Chapter 3
Henry lay there, faintly understanding the hands that grasped his waist and rubbed gently along his spine. He could smell the salt of tears, feel their wet, overbearing warmth on his cheeks from where his head was tilted into someone’s neck. He was bent, broken, upturned, and barely holding together as any particle of his being tried to flee his hateful body. And yet, as he existed in an even more hateful space, upended upon someone else, he registered the scent of blood(“I can smell blood”). His mother’s screams looped in his ears and played over in his mind, and Henry decided he would rather have the smell of blood-.
His wretched skin spasmed, agony forcing itself upon him, and a choked sound cut its way out of his throat for only a moment. Mum screamed, and his skin peeled, and he was not himself.
Please, he spoke quietly in his mind, please stop.
Blood, where was the blood?
The burn had intensified, but his energy was sapped. The only thing he could do was lay there and spasm violently. At the same time, sharp fingers ghosted over his skin, holding him, grasping this damnable flesh and the infliction that sits just under it. Moreover, he must have sat there long enough for the world to smell like metal and rust. His blood permeated his nose, and he could taste it. The smell, the taste misting over his face and mouth.
His hearing connected in a decimal of a second later, and Henry jolted, involuntarily letting out a cry of pain. Well, it wasn’t much of a cry, more of a squeak grinding from his abused lungs. His mother cried.
He tried to tell her to stop. He wanted to tell her that he was… alive? This was most likely Hell. Henry’s eternal Purgatory.
But hushed noises overlapped Mum’s screaming, and Henry’s eyelids were iron walls. They lifted heavily, slowly, sluggishly. Minutely opening his view to the world.
It was dark, a little bit of light coming from his left.
His legs were loose across the ground(he couldn’t feel them), andone of his arms was welded to his stomach(it hurt). The other was crooked, with an ironclad grasp clenched against someone’s shirt(he couldn’t feel the shirt), and his fingers red-streaked. He couldn’t focus his blurry vision enough to see why(clawing at the floor, tearing them from the nail beds). Sweat stuck to him like a second skin, slightly more welcome than his own skin, slightly less welcome compared to the onslaught of sharp reality he now knew. He caught sight of someone’s neck, blond hair curling around it. Henry blinked slowly, eyelids swinging shut and creaking open.
He opened his mouth to speak when another wave seized him, locking up his muscles. A broken-down, shredded noise scorched its way up, and he now registered the hiccuped noises from above.
I am so tired.
“It’s alright… it’ll pass,” a feathery voice hummed in his ears(his mother still screams; he hates himself for wishing she would stop). Light fingers brush against his cheek, and he wants to flinch, feeling himself gearing up for it. But all that happens is a twitch in his mouth. His body is not his own. It does not belong to him. It belongs to the leech inside him; it belongs to the curse.
I asked for this. His mouth moved to form the words, but they were incomplete without sound. It is not a matter of deserving. Henry doesn’t know if anyone deserves this. But he did ask for it. He pushed Sebastian to the point of wanting to do it. So what does that make Henry? Deserving? Undeserving? Without jurisdiction to complain? We are so past complaining.
A voice, a vibration of sound rumbling between the cloth his cheek is pressed against and the neck his forehead is near. It cuts off and starts back up again, like a sputtering violin.
“-ound okay to you!?”
“... ’m ’kay,” Henry finally rasps and goes to say more, but his shoulder jerks back.
“You’re not,” it’s Ominis above him. “You’re not.” His voice is thick, heavy with emotion, and wrapped up in his own form of agony. Henry squints, eyebrows drawing down heavy at the idea that he is the cause of that agony. The Room of Requirement sounds so lovely now, empty and void of sad people who sound like they’re drowning while holding him.
His magic is a dull pulse of pain that strikes his shoulder and webs out through his body. It’s as unhappy as he is, so what will he do about it?
Henry swallows thick saliva and shifts, gritting down the stiff shocks as he works to pull himself up. It’s like manhandling a life-sized puppet with its strings cut.
“... ’m okay,” he says again, croaky. “Jus’ gotta,” he breathes heavily through his nose, “stand.”Is this normal? Is this how people usually respond, or am I simply that weak? Ominis answers his questions indirectly, tightening his hold on Henry’s lower back.
“No, it’s- it’s alright, most don’t move for hours. Don’t push yourself.” Oh, it’s good to know he was being a trooper then. Now, to finish being a trooper. How would he be able to deal with people like Ranrok and Rookwood face-to-face if this was how he responded to a spell? It was over. From his exhausted understanding, it had been over for quite a few minutes. Henry sucked in another deep breath and got his legs bent enough to be able to lean over them.
Ominis’ hand was still supportive against his lower back while Henry fought to get up.
It took another minute, but eventually, he was stiffly on his feet, Ominis to his right. Henry heaved as quietly as he could, taking in air and holding himself around the middle. His body trembled, and it was untrustworthy(it wasn’t his own; he didn’t belong to it), but he persevered. Now that he was standing, he could handle all else.
Ominis had gathered his messenger bag, hanging his robe over the side as Henry blinked slowly, taking uneven steps into the now-open Scriptorium. This one door was the one for which he had given his sense of self. It was the most light Henry had seen in however long since they’d left the dungeons. Golden candles spread across the space, and some fire was in the torches along the wall. Henry neared one of the flames like a newborn fawn, swallowing down the irritation that rose at his useless body. It grew brighter as he approached and held a hand up to the crackling flame. His skin was only 2 decimeters away from the fire and…
He felt none of the heat. There was nothing but cold, an unfathomable chill.
Someone shifted out of the corner of his vision, and Henry jerked back when Sebastian appeared near the staircase witha grin. His face… Henry’s jaw tightened even as Sebastian proclaimed that he’d found the way out, that they could leave whenever the other two wanted, andthat he already found what he was looking for. Ominis, predictably, agreed that they leave immediately as he appeared on Henry’s right again.
“I want to explore more, but… I’m indebted to both of you, Henry especially. Let’s head up to his Room of Requirement for the night, yeah?” Something… somehow…
Henry… didn’t want Sebastian in the Room of Requirement with him… and wasn’t that an awful thought? But the idea of having just a normal night was overwhelming to the near point of tears. There was also something like unreasonable anger in his gut as he followed Ominis up the stairs, guilty for not asking to relieve the other boy of Henry’s messenger bag. But his lips were sewn shut, and all his focus went to smiling when Sebastian showed him the massive book he had found, scrolling through the pages and exclaiming excitement about what he had found.
His shoulders slumped when the dungeon’s stone walls and dim torches opened up to Henry’s view. The familiarity was so relieving when he stepped off the moving door. But it was cut short when he took three steps towards the stairs, and his muscles and joints locked up again, causing him to slump against the wall. Sebastian stepped near, a rare moment of genuine worry(these days) on his face as he reached out.
Henry jerked away and shook his head as much as he could, arm clenched around his stomach.
“‘M fine,” he huffed before gritting his teeth when a wave ran through his muscles(it was feeding off of him, he knew it). “It’ll pass, jus’ gimme a moment.” Henry stretched his lips into a wide smile the moment the pain subsided, trying to be as reassuring as he possibly could when Sebastian stepped away, nodding. Henry grits his teeth again and stands upright, waiting for Ominis as there is only enough space for them to go through individually.
I asked for this. I pushed him to do it. I have no grounds for complaining to stand on.
Ominis appear a few seconds later, joining them on the other side of the wall. The moment he did, he was pacing back and forth in front of them. Bursting from the small exit like the devil was inside the alcove with him. A flurry of whispered words and demands.
“We must swear to never use Dark Magic again! Never! I was right, as always; nothing good can come from Salazar Slytherin without unrepairable pain and consequences.”Irreparable? Surely not? But Henry knew despite the grief that overtook him at the words. He knew the moment he opened his eyes, maybe sooner, that something was torn out of him, and he may never get it back. “Sebastian Sallow, you swear to me that you will not cast another Unforgivable in your life.”
Sebastian agreed readily, quickly... deceitfully. Henry knew he was lying before he even tried to lie, and there was defeat in the quiet misery that filled his lungs. Even after all of that, Sebastian Sallow found something worth using in the Unforgivables and Dark Magic. Like the very thing that had torn Henry apart, it was still worthy of being an awestruck spectacle. Never before had Henry felt like such a means to an end, and he’s been sure he would die before he reached 17.
This is why when Sebastian peers down at the book in his hands, a dark wonder on his face informs them that he will be breaking into the library to study it - Henry is overbearingly relieved. And when Sebastian offers his condolences to Ominis about his aunt, the moment they are accepted(the permission to ignore the heavy moments of the Scriptorium given to him), he begins to blubber about all sorts of spells within the book, about lost items, and curses. He leaves shortly after this, stopping by Henry momentarily to offer his thanks “for taking the fall.”
Henry watches him go, eyes glazed, as he thinks I don’t think I will be able to pull him out of that one if he skips breakfast again. It’s a resigned sort of thought, but Henry will see what he can do about it in the morning.
“I’m going to go to the Room,” Henry says, blinking slowly, eyes trained upon the steps Sebastian just made his way up. “You should go to bed, Ominis, I-.”
“Henry.”
The way his name is said, with complete understanding; The way his eyes are finally drawn away by Ominis appearing in his view after a single blink; The way deft hands gingerly press grasp his arm and tug him towards the steps; The way- the way Henry can’t feel anything. He is so completely numb now. Numb to Sebastian. Numb to his body. Numb to the floor and the air around him. Numb to his memory. Numb to everything but the blond in front of him who guides his trembling knees up the stairs and through the levels. Numb to the paintings as they pass and the way they whisper and point. Numb until his body touches the wall or a step or a tapestry.
Until they reach the seventh floor, and Henry is beginning to think that it has passed. That he’s experienced something terrible, but it has passed, and he will continue to do whatever he’s been doing. That is… until they are just outside the Room of Requirement, and it seized him again. But this is worse than the aftershocks he’s been receiving since then.
It grabs his lungs just as the door begins to carve its way into the wall. It sticks needles into his joints and has him kneeling over on his knees and forearms. It runs a branding iron through his shoulder. It twists it again and again, and with every crank and every shockwave, it spreads further and further through his body and into his mind.
In reality, Henry only makes a quiet choking noise before Ominis notices just as it’s beginning, having kept an ear out for the other boy. Henry just barely gets to his knees before Ominis reaches in his direction, grasping any part of him to hold him up. Henry makes a garbled sully of his name as he sucks in the wrong air and coughs wetly.
“‘M not gon-,” is all that gets out before there is a heaving and his muscles lock together. His breakfast and lunch come up onto the carpet, whisked away by Ominis in seconds, who is genuinely surprised that Henry even lasted this long without getting sick. But the Gryffindor, in Ominis’ experience, has always been resilient. Tonight is no less proof of that.
It’s when they make it into the Room of Requirement, a bed in the center where it is usually up at the top, that Henry speaks again.
“Is- is it,” he pauses, taking a moment to breathe as he staggers to the bed. “I feel so cold,” he finally murmurs, curling his aching muscles in on himself, his knees tucked under his chin and arms limp over them across the bed.
“It will be that way for a few days,” Ominis tells him quietly, and Henry sees him place his bag down near the bed. “You- the after-effects will be longer. It will get worse before it gets better. A warm, but not hot, bath will soothe them as best along with rubbing along the muscles that hurt when it’s over.” Henry blinked slowly, roving his gaze around the room as he considered what transpired earlier in the night. An image flashed across his mind when he tentatively poked through his memory of the events in the Scriptorium.
He was on the ground, eyes snapping open at some point before closing again, cheek against the stone. And across from him, pressed tightly against the corner of the boxed-in space, is Ominis. His hands are sealed against his ears, and he is crying.
Surprisingly, this is what gets to Henry.
Pressing a hand tightly against his mouth(he can taste the blood from the torn nails), curling tighter against himself, his body locking and tightening with aches - and Henry sobs. He can see through the blurriness in his eyes that Ominis is startled by it because his back straightens where he is looking through Henry’s plants and potion stock across the way(next to the potion stands). Henry blinks and is there, reaching and hushing like Henry didn’t do this. Like he didn’t make this damn mess.
“I’m sorry,” Henry cries. “I- I’m so, so sorry.” His tears truly fall, and his hair sticks to his cheeks, wet and gross. But Henry can see the overwhelming sadness on Ominis’ face as the other boy gently holds his cheeks- his hands aren’t warm enough, making Henry cry harder. “You sho-should’ve never-.” He swallows thickly, nose running even though he is speaking. He just doesn’t have the words to convey just how heavy guilt chokes his neck and wraps a noose around his throat. The same guilt that Sebastian used against him earlier to get him to convince Ominis of this horrible mission. The same guilt that Sebastian Sallow apparently does not carry because he isn’t here, and Ominis is pulling himself onto the bed, reeling Henry into his safety.
He doesn’t have the words or the apologies to show Ominis just how absolutely awful he feels about the whole thing because the castle was supposed to be safe. Henry was banking on the castle being safe.
“You didn’t know,” Ominis tells him quietly. Henry realizes he is resting his cheek on Ominis’ shoulder, clutching his sweater. An arm is over his chest and bent to reach his back, where fingers gently work the pain of his shoulder. It helps but also hurts so severely that Henry chokes on a whimper(so similar to how it was down in that place, that awful place where-
-he’s lost it. It’s missing, and Henry has no idea what it was.
That spell- that curse invaded his body and took away his safe connection to the world. It tore down his walls and gave him no chance to run. There was no second to hide, no moment of safety. It brought out his mother’s screams and made him lay there, spasming uselessly. At the same time, Ominis, poor Ominis cried, haunted in the corner. It learned Henry’s screams and the moment it heard them, it stripped him of that right, too. Sapped him of his warmth and perverted his magic until Henry worried if it was ever safe to use. Because it was there. It lacerated a piece of Henry’s soul only to force its way in its stead.
And Henry wanted it to decimate him entirely. Wanted it to leech and rupture until Henry was nothing but a pile of wholly uncompromisable mud. What chance did he have of healing a world that had such an abhorrent punishment for existing? How could he possibly heal when the air became too tight, and the existence was too rigid. He has folded unto himself and the very foundation of his bones had cracked and creaked into a mold that collapsed into a black hole. And yet nobody but Ominis and Sebastian would know what had happened.
Because it didn’t matter.
These thoughts that stretched Henry’s mind wouldn’t matter to anyone. These revelations and pretty words didn’t change anything.
Once, Sebastian had told him, “Your battles are my battles; we fight them together.”It was a given that Henry would fight Sebastian’s demons, pulling teeth from gums and nails from fingers(and Henry is miserable because he still will). But yet, here, on this bed, Henry felt that it was over. For never again would he release his burdens upon another. They did not matter. Not under the weight of this intrusion. This creature that-.
“Henry, come back to me.”Ominis.
“‘Nis?” Henry murmured, a bare breath of dust from his voice.
“Don’t let it do that to you,” Ominis told him firmly. “It will try to strip you of any hope and turn it against you, don’t let it happen.” Henry hummed crookedly.
“I’m sor-.”
“Enough of that, too. None of us expected such an evil chamber to be in Hogwarts. It’s alright. Sebastian was- was awful for simply leaving like that.”
“...I asked for it,” Henry’s voice cracked as he admitted it, eyes heavily shut. “I pushed him into-.”
“No-,” Ominis choked out, a momentary complete loss in composure, clutching onto the Gryffindor tighter, holding his face just as gently with one hand and tucking him in close with the other arm. “No, you did not ask for any of this, and I will never forget the sacrifice you made so we could escape. Just as I will never forgive Sebastian for casting that spell.” Henry went quiet momentarily, feeling utterly pitiful and cold(but his cheeks and stomach were warm). He considered the loathing that permeated Ominis’ voice every time he spoke of himself regarding the spell and decided to upend one more piece of honesty tonight.
“When-” he cleared his throat, pushing back the way it rubbed raw against it. “When he hit me with that spell... if I had enough wits about me, I probably would have nearly killed him, if not killed him, for it.” Ominis stiffened, but Henry continued. “It is not weakness; it is survival. If I had just enough strength, I would’ve sent the spell back to him, and I would’ve meant to… I forgive myself for feeling that way, Ominis.” Henry’s voice is rough; he can hear it himself and is exhausted beyond belief. But this needs to be said.
Ominis says nothing for a very long time, long enough that Henry finally feels the pain subside. He is being relieved from his punishment for now. He sinks a little, only rousing when his friend finally replies.
“I see whatyou’ve done here, and I can only say I’ll consider your words with the utmost care. But for now, sleep. I’ll tell your teachers that you’ve stayed up studying again.” Henry’s heart warms and it nearly brings him to tears again, but he simply has none to give.
This is unfortunate because if anyone deserves his tears, it is Ominis Gaunt(not that he’d want them).
A smooth pressure over his forehead, shaky and tentative, is what allows Henry to release his inner fight. He releases himself of his pain and sinks into the bed. His nightmares, however, carry through him, and he recalls the night previously and the voice that warned him.
A few more tears leak out when he realizes:
I could’ve avoided this.
And it does not absolve him of his sin of being a martyr.