagall, stepping forward. “It’s illegal to use veritaserum on a child!”
“This boy isn’t a child - he’s murderer!” countered Umbridge. She handed the vial to Dawlish and ordered, “Dose him.”
“No!” yelled McGonagall. She made to intervene, but the second Auror had already drawn his wand and now levelled it against.
“Open your mouth, Potter,” commanded Dawlish.
“No! Stop this at once!”
“Shut up, Minerva, or I’ll have Fisher stun you,” threatened Umbridge.
Unwilling to wait any longer, Dawlish grabbed Harry’s jaw and pried his mouth open. Knowing that he no actual choice in the matter, the young wizard offered no resistance and obediently held his mouth open in anticipation.
With morbid fascination, Harry watched as Dawlish uncorked the vial and tipped it forward over his waiting tongue. One, two, three drops Harry counted.
“Are you sure that’s enough?” asked Umbridge.
“Yes ma’am,” replied Dawlish. “Three drops is all it takes.”
“And there’s no chance he could resist it?”
“Not even divine intervention could help him lie to us now.”
“Perfect,” crowed Umbridge.
Harry was aware that she was rubbing her hands in anticipation, but the effect of the potion was making it difficult for him to pay much attention to what was going on around him. He would much rather sit back and enjoy the warm, fuzzy sensation that was now enveloping him. It was, he mused distractedly, rather like being under the Imperious Curse, only without the annoying voice telling him to do things.
“Now, let’s get started, shall we?” asked Umbridge eagerly.
Since the question was not directed at him, Harry did not bother listening to it.
“Actually, ma’am,” interrupted Fisher, wand still trained on McGonagall, “there are a few control questions that need to be asked first; to confirm that the potion is working.”
“Fine, ask them then,” ordered Umbridge petulantly, unhappy at being kept waiting.
Dawlish left his spot behind Harry and moved to stand in front of him. “What’s your full name?”
Still revelling in the wonderful warmth surrounding him, and a little amused that they did not already know who he was, Harry promptly answered.
“Harry James Potter.”
“When were you born?”
“Midnight, July thirty-first, 1980,” answered Harry. He thought that his voice sounded funny. Sort of like flat Coke. But that really wasn’t important, so he gave it only a passing thought.
Dawlish turned to the impatiently waiting Umbridge and nodded, “The veritaserum is working. You can ask whatever you want.”
“No, you will not!” exclaimed McGonagall. She pushed forward, ignoring Fisher’s wand. She stomped in front of Umbridge. “Rest assured, Delores, people will be hearing of this and I’ll see to it you receive the proper punishment for this despicable breach of justice.”
Umbridge peered up at the taller woman and smiled sweetly. “Oh, I’m sure people will be hearing of this. Just as I’m sure they won’t complain, but rather praise me for giving this little beast exactly what it deserves.”
She pushed passed the professor and leaned down over Harry.
“All right, Mr Potter,” she said. “It’s time for you to confess to killed Draco Malfoy and Professor Snape.”
Harry, in the meanwhile, was contemplating the rounded frame of his glasses.
“Well? Confess!”
It was difficult to see the frame properly whilst wearing the glasses, but he was too relaxed to bother taking them off.
Umbridge rounded on Dawlish. “It isn’t working,” she accused. “You didn’t use a large enough dose.”
Dawlish coughed into a hand, obviously embarrassed. “Actually ma’am,” he explained, “the boy’s not answering because you haven’t actually asked him a question yet.”
Umbridge flushed a deep red, which clashed horribly against her pink cardigan. She rounded on Harry again.
“Did you murder Draco Malfoy, Severus Snape and the other boy?” she demanded.
“Seamus Finnigan,” elaborated Fisher, still watching McGonagall.
“No.”
Umbridge and the Aurors stared at him in surprise. They failed to notice McGonagall’s small sigh of relief.
“Preposterous!” exclaimed Umbridge. “I know you killed them! You’re lying!”
Harry did not answer, as there had again been not question.
Dawlish cleared his throat, “Did you kill Draco Malfoy?”
“No.”
“Did you kill Severus Snape?”
“No, but I wish I had.”
“There, you see! He’s guilty!” proclaimed Umbridge.
“Hardly,” scoffed McGonagall. “There is a big difference between wanting to do something and actually doing it. If wanting to kill someone were a crime, then you’d have to arrest every student that isn’t in your Inquisitional Squad.”
Umbridge gave the other woman a scathing look. “Then he’s lying!”
“It’s impossible to lie under veritaserum,” McGonagall reminded her.
“But he is!” insisted Umbridge.
“Potter,” said Dawlish, trying to move things along. “Did you kill Seamus Finnigan last night?”
Harry would have smiled, had he not been too relaxed to bother. He was aware, on some level, that he had been exonerated on all the charges being levelled at him. Now, if only someone would ask about Voldemort...
“No.”
Dawlish and Fisher exchanged a nervous glance. The boy was clearly innocent, which meant that they had illegally dosed a child with truth serum entirely without cause. Umbridge might possibly protect them, but they had no doubt that McGonagall would do everything she could to bring this to the attention of people who would take action against them regardless of the Undersecretary’s supposed protection.
“Have you ever killed anybody?” asked Fisher, hoping to maybe salvage something from what was fast becoming a disaster.
“No.”
Harry was reasonably sure that he had not been responsible for Quirrell’s death in his first year. Yes, he had badly burned the man, but Dumbledore had suggested it was Voldemort’s abandonment of his body that had actually finished him off. And despite his feelings of guilt, he knew that Cedric’s death had been completely out of his hands.
“Shit,” concluded Fisher.
“I’m telling you now, I don’t care what he says; he is guilty! Keep asking him!” demanded Umbridge.
“Did you have anything to do with any of the murders?” asked Dawlish.
“I hated Snape and Malfoy. I was angry with Seamus,” answered Harry.
As Freddy had told him; it was his anger and hatred that let the real killer enter the dreams of his victims.
“Perhaps I should remind you that hating someone is also not against the law,” said McGonagall.
Umbridge shoved her way passed Dawlish and actually grabbed hold of Harry. “You are lying! I know you’re lying about it! Just like you’ve been lying about the dark lord, haven’t you?”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re not?” asked Fisher, looking worried.
“He is! The dark lord is not back!” she released Harry just long enough to slap him. “Tell them! You’re lying about that to help Dumbledore undermine the Minister’s position, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not,” replied Harry, ignoring the sting of his cheek in favour of the bliss suffusing him.
“You’re telling the truth? The dark lord really is back?” asked Fisher, praying that the answer would be no.
“Yes.”
“Shit.”
“HE IS NOT BACK!” Umbridge shrieked. “He is lying!”
“But the veritaserum...”
“Was obviously not enough,” insisted Umbridge. She turned to Dawlish and snatched the potion vial out of his hand. “You incompetent buffoons obviously didn’t give him enough!”
Before anyone could stop her, Umbridge uncorked the vial, forced open Harry’s mouth and poured the contents down his throat.
“No!” cried McGonagall, pushing passed Fisher and pulling Umbridge off her student. Fisher did nothing to stop her as he was in fact moving with her.
“What have you done?” asked Fisher in horror as he pried the now empty vial from her fingers.
“I’ve done what you were supposed to do in the first place!” shouted Umbridge furiously. “I’ve given him enough to make him confess!”
“You idiot!” exploded Fisher.
“How dare you!”
“Three drops of veritaserum is all you ever need, damn it! Giving him more won’t make him stop telling the truth!”
“It will, because he is lying!”
“Harry! Harry!”
All eyes turned to a frantic McGonagall. She was leaning over Harry, whose condition had deteriorated to a comatose state. The only sign of life was a spastic twitching in his restrained legs.
“Oh shit, he’s going into convulsions!” exclaimed Fisher, releasing Umbridge and going to help the professor.
“Stop that at once and start asking questions,” ordered Umbridge.
McGonagall temporarily abandoned her student to round on her supposed colleague and slap her across the face with enough force to send her crashing to the floor.
“You damnable woman,” she yelled, taking the opportunity to kick her several times. After one last boot to the stomach, she returned her attention to Harry.
By now Fisher had released the Boy-Who-Lived from the chair and laid him out on the office floor. The spasms in his legs had spread to the rest of his limbs and were increasing in intensity.
“What’s wrong with him?” she asked, kneeling down by his head.
“He’s been overdosed on veritaserum,” explained Fisher, trying to restrain Harry as his thrashings began to grow violent. “In large enough quantities it’s actually a poison - that’s why three drops is the limit.”
“Do you have an antidote with you?”
“There isn’t any - we need to flush the serum out of his body.”
“I’ll call Poppy,” responded McGonagall, drawing her wand and sending off a quick patronus message to the Hogwarts matron.
“Fisher, stop helping the boy! Dawlish, arrest her for attacking me!”
Fisher ignored the recovering Umbridge, more concerned with trying to save Harry’s life. Dawlish had no chance to follow the command given to him, as McGonagall turned to Umbridge and blasted her across the office with a fury powered Stunner. She then turned her attention to the Auror that was doing nothing but stand dumbly in place.
“I want Amelia Bones and Rufus Scrimgeour here at Hogwarts as soon as possible. I’ll be laying charges of attempted murder against that foul little toad woman. Unless you want to be included, I suggest you hurry.”
Dawlish fled the office at a run.
“Is there anything we can do?” she asked Fisher.
His response was curt and disheartening.
“Pray.”
-oOo-
Thanks to the wonders and versatility of magic, the Hogwarts Hospital Wing was rarely a place of frantic and desperate action. At the moment, however, the realm of Poppy Pomfrey could have easily been mistaken for any of the world’s most frenetic emergency rooms.
“I swear, he does things like this purely to vex me,” muttered Pomfrey as she poured yet another potion down Harry’s throat.
“Ack!” yelped Fisher, having just received an elbow to his sternum. “Can’t we restrain him somehow?”
“We can’t risk using too much magic on him right now - hold him down dammit!”
Unfortunately this was much easier said than done, as Harry was thrashing about in a manner that was making it very difficult for McGonagall and Fisher to keep a hold on him. Indeed, the professor already had a split lip while the Auror was developing an impressive black eye and several cracked ribs.
“Just hold him still for a few seconds,” Pomfrey demanded, readying another potion.
“Grak! Gah!” Harry suddenly screamed incoherently as his convulsions, impossibly, grew even more violent.
“Look out!” exclaimed Fisher just as Harry bucked strongly enough to knock him to the infirmary floor/
“He’s too strong!” gasped McGonagall, trying to hold him down by herself.
“What the devil’s happening?” asked Fisher. “The veritaserum can’t be causing this, can it?”
“And how many cases of veritaserum poisoning have you seen?” Pomfrey demanded to know. She tried to force her way through Harry’s flailing arms to administer the next potion. She was having difficulty, as Professor McGonagall was only able to hold down the one.
“Nuhk! Nuhuh!”
“Poppy – he’s choking!” McGonagall yelled, struggling to grab Harry’s other arm.
“Fisher, grab his head and hold him still!” Pomfrey ordered. A glancing blow from Harry was enough to knock the potion vial she was holding out of her hand. Fortunately the glass had been spelled to be unbreakable, thus preventing it from shattering, though its contents sprayed out and were wasted on the floor.
“Nooooooo!” howled Harry, arching his back and throwing his head wildly from side to side.
“Merlin’s flaming penis!” swore Fisher as he was once again knocked to the floor.
“Dammit, Poppy, what is this?” asked McGonagall.
“I don’t know!” admitted Pomfrey, throwing herself over Harry’s chest.
“Nuhuaha-ha-ha-hah! Yes! Yes!”
Two burning blood-red eyes glared out at the world, even as Harry’s lips twisted into a grotesque mockery of a smile.
“Ha-ha-hah, I have you now, Potter,” exclaimed Voldemort, his overlaying Harry’s own. “There is no Dumbledore to save you this time! Your soul is mine!”
The dark lord’s mad cackling sent shivers down the spines of all that heard it. And as Harry twisted and contorted in the hospital bed, they could do nothing but watch helplessly.
-oOo-
Few things were more boring for Freddy Krueger than having to endure those quiet moments of wakefulness, when his victims were free from sleep’s embrace and went about their daily lives.
Thus, when something peculiar began to happen, deep in the shadows of Harry Potter’s mind, the Lord of Nightmares immediately noticed.
“Well, this is different,” he commented.
One thing that anyone who had ever met him would agree upon was that Freddy was not altruistic. He was incapable of helping people for any reason that did not further his own ends.
Which is why, when the black storm of Voldemort’s legilimency attack began to tear across the landscape of Harry’s mind, Freddy did nothing but stand back and watch.
Well, he did add some commentary, as if he were narrating a wildlife documentary.
“Ooooh, that’s gonna leave a mark,” he observed as Voldemort slammed into a patch of memories and began to brutally toss them aside.
The scarred man watched as Voldemort’s presence extended further and further from the connection that linked him to Harry. As he progressed he latched onto one memory after another, perusing them with vicious ease before discarding them and moving on.
Then, the light of Harry’s mindscape dimmed, as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. Freddy looked around in confusion.
“What the hell is this?”
As he watched, a darkness that was not Voldemort’s intrusion began to engulf the world around him. Its presence was not limited, like the legilimency attack, but seemed to encompass the entirety of Harry’s mind all at once.
It finally began to dawn on Freddy that there was a very real chance that Harry was going to be injured to the point where he might actually end up dying. While Freddy could not have cared less for Harry’s welfare, the fact remained that he could only visit the dreams of Hogwarts while Harry remained alive. With Harry’s death, he would once again be relegated to the realm of waiting.
“Oh, hell no!” exclaimed Freddy. “No! No! No! Ain’t nobody cutting me outta my happy fun time!”
Determined not to be banished back to the abyss for no other reason than because his host was about to drop dead, Freddy leapt into action.
At first he considered simply severing the connection, but instead paused to consider it.
While he knew next to nothing about occlumency, legilimency or magic in general, Freddy did know that the link between Harry and Voldemort was by no means a one-way street.
This meant that if the dark lord could get to Harry, then conversely, Freddy could get to the dark lord.
And better still, from what he could make out; using the connection had put Voldemort in a state of near meditation. A state that some would describe as dreamlike.
Freddy owned dreamlike.
-oOo-
Voldemort blinked in surprise and looked around him. He was standing in what appeared to be a Muggle industrial complex of some sort. A smelter or perhaps a boiler room. It was a very strange thing for him to be standing in such a place, most especially when he knew he had been sitting in his private chambers only a moment before.
“Ah, there you are.”
Startled by the unexpected voice, the dark lord spun round to face whoever it was that had spoke. He promptly doubled over as a bladed fist buried itself in his stomach. Any thought that this was some bizarre sort of dream vanished as the dreadful sensation of four thin knives piercing into his flesh registered. Then the pain struck him.
“Gagh,” he coughed. He had endured worse during his lifetime and was able to prevent himself from actually screaming.
The hand and its bladed fingers withdrew, causing almost as much pain and injury in their exit as in their entry. Voldemort tried to suck in a breath, but found the wind driven from him a second time as the knives were slammed back into him. If anything this assault was even more painful.
“So, you’re the prick that’s trying to kill the kid, huh? Damn, you’re one ugly motherfucker!”
Voldemort looked up from where he was hunched over the fist still embedded within his stomach. He found himself staring at the singularly most hideously disfigured face he had ever encountered. As if acknowledging that he had his attention, the man pulled back his hand and then quickly drove it back in again. This time the pain was enough that the dark lord could not help but cry out.
“Ah, so you can sing,” noted the man.
He stepped back, allowing Voldemort to collapse onto his hands and knees.
The dark lord wrapped both arms around his perforated middle, desperately wondering how he had come to be here. He had gone from ransacking the Potter boy’s mind to being curled up in a ball of agony.
He considered the possibility that this was some kind of Occlumency defence being used against him, but discarded that idea almost immediately. Severus had reported before his death that Potter was a failure at the mind arts.
So what the hell was going on?
Struggling to push back the pain, Voldemort looked up to see that his attacker was standing back and watching him with an insufferably smug expression.
“You will pay for this,” Voldemort gasped.
Freddy laughed and lashed out with his knife-hand. The blades sliced through Voldemort’s cheek. “I think you’re confused as to who is going to pay who,” he declared.
Voldemort clutched his ruined face with one hand and wrapped his other arm around his wounded stomach. The stench of blood and leaking offal almost made him gag, especially when combined with the pain that flared up inside of him as he forced himself to stand.
“I will revisit this attack upon you a thousand fold,” he vowed, trying to gather his magic to heal himself.
“Ooooh, I’m soooo scared,” Freddy mocked.
Gritting his teeth as his flesh and innards slowly knit back together, Voldemort glared at his attacker. Surreptitiously reaching for the pocket that held his wand, he maintained close watch in case of another attack. Freddy seemed willing to leave him be for the moment; something the dark lord capitalized on the moment his fingers brushed over his wand’s yew handle.
“Avada Kedavra!” he roared, snapping his wand out and aiming right at Freddy’s heart. The sudden movement pulled on his injuries and caused a bad coughing fit that left him once again doubled over. He was still able to, just barely, watched as his spell struck its target.
“Argh! No! I’ve been hit! Medic! Help! Somebody call me an ambulance!” yelled Freddy dramatically, clutching both hands to his chest and making a production out of it. In truth, the Killing Curse had no discernable affect whatsoever.
“Impossible,” sputtered Voldemort between wheezes.
“So... was that your best shot? Huh?” asked Freddy.
“Avada Kedavra!”
“Oh, please - don’t you have anything better?”
Voldemort could only stare. The idea that someone could simply shrug off the Killing Curse so easily was almost beyond his comprehension.
Then Freddy spread the fingers of his knife-hand out wide and began to advance.
“Avada Kedavra!”
The curse was barely enough to make Freddy skip a stride.
“Avada Kedavra!”
This time, Freddy continued onward with flinching or even a pause. By now Voldemort was beginning to feel truly desperate and, even worse, he could feel the small bubblings of real fear.
“Now, fucktard, it’s time to teach you to a lesson about not interrupting someone else’s fun,” declared Freddy as he entered arm’s reach.
And then there was nothing but the flash of knives.
-oOo-
A wail of pure agony, as if he were being tortured under the Cruciatus, was torn from Harry’s throat. His body bucked and twisted and thrashed about wildly, his back arching almost to the breaking point. To the relief of those watching, the dual tone of his voice seemed to separate as the cry trailed off.
As if to confirm the end of the ordeal, Harry collapsed like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut.
Madam Pomfrey cautiously approached the now limp young wizard and began to check him with her wand.
“Is he dead?” asked Fisher anxiously.
“Unconscious,” replied Pomfrey, continuing to cast one diagnostic spell after another. “I think whatever that was is over.”
“Can you check his eyes,” suggested McGonagall.
Cautiously and a bit reluctantly, Pomfrey lifted up one of Harry’s eyelid. She releases a deep sigh of relief and reported, “Just as they’re supposed to be. No red at all in the iris, though there is some corneal bleeding. Probably caused by the strain.”
McGonagall bow her head and gave a brief prayer of thanks.
“So it’s over?” asked Fisher. “He’s all right?”
“All right?” repeated Pomfrey unhappily. “There’s a lot of ways I can describe this boy at the moment and ‘all right’ is certainly not one of them!”
“How bad is it, Poppy?” asked McGonagall.
“This is the worst I’ve ever seen him,” the nurse replied instantly.
“I see,” nodded McGonagall. She had not expected anything less.
To her chagrin and shame, however, she had to admit that Harry’s injuries were of minor import against what else had happened. If the dark lord had indeed done as she thought, and tried to possess her student, then she needed to inform Dumbledore.
“Do what you can, Poppy. Call in any help you need to,” McGonagall ordered. “I’ll be in Umbridge’s office - there’s a great many floo calls that need to be made.”
“I’ll let you know if anything else happens,” said Pomfrey, already getting to work.
“Um, Professor?” asked Fisher, “What about me?”
McGonagall regarded the Auror for a long time. True, he had helped cause this mess, following Umbridge and her illicit questioning. But his quick actions earlier had more than likely saved Harry’s life and that was not something that could be disregarded.
“Watch over them. Make sure nobody, especially Umbridge or Minister Fudge, causes a fuss,” she told him before departing.
Feeling older than she had in many, many years, McGonagall exited the Hospital Wing. As she was closing the door behind her, she suddenly found herself accosted by a small army of students, all excitedly asking after their schoolmate.
“Quiet, please,” she asked, holding up both hands.
The students quickly calmed down, though Hermione Granger was unable to refrain from asking one last question.
“Professor, is Harry all right?”
Deciding to be truthful, but without going into too much detail, McGonagall answered, “I’m afraid, children, that Mr Potter is gravely ill. Madam Pomfrey is doing her best to help him.”
This prompted a flurry of further questions, asking for more details as to what was wrong with Harry. Again, McGonagall held up her hands for silence before answering.
“Mr Potter is suffering from veritaserum poisoning, caused by Madam Umbridge giving him an overdose of the potion while questioning him about the recent murders,” she explained.
“That bloody bitch!” exclaimed Ron Weasley, his face rapidly achieving the same shade of red as his hair.
It was a measure if the severity of the situation that Hermione did not bother to chastise him for his language.
Things came within a bare inch of degenerating into violence, however, when Lavender Brown asked the inflammatory question, “So, does that mean he did it? Did he kill Seamus and the others?”
It was only the professor’s timely intervention that prevented Ginny Weasley from attacking the older girl. As it was, murderous glares were all Ginny was able to direct towards the object of her ire.
“Mr Potter has proven himself to be completely innocent of any wrongdoing, Ms Brown,” McGonagall declared, raising her voice to ensure that nobody failed to hear her. She also made a point of giving Lavender a look that expressed her disappointment. “I would have hoped that you know him well enough to dismiss such blatant and idiotic rumour and gossip.”
“Oh,” muttered Lavender softly, ducking her head in embarrassment.
“But is Harry going to be okay?” asked Hermione insistently.
“As I said; Madam Pomfrey is doing her best,” replied McGonagall, “but I fear Harry will have to endure a long recovery before he can be released.”
“And what about Umbridge?” asked Neville Longbottom. “Is she going to get away with this as well?”
McGonagall drew her lips into a fine line as she turned her thoughts to the school’s High Inquisitor. She had left the odious woman firmly trussed up in her office.
“Rest assured,” she told her student, “I don’t expect Madam Umbridge will be able to talk her way out of this mess. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
-oOo-
Consciousness returned slowly to Harry. The first thing he became aware of was the dull, throbbing ache that seemed to originate in his bones and then worked its way out to the rest of his body. The second thing he noticed was that he was currently sprawled out on an uncomfortably hard floor.
He blinked open an eye and stared blearily at the floor his face was pressed against. For a moment he wondered who had stolen his carpet, but soon realized that he was not in his dormitory.
As the memories began to surface through the fuzz filling his mind, he instead wondered who had stolen Professor McGonagall’s carpet.
Once more of his brain was working, Harry realized the ridiculousness of that thought and began to understand that he was no longer in the deputy headmistress’s office.
The idea that he was in Azkaban occurred to him, as the floor was rather uncomfortable and he doubted that he would have been left on the floor anywhere else.
Struggling into a sitting position he took a look around at his surrounding.
“Ah, bollocks,” he swore.
He was currently in the one place on earth that was even worse than Azkaban.
Number four Privet Drive.
“...I’m gonna go out on a limb and say this is hell,” Harry said in a deadpan voice
“Close, but not quite.”
“Freddy?” asked Harry, turning to see his dream companion descending the stairs.
“Who else were you expecting? Your loving relatives?” retorted Freddy.
“So this is a dream?” asked Harry, staggering unsteadily to his feet.
“Of course it is.”
“But why are we here? Why not the Great Hall?”
Freddy rolled his eyes. “How the hell should I know? It’s your mind and your dream.”
“Great,” grumbled Harry.
“Stop being so emo, kid,” said Freddy, clapping him hard on the shoulder. “You’re still alive, barely, so you ain’t got nothing to complain about.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course I am.”
“So, what happened?” asked Harry. “Everything’s a bit fuzzy after they gave me the truth potion.”
“The ugly toad bitch nearly killed you with an overdose of that verification shit,” explained Freddy.
Harry nodded slowly. “I sort of remember her trying to give me another dose.”
“Yeah, well that was just the start.”
“What do you mean?”
“Vol-de-mort,” said Freddy succinctly.
“He actually came to Hogwarts?” asked Harry in alarm.
Freddy smacked him on the back of the head. “Don’t be stupid, kid. He came here.”
Harry was still a little muggy from everything and was thus understandably confused.
“Voldemort attacked the Dursleys?”
Freddy sighed and smacked Harry again. “You’re an idiot. He came here. Here, as in here. This place. Your dreams.”
“He was in my mind?” asked Harry, appalled. He could feel the blood draining from his face.
“Yep,” Freddy carelessly confirmed.
Harry began to pace back and forth. Freddy watched him with obvious amusement.
“What happened? I don’t know Occlumency -damn Snape- so I can’t keep him out...”
“Don’t worry about it, kid. I took care of that ugly little shitstain,” declared Freddy.
Harry stopped pacing and stared at him in disbelief.
“You what?”
“Heh, I kicked his ass back to wherever he came from,” explained Freddy.
“You beat him?” asked Harry incredulously.
“It’s almost embarrassing how easy it was,” Freddy boasted smugly.
Harry was at a loss as to how he should feel about this. On the one hand, it was disturbing to think that here, in the realm of dreams; Freddy was so powerful that Voldemort could be defeated so casually. On the other hand, it was rather pleasant to think that the dark lord had been so swiftly and decisively taken care of.
If only Dumbledore and the Order were half as effective.
In the end Harry merely said, “Uh, thank you... I guess.”
“Meh,” Freddy dismissed his thanks. “If snakeface killed you I’d be cast back to Limbo. Ain’t no way I’m going back there until I’ve had my fun. And right now, the games are just beginning!”
There wasn’t much Harry could think or say about that, save the disquieting feeling that a large number of people would do well to avoid falling asleep.
-oOo-
When true consciousness returned to Harry he was much more cognisant as to where he was. Considering the amount of time he had spent in the school infirmary, he could hardly mistake it for anywhere else.
“Well, this is an improvement,” he croaked. His throat was throbbing painfully, as if he had been drinking broken glass.
“Now that’s something I rarely hear. Especially from you, Mr Potter.”
“Madam Pomfrey,” greeted Harry with some relief. He had half been expecting to wake up in a Ministry holding cell, if not Azkaban.
“Drink this,” the matron commanded, holding up a vial filled with a deep violet potion.
Harry naturally looked at the potion with suspicion. Especially when his nose caught a whiff of mouldy cheese.
Seeing his expression, Pomfrey sighed. Potter was always a difficult patient.
“It’s a very weak pain relief potion for your throat,” she explained. “You screamed yourself hoarse and no doubt need it.”
“Yeah,” Harry acknowledged. He obediently opened his mouth and allowed her to feed him the potion.
“Now, how are you feeling?” she asked as she set the now empty vial aside. She held up a hand before he could answer. “And don’t think I’ll believe you if you say you’re fine.”
Laughing mirthlessly, and noting that his throat was already feeling better, Harry took stock of himself.
“All my muscles are sore,” he noted. He tentatively moved his limbs. “I feel like I just got off one of Oliver Wood’s more energetic training sessions.”
“Well, that’s better than I had hoped,” concluded Pomfrey.
“Oh?” queried Harry.
“You’re going to be spending a good couple of weeks in my care this time,” Pomfrey told him with a slight smirk.
“Wonderful.”
Pomfrey’s smirk grew, “Perhaps a prolonged convalescence will finally convince you to try and avoid getting into such situations in the first place.”
Harry directed a glare at the woman. “You seem to thing I had a choice. Umbridge--”
“Is no longer at Hogwarts.”
Harry and Pomfrey turned to see that Professor McGonagall had entered the infirmary and was walking to join them at Harry’s bed.
“Ah, Minerva,” greeting Pomfrey. “I trust everything has been taken care of?”
McGonagall offered them a tight smile. “Madam Umbridge has been arrested for attempted murder. Aurors Dawlish and Fisher have been suspended pending an investigation.”
“Really?” asked Harry in disbelief.
“Madam Bones has taken a personal interest in the case,” explained McGonagall. “She will be personally dealing with both this and the murder investigation.”
“What about Fudge?” asked Harry.
He was well aware that the minister was not against doing whatever he felt like with impunity. The possibility that he would force the Aurors to release Umbridge was all too real. Harry’s trial had shown that very few people cared to stand up against his political machinations.
“Doubtless the Minister will be very upset once he learns what is happening,” agreed McGonagall.
“He’s going to force them to let her go, isn’t he?”
“He can try, but will find that Madam Bones cannot be dissuaded so easily.”
Harry sighed in relief and sank back into his pillows.
Then he remembered what Freddy had told him. While he had no memory at all of the attack, he had no reason to doubt his nightmarish companion’s claims.
“Voldemort!” he blurted out, jerking himself upright even as his muscles screamed in protest.
McGonagall managed to suppress most of her reaction to the dark lord’s name, but still gave a small twitch.
“So, you remember what happened?” she asked.
“A little,” Harry lied. “It’s all very fuzzy, but I think he was trying to break into my mind.”
“More than that, Mr Potter,” murmured McGonagall, vividly recalling just how disturbing those few short minutes had been.
“Minerva, Mr Potter’s friends have been knocking on the door every few minutes,” noted Pomfrey, looking for a less worrisome topic.
“Yes,” McGonagall confirmed. “I ran into some of them before I came in.”
“Can I see them?” asked Harry.
“I’m afraid not, Mr Potter, I sent them down to dinner,” apologised McGonagall.
“Well, maybe when they’re finished eating...”
“Not tonight,” interrupted Pomfrey.
“But--”
“You’ve had quite the day, Mr Potter, and are in no condition for prolonged visits.”
“But I--”
“You’re going to have a light soup and some bread for dinner and then you’ll be turning in for the night. Understand?” commanded Pomfrey.
Knowing that this was yet another fight he would not win, Harry sighed and nodded. “Yes ma’am.”
As Pomfrey left his bedside, doubtless to acquire yet another disgusting potion for him to drink, Harry turned his attention to McGonagall.
“Can you tell them I’m all right?” he asked.
“I’ll let them know.”
“Thanks Professor.”
The deputy-headmistress stood and regarded him for a long moment before shaking her head.
“How do you keep getting into these situations, Mr Potter?” asked McGonagall.
“I’d like to know that as well,” replied Harry.
-oOo-
“Is something wrong, Mr Potter?” asked Madam Pomfrey, taking his empty bowl of soup and setting it on the bedside table.
“Um, I’ve, uh, been having really bad nightmares the last couple of nights,” Harry reluctantly explained. “I was, uh, wondering if I could... y’know, have some Dreamless Sleep potion tonight.”
“Absolutely not,” the matron promptly declared.
Trying to remain polite and not show how upset he felt at being denied, Harry asked, “Why not?”
Pomfrey patiently explained, “You’re currently suffering from veritaserum poisoning, Mr Potter. I’ve given you several potion drafts to flush it out of your system - that’s why you’re sweating so much, but it will be several weeks before you can safely take anything more potent.”
“Weeks,” repeated Harry dismally.
“Probably closer to a month, just to be on the safe side,” confirmed Pomfrey.
“But--”
“Mr Potter, you just came closer to death than you ever have during your time at Hogwarts,” Pomfrey told him firmly. “One bad reaction to an even halfway potent potion could very well finish you off. I will not have that on my conscience.”
Harry sighed and relented.
“In the meanwhile,” Pomfrey continued, “I can give you one of the milder sleeping potions if you’d like.”
“No, it’s fine, thank you,” Harry declined.
“Very well. Remember to call if you need anything.”
Watching the school nurse leave the ward and slip into her office, Harry sourly thought that the one thing he really need was some Dreamless Sleep potion.
He really did not want to deal with Freddy so soon after their last meeting.
He especially had no desire to see if his dreams would take place in Privet Drive again or would revert to the much more comfortable Great Hall.
Trying to stay awake, however, was simply impossible. His entire body not only ached, but was almost dead from exhaustion. His small dinner had helped, but already he could feel his eyes beginning to droop. He tried his best not to succumb, but he was just too tired to hold it off any longer.
His last conscious thought before drifting to sleep was that he really hoped not to find himself dreaming of Privet Drive.
.
TBC...