To Not Be Apparent
It was a perfectly normal day in Little Whinging, Privet Drive. The mid-July sun mercilessly pounded the pristine pavements with its scorching rays. In one house, identical to those across, at the side and behind it, a family of three resided in the living room.
A large red-faced man lounged in an armchair. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, only to be wiped away by an old, damp cloth. The drone of the weatherman was briefly shunned by the boorish verbalisations of consumption of an equally boorish young boy. Bustling about the kitchen, a skinny housewife located a pair of spare batteries suitable for the handheld fan clutched in her twig-like fingers. Amidst the heated environment a young, thin boy crouched in the garden beside a bunch of Daffodils. A pile of dead leaves and a small watering can lay next to him. His dry throat yearned for the water and he was almost tempted into drinking it. The thought was quickly subdued as he absently rubbed the red cheek, not fond of the idea of a matching red cheek. Instead he lifted the can and emptied the remaining mouth-watering moisture onto the parched plant. Picking up the breathless leaves, he deposits them into the green, plastic tomb.
A sigh escapes him. The brief moment of tranquillity ends and the boy obediently returns to the house.
It is in the evening and a young boy with black hair is nursing a bruised shoulder after destroying a perfectly normal dinner and spoiling a perfectly delivered cut of beef. He blankly gazed around the familiar walls until he came across his glorious white treasure, his friend. A genuine smile crossed his seemingly gaunt face as she hooted in reply to his stare. Slowly rising, the boy slightly staggered to her cage, gently lifting his finger to lovingly stroke her head. In response she tilted her head and nipped the side of his hand. His stomach growled and he broke away from his affectionate owl. Quietly moving, he made his way to the side of his bed where he crouched and began slowly pressing the floorboards. Finally a board gave slightly under his palm, lifting up on the other side, and when he took it out a carefully placed box greeted him. Once onto his bed the boy opened the box to reveal a small collection of snacks, bottles of water and a couple of cans of fizzy pop. He took out a packet of crisps, two biscuits and a can of pop before placing the box and board rightfully in their places. After his meal the boy hid away all evidence in what was a previous Christmas present, an old sock, to be thrown away early the next morning.
"I'm sorry." He whispered sincerely.
A comforting hoot was his only answer.
"You idiot boy!"
Flinching, the young boy apologizes to his furious Uncle. Though he knows the blow is inevitable. As if responding to his thoughts, the hand strikes his cheek and his body rears to his right from the force. A hand gripping his torn jumper jerks him back and right into another punch. He tries to mute his gasps and cries as they only anger and encourage the man. Shamefully he turns his saddened gaze to the floor. I can't do anything right, he hatefully thought. Biting his bottom lip in frustration he remembers a certain man's death…and a certain mad witch. Shaking, the hatred swirls within him and his Uncle suddenly lets go, as if burned. The broken plant pot is forgotten for the moment as Uncle and Nephew glare into each other's eyes. Reluctantly the man turns.
"Clean it up." He says, before heading back out of the kitchen and into the living room.
For a while the boy stares at the wall where the man's eyes where. A wet sensation trailing down his lips distracts him; he blinks as if breaking from a gaze and releases his bottom lip. Reaching up he places a finger gently on the tender spot. Surprised, he finds a crimson mark upon his finger. Sighing he wipes away the blood, remembering not to bite so hard next time.
The beatings or punishments, as he thought they were at first, were gradually becoming more severe he noted. Worryingly so, it appeared his Uncle enjoyed hurting him. His presence in the house had become quite dangerous; a simple, careless mistake would mean harsh punishment. Why only at breakfast this morning he had been viciously slapped due to placing his Uncle's coffee down too loudly on the table. In the corner of his room a quiet chuckle escaped him. How ironic, he left more at risk here than anywhere in the Wizarding World. At least there he could try to protect himself; here he was helpless and easily overpowered by his monstrous Uncle. His lips twisted to form a sneer, and it was all HIS fault, he thought angrily.
Grimacing, he slowly got up. Stretching his legs he gave a slight gasp as his chest twinged in discomfort. The child, or rather whale, had joined in today, 'helping' to 'educate' him. Although he ran out of energy quickly, the fat fists certainly packed a punch, often leaving Harry wheezing and winded. Finally after a few agonizingly long weeks of suppression, a part of his emotions broke free. Unable to stop them the boy slammed his fist into the wall from where he stood facing the wall from the side. His arm shook under the strain of keeping it lifted.
"Dammit! Dammit! I can't take any more of this. Dumbledore…please. Dumbledore help me!" he howled, sinking to his knees. The pain in his chest flared, clutching his sore ribs he fell, landing on his side.
And that is where the great Harry Potter lay, curled up in pain for the rest of the night.
"Damn birds shut up!"
Groaning the boy opened his eyes, the right side of his face ached where his glasses, pressed against the floor, had dug into his skin. The boy, Harry, adjusted them to ease the discomfort. He rose, pleased to find the ribs he thought were broken to be only sprained as the pain lessened. Harry turned around, remembering a bird's hooting and stopped.
It was another sunny day in the perfectly normal street. The birds happily sung, a man walking whistled and the cool breeze seemed to howl softly in response.
"N-No…this…can't b-be happening…"
An empty cage greeted him. The bars, crudely cut and twisted, were unfamiliar. The strangeness of the scene struck Harry hard. This is not how things are meant to be! His wide eyes took in the sight. Feathers, lots of feathers lay curled up on the floor. But they weren't Hedwig's feathers…No. These were mostly red. Hedwig had white feathers didn't she? Didn't she? Startled, Harry gasped as the clump of red feathers shifted slightly.
A strangled cry left Harry as he rushed to cradle the mass of red. So much red.
Children were making their way to the park, intent on making the most out of the summer break. A giggle escaped a girl's lips as her mother tickled her, kissing her cheek and telling her to be home in time for dinner. Waving, the girl ran to her friends and off they ran, on another adventure.
A hoot. Though it was sad and not like Hedwig at all.
"N-N-No! No no no no no…! Dammit how-who did this?" Harry bellowed.
Clutching at the red mass he cried, hugging the body to his chest he felt her weakly nip his neck lovingly. The pain was unbearable. But Harry could do nothing. His duty was to stay until her last breath. The feeling of utter helplessness was sickening.
At last her head hung limply against his arm. And he screamed.
He didn't hear the thundering footsteps or the clank of the keys, so tormented by his sorrows was he. Then he was flying through the air, his friend grasped in his trembling hands. Blow after blow did nothing to stir him. It was only when he felt a tug at his rotting cargo did he react. Without hesitation he swung his head forward, hitting the offending face and momentarily getting control of his hands and friend. He stood up, only to be knocked down again. Dazed, he became limp for a moment which was enough time for the man to grasp the owl and throw it onto the bed. Blinking he vaguely saw a tall, large figure.
"I'll teach you for making such freakish noises boy!" The man promised.
Groaning, Harry tried to remember to whom that voice belonged. A metallic clank. He attempted to sit upright but was struck with cool metal, the middle caught hold of his cheek and a small cut formed. Turning onto his stomach Harry began to regain focus in his sight. Grunting he yet again tried to stand, only to scream as cool metal whipped his back over and over. He squirmed and begged the man to stop, choking back tears. The offensive object hit the floor. The boy gave a slightly panicked sigh of relief, which turned into a gasping exhale as his hair was harshly grasped and pulled back, taking him with it. He heard a rough chuckle and felt meaty hands wrap around his waist like a snake. A whimper instinctively left his lips as his hair was pulled back even more, baring his neck to the man.
"Oh I'm going to enjoy this boy. You deserve it. Oh yes yes, you deserve it."
"U-Uncle?" Harry gasped.
A hand began to lower until it found his belt. Harry flinched and struggled but his Uncle just continued until his pants had fallen into a heap on the floor.
"W-What are you doing? Stop Uncle! Please stop!" Harry yelled.
Harry began to fight back more fiercely, thrashing his body left and right, elbowing and clawing at his Uncle, desperately trying to get free. An elbow struck his Uncle's chest, giving Harry the priceless opening he needed to stand up and swing a punch at the man. Pulling his pants up he made a dash for the door but just as he got to it his neck was caught in a vice-grip, his Uncle's grubby hand easily lifting Harry a few inches into the air. Suddenly he was thrown onto the bed and before he could get up, the man smothered him with his own body. Harry felt a thick leather cord grip his waist, glimpsing side wards he could just see his Uncle wrapping a long belt around his thin torso, binding both arms to his sides. In horror, he could only let out panicked breaths and plead as his Uncle began to remove his pants once more. His head was abruptly shoved into the covers, muffling his cries that quickly turned into screams as a stabbing pain reached his back.
"See what that spells boy? Freak. F-R-E-A-K. It looks good on you boy, another freakish scar for a freakish boy." His Uncle menacingly said.
His head was released and after a few gulps of cool air, Harry noticed an odd, glinting shape at the side of him. It was a knife. A faint slither of fresh blood covered the tip of the blade. Dried blood covered most of the blade, Harry saw. He didn't have time to ponder this however because he felt a sudden prodding against the side of his thighs. The sound of a zipper and rustling caught his attention and he settled down, focus and alert. It was only when the man grabbed at Harry's penis did he cry out in disgust and shock. A choked sob escaped him as his Uncle painfully clamped his hand tight on his genitals.
"No! No! Stop it! STOP IT!" Harry screamed, terrified.
The hand released and he felt his underwear fall to his knees. Frustrated and panicked, Harry began to cry for help.
"Somebody…please! Somebody help me!" His cries mirrored his earlier pleas for help and, like those, the cries were left unanswered.
A hoarse scream of agony and betrayal tore through his throat as his Uncle rammed his erection into Harry's anus. Again and again his anus was abused. His muscles clenched and ached as no care was given, the blistering pain had begun to dull as his body and mind became numb. Turning his head to the right, Harry saw his poor, dead friend, broken and bloodied. Her lifeless, hollow orbs gazed at Harry's terrified, bloodshot ones. Silent tears fell down his face and like before, he felt an overpowering sense of hatred forming inside him. Black and inky. Consuming. Release. His pained face managed a grimace as he felt his U-that man's seed inside him.
That was all it took. Almost like a lock had been broken, Harry felt power surging inside him. Thinking quickly, as soon as he felt the man remove himself out of him, Harry turned and kicked the man in his genitals. As the man sank to his knees Harry then kicked his head, stomping on the grotesque face over and over until he was sure he would have a few minutes spare. Working fast, Harry grabbed the knife and slowly began to cut into the leather belt. A few times it slid and grazed his chest but he kept going, knowing the man might actually kill him. When the belt had been cut about halfway Harry pushed both of his arms outward, stretching the belt in order to tear it completely. Looking down, he saw the knife still clutched in his hands. Suddenly he looked at Hedwig, then at the dried blood. It clicked. At that moment in time, Harry can truthfully say he hated and despised the man in front of him, wanting nothing more than to kill him. Without thinking, Harry crouched at the side of the man, then lifting the blade up, he brought it down. Slowly and deeply branding onto his chest the words 'Muggle scum'. Wiping the tip of the blade on the man's shirt, Harry was surprised when a punch hit the side of his face. Though he didn't let out a single sound. Slowly he rose and was going to stun the man when he heard-
"Filthy bastard. I'll fucking kill you for taunting my family with your freakishness! You'll meet the same end as your filthy, worthless Godfather you will! You should all be slaughtered!" The man yelled viciously.
Something snapped inside of Harry. His last restraint shattered and he unleashed all of his fury and hate onto the fat man, picturing his Godfather's death, the only man who cared for him, and the mad witch, who had killed him. Bellatrix Lestrange. Coldly Harry looked at the man's oncoming figure. His Avada Kedavra eyes glared hatefully at the man who had killed his friend.
"You know the spell, Harry."
A jet of red light came from Harry's outstretched index finger. At touching the man he fell to the floor and began to writhe and scream. A pleased grin reached Harry's face. Happiness swirled inside him until he couldn't help but laugh along with the man's screams. The sound of a shrill voice and footsteps reached Harry's ears. At the door stood his Aunt Petunia and their spawn Dudley. Their wide eyes gazed around until they caught sight of Vernon. Instantly Harry released the curse and systematically pointed to the woman.
The woman's warm body hit the floor, making the large boy scream.
"W-WHAT DID YOU DO? N-NO! DON'T HURT ME F-FREAK!" The pig pleaded.
At hearing the word 'freak' Harry's eyes narrowed.
"I've always hated you, Dudley. Now, go join your dear, sweet mother." Harry hissed.
Another jet of green light and a thud. He knew he didn't have much time. Crouching next to the unconscious man Harry muttered-
The instant Vernon's eyes opened Harry plunged the knife deep into his arm. Next his leg, then his genitals, until Vernon was growing pale with blood loss. Even after he had died, Harry continued to stab his body, mutilating it like he had done to Hedwig. Tears mixed with blood as the red liquid sprayed his face, covering his glasses partly. Finally he plunged the knife into Vernon's head and gathered Hedwig in his arms. Shifting to the corner he cuddled his white treasure and drew his knees up.
"I'm sorry." He whispered brokenly.
A solemn silence was his last answer until a "Crack!" nearby followed by a couple more alerted him of the many Aurors presences'.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He continued.
It was this scene that the Aurors found upon entering the Dursley's residence. The scene of Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived after he mercilessly killed his last three family members.
The Daily Prophet
Harry Potter, The Boy-Who-Lived – MISSING?
Exclusive – Late last night, at around 7pm, the Ministry was alerted to a number of unforgivable curses being used at a house in Little Whinging, Surrey. The house, number 4 Privet Drive, to our knowledge, was where the young Harry Potter was residing over the summer break with his three remaining muggle relatives. On arriving at the house, the Aurors found large amounts of blood in a bedroom believed to be Harry Potters', it is not yet clear whether the blood belongs to our dear Chosen One or not but both Harry Potter and his beloved owl were not found at the house and remain missing. The Ministry are urging anyone with information to come forth.
Where is Harry Potter? Is this the work of You-Know-Who?
Written by Rita Skeeter
Abruptly the article was discarded as rough, black hands folded the newspaper and solemnly placed it upon the well-polished desk of Cornelius Fudge. Kingsley Shacklebolt turned at the sound of the door opening in time to see an averagely sized, grey haired man step into the office. He looked flustered and as he closed the door the sound of many rushed voices and flashing cameras entered the room, only to be drowned out a heartbeat later. At last the man breathed a sigh and strided across the room to his desk. As he sat, the Minister for Magic took a moment to quickly glance at everyone around the room.
Including himself, four others stood silently around the room in anticipation.
"As you know, the situation in which we find ourselves is very difficult. The public are panicked at the disappearance of the boy. Now I-" The Minister said gravely.
"Hold on a minute Minister, Albus has the boy, we all know that. Why isn't he being released yet? You saw what the muggles had done-" Kingsley interrupted.
"The muggles are dead Kingsley! The boy was the only one there that night! And if that wasn't enough, there were magic traces found from his own wand! Unforgivables for Merlin's sake!" Fudge exclaimed angrily. "The public would begin to riot if they found out. No, for now the boy must be kept away from watchful eyes."
"The Minister is right, it's for the best. After all, even the Chosen One must be given a trial. This act cannot go unpunished. Why, if we release the boy now he could escape! Who knows who he is really working for! I certainly wouldn't rule You-Know-Who out of this." In that instant, the atmosphere turned sour at the high, shrill voice of Dolores Umbridge, a woman who needed no introduction for the shockingly pink ensemble she wore and her toad-like face left a lasting impression by themselves.
"Minister, a trial? Do you not think we should wait and properly hear Harry's side of the story? After all he was brutally beaten and his owl was killed. He could have been protecting himself." Kingsley proposed.
"The use of an unforgivable is not self-defence but an attack. There are many self-defence spells familiar to Potter." snarled a rather average looking man with short, grey hair by the name of Dawlish.
The Minister, who up until this moment had been observing the debate with some interest suddenly turned towards a nervous looking man with short, ginger hair.
"Weasley, I want you to make sure no one gets word of Potter's whereabouts. The only people to know are those in this room and Dumbledore. I have decided to delay the trial no longer; the boy will answer for his crimes once and for all. This time there will be no one to worm him out of it, not even Albus Dumbledore can get him cleared this time. I want you to be present at the trial in a few days' time. Every outburst, every lie, every plea I want written down."
And with that, all other conversations ceased. Umbridge looked positively delighted, Dawlish looked as emotionless as ever save for a strange glint in his eyes, and Kingsley, with one last sigh hung his head mutely in defeat.
"Alright. I think that's all for this meeting. And remember, not a word to anyone." Fudge leaned back in his chair and calmly regarded the retreating party. With the door finally closed, the Minister gathered a piece of parchment and ink.
"At last we have you, Potter."
Silence greeted him first. Sweet, sweet silence.
Then warmth. In reaction to the warmth surrounding him, he pressed closer to it. The first few seconds struck him as being beautifully simple.
On moving, he registered an uncomfortable stiffness in his ribs. His whole body felt suddenly very heavy.
The silence seemed to suffocate him. Harsh light greeted his drowsy eyes and he wished he'd never woken up. Looking down he realised the mass of red, blue and green was his skin, his arms. A startled cry left his bruised throat. His hands moved to his neck, the skin was quite sore when he touched it.
All lethargy gone, he bolted upright in bed. However, he immediately stopped as a startling surge of dizziness hit him. Quickly he placed his slightly shaking hand over his mouth, wary of the bile restlessly turning inside his stomach. A thankful sigh left his throat but was overshadowed by his groan of discomfort. He lay back down.
What had happened?
A despairing wail ushered out of his mouth as memory after memory came flooding back in harsh clarity. His breathing sounded too loud and his chest was rising far too high. Briefly he noticed he was crying. A few moments later movement erupted on his right. His vision had distorted so he could only make out various blurred figures through his watery orbs. It occurred to him that someone was touching his right arm that was grasping his own shirt over his heart. They were shaking him. His other hand shakily clenched his black, damp hair as he curled in on himself in order to block out the distressed figures' voice. Numbly he registered that he was hyperventilating.
"Potter! Are you alright? Snap out of it!"
There was a gathering darkness around the edges of his vision now and he found he could only catch snippets of what the man was saying.
Feeling slightly giddy Harry thought It's too late for that before feeling one side of his mouth lift into a slanted smirk as he was swallowed by blissful darkness.
It was dark when he next woke. Groggily Harry slowly sat upright, glad the dizziness hadn't welcomed him. He was met with a feeling of panic as his vision remained blurry until he remembered the lack of pressure on his ears and nose. After finding his glasses on the left beside table he placed them on and began to look around the room until a single voice, the one he had craved to arrive in his time of need spoke aloud to his right.
"You gave us quite a fright there, my boy."
Eyes wide and mouth slightly parted, Harry spun to face the old, twinkling, esteemed Headmaster. Albus Dumbledore.
"Professor Dumbledore!" Harry cried in relief and joy. The happiness didn't last as reality once again caught up with him. He bit his lip and closed his eyes.
"He-Hedwig…sir she's d-dead. And I-I…I COULDN'T DO ANYTHING!" Strengthened with guilt, anger and sadness Harry threw the dark sheets off his shaking form and rose to stand on the left side of the bed, glaring across at the ever silent headmaster.
"Sh-She trusted me to protect her and I…I thought I was stronger than this. First it was my parents…the strangers I never knew who died for me. FOR ME! Then it was C-Cedric, who shouldn't have even been there. WHO PAID THE PRICE BECAUSE OF ME! And HE killed him, just because he was with me. Because of me a person died that night! His father – Oh his father. I took his son away from him and what did he do? HE THANKED ME! T-THANKED ME FOR BRINGING BACK HIS BODY…When it should have been my body he brought back…mine not his. They should hate me.
"At last I thought that was it. No one would die for me again. I-I'm just a boy! Why would they waste their lives for someone like me? But it didn't end. It never ends does it sir? The world will continue to make me suffer…do I deserve it? I-I'm beginning to think I must do. And…and Sirius…my only family…"
Throughout his outburst Harry felt his body begin to sag. His legs started to shake under the pressure until they buckled, leaving him kneeling on the floor with his furiously trembling hands clutching the bed sheets. His heart felt too big, wounded beyond repair. Why hadn't it given up yet? The world was too cruel for his fragile heart…and it continued to show no mercy.
"Now my beautiful owl, my friend…has gone too."
His nerves were shattered, he realised, as he felt tears leak out of his eyes. He grasped his thundering chest with his right hand and stared into the old man's concerned eyes. Though there was too much emotion in those orbs, endless amounts of it. Harry felt like he was drowning in them, so he turned his gaze onto the bed. Looking but not really seeing, he continued.
"I-I've had enough now, Professor. I can't take any more of this pain. Please, no one else must die for me. S-Stop this…endless cycle. Tell me what to do to end this please, sir." Harry despairingly cried.
Until this time, Dumbledore had been silent, carefully assessing his broken boy. Moving slowly so as not to startle the shaken Chosen One, Dumbledore stood up and made his way around the bed to crouch next to the boy. He then placed his right arm around Harry's shoulders.
"Harry I know how you are feeling."
Despair tainted the boy's next words.
"Please don't…not again. You don't know anything – I don't want to talk about this Dumbledore." Harry weakly said.
Harry tried to free himself from the headmaster's grip but found he couldn't. Though he didn't know whether that was because he was shaken or Dumbledore was surprisingly strong. Dumbledore, undeterred by Harry's struggles, continued.
"Listen to me Harry. Please."
Resignedly Harry turned his head slightly to the left to face Dumbledore.
"The despair and sadness you feel shows how strong you really are. You accept these feelings and continue to protect the ones you love, even at the cost of your own life. You never give up Harry. Don't you see? Your strength is heightened by the very feelings you loathe! You must embrace these feelings, Harry. By doing so you can protect your friends."
Harry felt his mouth tremble as fresh tears leaked out of his eyes.
"But that's just it isn't it Professor. I haven't saved anyone at all. These – these feelings are useless! I've only succeeded in making others pay the price for my existence! Why can't you understand? I have had enough. I want out! Without me, no one would have to suffer like this!"
Shaking his head Dumbledore observed the boy.
"Harry my boy; you must stop blaming yourself for all this. It was Voldemort who murdered your parents, not you. It was Voldemort who planned the Death Eater attack at the Ministry and it was on Voldemort's orders that Bellatrix killed Sirius! Voldemort is the man behind everything Harry, he killed your owl. Remember that, Harry. Remember the pain he has caused you and your friends. He must be stopped by your hand, Harry. This pain you feel was caused by him. And it will not stop until he is gone. You understand?" Dumbledore encouraged.
Breathing slowly, Harry calmly looked at his headmaster. He was right. Voldemort slaughtered all his loved ones, it was him. He'd known that, but somewhere along the way he had begun to blame himself for everyone's deaths. The shadow of sadness gleamed in his eyes.
"I-I understand, sir. But my U-" The word caught in his throat. He found it strange that this man's name was the one he feared over the Dark Lords'. "That man and-"
Frustration hit Harry so suddenly. Why was he behaving so weak? Then it struck him. An unwelcome feeling of intense hatred. He hated the fact that he had been bested by a…muggle. Even in death that man had won. As he was forced to live on with this hatred on his shoulders. He felt so ashamed and disgraced that his throat wouldn't function properly, making speech impossible.
"Your Uncle is unfortunately dead, Harry"
Horror hit Harry in a flash of clarity. His mind, whilst trying to protect its frail host, had attempted to forget the events of that night but to no avail.
So shocked was he that he didn't notice Dumbledore stand, bringing him up as well, until he was placed on the end of the bed. The old man remained standing, overlooking his distraught student.
"Oh – Oh no. P-Professor…I - Oh God I killed him! I-I used that-. I-I…how could I do such a thing?" Harry stuttered, placing his hands on either side of his head to clutch at his hair in desperation.
"Oh my boy. I am so sorry you were subjected to such vicious treatment. If I'd had any idea, I would have taken you out of that house myself."
A brief flash of hesitation flickered across the boy's face before returning to the distressed face of a troubled child.
"W-What will happen to me? Oh why that curse? Why why why! I-I will be sentenced to Azkaban like a D-Dea-" Harry whispered quietly, unaware of his surroundings anymore, like he had fallen into an inky black vacuum and was suffocating in his own panic.
"You must understand that this is a very serious matter Harry. In normal circumstances you would be sentenced to death or at least life in Azkaban. However, you were acting in self-defence. The shock of the situation may have caused you to act more viciously than you would have done normally. But the Minister cannot risk a public uproar; he must maintain his influence in these dire times. The public has been left out of this matter for now until the trial is held for your actions, just or not"
"Will I be…sentenced to death?" Harry bit his lip in anticipation.
"I will stay by your side and protect you Harry. Do not fear my boy." Dumbledore smiled.
And with that, a little spark of hope lit in Harry's dulled eyes.
"T-Thank you sir, so much."
"Now you must rest Harry. You have been through a lot. Your mind as well as your body needs to recover for the upcoming trial. Take care my boy."
As Dumbledore left the room, Harry began to feel the truth of his words. Glancing down, he noticed a faint tremble in his hands. Not trusting his body enough to stand alone, he slid under the covers of the bed and drifted into a tormented sleep.