I Lost [Myself] That Night

I Lost [Myself] That Night

Chapter 2

Previously on I Lost [Myself] That Night:

When Harry felt that slippery sensation in his mind, he forcefully brought his mental shields around his mind down with a slam. Dumbledore wheezed, stumbling backwards.

“Go into my mind again, Headmaster, and I will rip yours into pieces.” Harry threatened lowly.

“This isn’t you, my boy.” Dumbledore gasped as he rubbed at his forehead.

“Perhaps.”

Harry’s eyes went distant. Then they focused on Dumbledore with startling intensity.

“Though I have been melded through smoke and ash, rose from fire and water. Are you sure you know who I am, Dumbledore? Ten years is a long time to go without seeing a child grow up. Are you sure you knew who I was when I stepped into Hogwarts halls?” Harry shook his head. “Don’t pretend to know me, Headmaster. You make a fool of both of us.”

Ignoring Dumbledore’s wet periwinkle eyes, he turned to face a shell-shocked Amelia.

“Unlock the door for me, Lady Bones. I desire to go back to Hogwarts and pack my things.”

Amelia swallowed heavily and flicked her wand. There was a click and the door swung open. He nodded, turning and exiting.

The silence he left behind felt like a balm on the wounds of his soul.

Arriving back at Hogwarts felt like he had entered into a fever dream.

It was something to be said about walking into ones nightmare, then out of it, only to come back into a dream; one that he’d stepped into countless times. Only this time, it was somehow tainted, like the walls of Hogwarts had been clouded with shadows.

Clouded with the knowledge that this may be the last time Harry would be stepping back into Hogwarts.

He didn’t know what Voldemort would do once he was pulled into the hell of wherever he had to stay. It may be Malfoy Manor, it may be whatever surreal realm Voldemort lived in—he seemed like the type to be spawned from the bloody Underworld. But one thing was clear, once he was there, Voldemort wasn’t likely to let him go back to Hogwarts.

He didn’t want to imagine what was in store for him once he was under Voldemort’s thumb.

It would be torment, it would be … well, torture.

All things pertaining to Voldemort and his lowly Death Eaters was, of course.

For a long while, he just stood in the Entrance Hall and took things in. Took in the slight chatter coming from the Great Hall, of students still chatting about their summers and everything after, of their classes and even whining about homework. Took in the slight pulse of magic in the air. One that came from the walls of the almost sentient castle.

Hogwarts almost felt like it was mourning him leaving so early.

He imagined this was what Hogwarts felt whenever a student left her halls before their time. Maybe Hogwarts had even mourned when Moaning Myrtle had died. The sentient castle loved her students and those within it, welcomed and protected them, no matter the house.

Hogwarts had no need for school rivalries. She had no need for the split and the divide. She wanted unity amongst those that walked her halls.

Unfortunately, those within had failed her. Had turned their backs on her.

Not that they knew it of course.

Things had been divided and invisible lines drawn in the sand that no student wanted to cross. So, students had been confined to one house and it remained that way. No person was willing to cross that line and so through different generations, through the passing of prejudice and ignorance, the rivalry had continued.

Nothing was said against it.

Walking down the halls of Hogwarts felt like he was walking towards his death sentence. It felt like the build up towards something worse. It felt like the calm before the storm. It felt … it felt like nothing was going to be the same again.

He didn’t want to think about what was going to happen after he arrived at whatever place Voldemort had ordered him to go to and reside at. He didn’t want to think of what unspeakable torture he was going to be forced to endure. And above all, he didn’t want to think of being in the same room as the man that murdered his parents.

It was one thing to be forced to face him once a year. Those interactions were always filled with adrenaline, and he needn’t watch what he said to Voldemort for he was trying to kill him anyway. But the current proceedings? He would have to watch everything he said because Voldemort and his Death Eaters could do whatever they wanted to him, and no one would say a thing.

No one would speak up.

Because he was Harry Potter.

Harry had been the one to defeat Voldemort at the end of the first war, had been the one to vanquish him. He was the one destined to defeat him, though how no one had told him. Though he suspected Dumbledore knew but was keeping in the dark.

Like he had all his life.

Like he had when Harry was one, when he placed him with the Dursley’s, when he was two and three and his memory was filled with holes, when he was four and five and Harry had been shouldered with the burdens of everything the Dursley’s did not want to do, like he was a slave in oversized clothing.

When he was six and seven and the beatings and hits got worst, when the name calling was filled with a cruel edge, when he was eight and nine and ten and there was more broken arms, more bloods, more nonsensical reasons to beat him almost to death.

When was eleven and the world of magic had been opened up to him but still monitored, when he was twelve and his path melded to the beat of Dumbledore’s drum, when he was thirteen and the only family he had was dangled in front of him and the cruelly taken away.

When he was fourteen and his childhood over for good, forced into an illegal tournament and everyone turning on him, when he was fifteen and lonely and no one by his side, forced into isolation and every part of him—of his life—ripped to shreds on a mass media paper, filled with lies and deceit.

He was Harry Potter.

And neither the Death Eaters or Voldemort liked Harry Potter.

Him coming into wherever they’d been staying, him climbing the ranks by taking the title of the Dark Lord’s husband, was bound to stir up trouble. It was bound to cause him pain, it was bound to make him be in a tight spot.

And not to mention those that wanted to marry the Dark Lord themselves. The female and males of the Dark Lord’s followers that wanted to be husband or wife of Voldemort had been robbed of the title by the one they’d sworn to hurt or to kill. And they’d been looking for retribution.

Plus, there was always the thing about the Dark Lord’s followers he kept coming back to—they were insane. At least most of them. Most had been in Azkaban, most were maniacs, most were psychopaths or sociopaths. Most revelled in pain and blood, of gore and deviance.

Harry would now be their prime target.

It was just like Harry Hunting all over again.

Except he was going against older and more experienced, much more special, individuals that could kill and injure him with one swipe of their wand and one phrase of Latin falling from their lips.

And he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to survive.

Though he had a knack for it, even if he could admit that. He wasn’t a warrior or a fighter, but rather a survivor. Those that talked about all his adventures had clearly never looked at him after, never seen the fall out. Even Hermione and Ron thought that he was a fighter. But he wasn’t.

He didn’t want to be.

He was a survivor.

And he’d survived the Dursley’s, he’d survived in first year, in second and third, in fourth year, he’d survive this.

That he would do. He hadn’t really cared about anything so much but this?

This was what he would strive for.

Survival.

And making sure Voldemort regretted ever forcing him to marry the sadistic bastard.

Harry ran his hand across the walls of Hogwarts as he walked, ignoring the murmuring of voices around him, both from the students and the portraits. As he walked, blood dripped down his raised hands onto his wrist and forearm along with on the floor.

He ignored that as he made his way towards the Great Hall.

Lifting an absentminded hand to his face with his injured hand, he rubbed at his face, unknowingly smearing the blood on his cheek and jaw.

His eyes went to the big doors of the Great Hall, and he crossed the threshold.

The room went silent as soon as his footsteps were heard. Necks craned to stare at him. Eyes widened and mouths fell open.

Harry sent a glance around the room, lips curling up in a smirk as he glided towards the Gryffindor table, seating himself with a flourish.

A shriek of his name brought his eyes to the Great Hall’s entrance where Hermione and Ron were standing, Ginny, the twins and Neville by their sides. Hermione set off into a sprint and it wasn’t long before she’d crossed half the Great Hall in her mad dash.

Without thinking, Harry felt his magic curl warningly in his gut as a forcefield erupted around him, keeping Hermione out. The girl smashed into it and yelped, falling back.

Harry watched with dead eyes as Ron hurried over, lifting her up. As soon as she was free, she shoved the males hands off, sending him an impatient glare.

“Harry, what … what happened?” Hermione asked.

Ron blinked at him. “Mate, you’ve got blood on you.”

“How astute of you to notice, mate.” Harry hissed. He grabbed a piece of bacon and stuffed it into his mouth, sending his best friends—though with them ignoring him over the summer, they’d been pushed down to just friends—a glare.

They looked hurt.

Harry sniffed and turned back to his food, reaching for a goblet and filling it with pumpkin juice from the pitcher. The twins, Neville and Ginny hurried over. Ginny smashed into the barricade and went stumbling, screeching her lungs out as she wobbled over and into Ron’s arms, who steadied her. She shot Harry a glare.

“What is all this shield nonsense?” Ginny demanded.

“If I want you to get to me, you’d pass through.” Harry said, eyes going up. A smirk graced his face went Neville lifted a hesitant hand, forming a fist and bringing it forth as though he was knocking on the door. His face went surprised when it passed through without delay.

Neville’s tense shoulders relaxed, and he moved forward. Hermione followed, likely thinking she’d be able too after what Harry had said but she was knocked back once more.

The Great Hall watched with trepidation at what was occurring in front of them.

Neville slipped next to Harry, nudging his shoulder soothingly.

Harry thought he’d say something, but Neville did nothing but fill his plate with food and start eating.

The twins traded an indistinguishable look before shrugging and rushing forward. They grinned as they passed the barrier, though it faded when they smashed into the table and fell over one another, groaning.

Harry laughed, the first sound ever since that dreaded meeting that didn’t sound fake.

It rang around the Great Hall, tinged with hysteria.

He laughed until he could barely force air into his lungs.

It was only when the mirth faded that he realised Neville had his hand on his shoulder, thumb rubbing soothing circles into the skin over his stark collarbone. Neville froze for a moment before carrying on the movement with nothing more than a worried flicker in his eyes.

George and Fred untangled themselves from each other and stood, only to slip into the two seats opposite Harry and Neville.

“Hey, Harrikins, can you pass the potatoes?” Fred asked, grinning when Harry hands him the bowls of potatoes, scooping some on his plate. He gobbles them in no time, grabbing some meat. He shoved those pieces in his mouth and licked his fingers clean of fat. “So … Ministry sucking ass like usual?” Fred asked.

George choked on a chicken sandwich and dissolved into giggles.

Harry’s lips quirk up mirthlessly. “That’s one way to say it, yeah.” Harry murmured, taking a sip of pumpkin juice. He speered a piece of pork ruthlessly but didn’t eat it, sneering down at it.

“So … bad?” George asked.

“Well, of course it was.” Fred cooed. “It’s the Ministry.”

Neville smirked, pouring pumpkin juice into his goblet. Then he took a sip.

“Everyone knows that the Ministry will do whatever they can to cover their own asses.” Neville told them. He examined the food in front of them before standing and leaning over to grab some corn beef sandwiches off to the side.

Harry was abruptly reminded of the first time he’d met Ron, eleven and on the train. Sharing their treats because Ron didn’t like corn beef and once more Molly Weasley had forgotten that Ron was his own person and not one of his siblings.

With a glance at Ron, who was staring at him sadly, he bit his lip.

Ron stumbled from where he had his palm against the shield, blinking rapidly.

Without a word he took a seat between the twins, who barricaded them between them. Ron said nothing to this and if Harry was reading it right, seemed to take comfort by the twins warmth.

Something must’ve happened whilst he was gone, or Ron had realised something. And it was causing Ron to push his pride away and take comfort from his siblings.

Even though he usually did everything he could to show everyone he was strong.

That he was his own individual.

Ron pointed his wand at him, a look of concentration on his face.

Harry winced when the dried blood crusting on his face was stripped away.

“Uh, thanks.” Harry mumbled.

“Your welcome, mate.” Ron replied and then started eating, absentmindedly putting food onto Harry’s plate. Harry stared down at it and wanted to believe that Ron had no idea of what was happening when he’d gone to the Ministry, but he couldn’t be sure.

Why would Ron already be acting as though the world was ending when he saw him?

Why was he so sad at seeing Harry?

Why—just why?

Hermione and Ginny had finally stopped trying to break down the barrier with their fists and hexes as nothing was giving. They eventually had to sit a few seats down the Gryffindor table and away from Harry.

He ignored their looks, too into his head.

Why did everything bad happen to him?

Why Harry Potter?

Why couldn’t it have been someone else?

Why did it always have to be him?

No matter how many times he screamed it in his head, he got no answers.