St Mungo's.
When he found himself in a massive room where there were dozens of witches and wizards showing a multitude of injuries, Harry knew he was in a magical hospital; the Dursleys had never really expended the trouble to take him anywhere like a hospital, never mind a doctor or to see a dentist since they kept saying he was a financial burden, but he knew this place was a hospital, definitely, the St Mungo's he had heard of since he had arrived in the magical world off and on over the years.
The moment they arrived the party garnered a lot of curious looks; Dumbledore was easily recognisable with his usual garish outfit and silver beard and hair, but it wasn't long before they saw him. Harry could see the looks of surprise he saw one or two people whispering, wondering who he was; they knew he had been incarcerated in Azkaban, even though his body no longer looked like it had been decayed in the miserably oppressive environment inside the prison, and thanks to the magical suppression cuffs all prisoners wore.
A sneer crossed his face as he watched them. He wondered how long it would be before they realised it was him. He didn't care.
"Why are we here?" Harry was unable to hide his curiosity as they moved through the reception area with Madam Bones flashing her Auror badge and Ministry ID around.
"To have you checked over, of course," Sirius said, looking like he was about to either be sick or throw a tantrum or break down sobbing. Harry didn't pay him any attention. "You spent a whole year in Azkaban, and you were a wreck, now you're fine and you need to be checked out."
A year?
Harry stopped, surprising the procession, who stopped and stared at him in confusion, but Harry ignored them and swung around. "A year?" He said softly in shock and disbelief. "Is that all it's been?" He whispered, aghast.
Time had no meaning inside the prison for him; the Dementors had made sure of that, tearing every single unhappy moment out of his life ranging from his shitty childhood, his parent's last moments as they tried to defend him, the events at Hogwarts, the mess in the graveyard, the way Voldemort had used a dark curse cast on the Triwizard Trophy which massacred hundreds of people ranging from Ministry officials, school children from Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang, his 'friends' betrayal, and so many other instances.
The worst had been Voldemort taking advantage of the link between them, and bombarding them in his mind, where the Dementors would replay it around and around in his head until he couldn't see anything else.
A year? And all that time these smug, conceited bastards had been so sure they had found the truth and they'd sentenced him to hell. Unbidden the memory of the recent fight he'd had with Voldemort played out in his mind, before the duel the Dark Lord had said he was 15 years old. 15…Harry could not believe it; he had lost a year, a whole year of his life. He should be studying for school, having girlfriends, laughing, and partying.
Oh no, not him, not Harry Potter; he had to be thrown into a stinking prison because the magical world simply could not be bothered to discover the truth, for which he had lost a whole single year of his life!
It was bad enough that the wizarding world had just let Dumbledore hand him over to the Dursleys when they could have found a way to kill him and get rid of his freakishness regardless of the consequences to themselves, because of Dumbledore's thoughtless plans with that family of filthy muggles, but none of them had checked on his progress. Not once. Those lackeys of Dumbledore shaking his hand in the streets did not count, those were passing visits; nobody bothered to physically visit Number 4.
Hogwarts was even worse. He had been pushed into one dangerous mess after another. Harry hadn't given a damn about the Philosopher's Stone and his reasons to stop the basilisk were done for purely selfish reasons. But nobody at the fucking school had once bothered to think they should not be putting a teenager through all of that grief. And now this. Harry was nearly 16 years old - on that note, he didn't know how many days he had left before his next birthday, and he truly had no idea what he was going to do now.
"Harry? Harry, are you okay?" Sirius's voice cut through his thoughts, but when he felt the older man's hands on his arms, Harry jumped and instantly shoved Sirius away. The force of the push was enough to send Sirius flying backwards, right into a wall where a few patients were lounging. Ignoring their protests, Sirius pushed off, staring at his godson in disbelief.
"Harry-?" The third mention of his name instantly sent shockwaves through the reception, and almost at once, everyone cottoned onto the fact the Boy-Who-Lived was in the hospital. Harry glared at them when he noticed one or two of them were about to come over, ignoring the Auror guards flanking him, and shaking his hand or something stupid. He was not in the mood for fans. He had never liked being mobbed by crowds, and he wanted it even less now.
But after he had finished glaring at the patients, Harry turned back to Black. "Don't ever touch me again, you fucking bastard," he spat, his face an emotionless mask, his eyes dark, cold. Empty. The cold darkness in his eyes scared Sirius, but the emptiness horrified him more, but Harry moved away before Sirius could say anything else, but he caught the look of sadness and horror on his former godfather's face. How dare he? How dare he suddenly touch him as if nothing happened? As if he hadn't insulted and cursed him in that stinking cave?
Harry had gone to Sirius after everything had fallen to hell. The Dark Curse Voldemort had cast on the Triwizard Trophy had massacred so many people so quickly, including so many students and even a few teachers. It was one of the reasons why the teachers had been furious and had refused to help him, never mind listen to him when he had tried to talk about what happened. The students turned on him and by the time of the trial, he hadn't been able to find anyone willing to represent him never mind giving him the chance to explain.
Fudge had already moved quickly like the politician he was, determined to appease the public and send him on a one-way trip to Azkaban, the teachers had allowed his things to be destroyed, and his so-called former friends were testifying against him. Somehow he had managed to get to the cave where Sirius was still living, hoping that his godfather would believe him. He tried to tell him what happened, beginning with the final task of the Tournament, how Diggory had wrestled with him over the Trophy, Diggory being killed after they'd been portkeyed into the graveyard and Voldemort's resurrection and their subsequent duel before he had tried to escape…but not before Voldemort had cast the curse.
Only Sirius had been unable to look at him, and he had been shaking his head, muttering about how he had failed Lily and James, how they'd birthed a monster, who was nothing more than another Pettigrew, or another Voldemort, but when Harry had tried to deny it, Sirius had lashed out at him, using a cutting curse to his face before Sirius lashed out with verbal insults.
Harry had always been sceptical of Sirius. The man's lack of common sense and hotheadedness and his general arrogance had led him to the Dursleys in the first place, and while Sirius had wallowed in Azkaban, sulking over Pettigrew getting one over him without giving him a thought, never mind giving a thought of leaving by turning into his animagus form and slipping out earlier. That decision had cost him twelve years of his life. But Harry had given him a chance, hoping that Sirius would finally be the responsible adult his parents had wanted him to be.
Only he'd blown it.
He had needed Black badly when people like Fudge were planning on sending him to prison, but by the trial, he'd given up any hope he'd had of getting out. He had tried asking them to give him the truth potion, but by then the stupid wizards were so sure he was guilty that they didn't see the need.
Harry was never going to give Sirius Black another chance. All he had wanted was support, kindness, understanding and even a shoulder to cry on. He had wanted his godfather to be that person even if Sirius wasn't in any position to help him, given he was a fugitive at the time.
But no.
Harry would never forget the terrible things his own godfather had said to him like how he should have died instead of his parents before punching him in the face, the insults levelled at him, but by the end of it all, he had left without a backwards glance. Black had too many chances off of him and now he refused to give the other wizard the time of day. In any case, he was only two years off of his eighteenth birthday; he would be too old to be looked after, and in truth, he didn't need anybody in his life, and he definitely did not need Sirius bastard Black in his life. No, from what he had just learnt, he was fifteen going on sixteen years old. In a year, Harry would be seventeen, which would mean he was an adult in magical eyes.
Did he really need someone like Black in his life when he was so close to being an adult?
The answer was a resounding no.
Harry could look after himself, without someone like Black who had never accepted responsibility in his life.
Sixteen…
He had already lost a decade of his life because of Dumbledore's decision to leave him with the Dursleys. Now he had lost another year. And for what?
Bones and Dumbledore and the Healers led Harry into a private ward. Harry just looked around briefly, noting the clinical cleanliness of the wardroom. He didn't like it. He had spent the first years of his childhood (another thing to level against the magical world; they had sent him to the Dursleys without bothering to check on his progress or his happiness) cleaning Privet Drive until every single surface was clean, so whenever he saw a really clean room or house, he felt like a stranger submerged in the memories of how the Dursleys turned him into a human House Elf.
The Aurors stood back as the Healers came forward.
"Ah, Mr Potter," one of the Healers said with a nervous smile. "If you'd please sit on the bed…"
Silently Harry got on the bed and waited without a word.
The Healer's smile became more nervous. "Er, before we start, Mr Potter, I was wondering if you could do something for me."
Harry lifted his head, quirking an eyebrow in question.
"Is it possible for you to give my daughter your autograph? She…she burnt the poster and memorabilia she had collected of you when it was believed you'd gone Dark," the Healer went on. "Now, she's looking for your autograph and for forgiveness."
Harry said nothing; Sirius and Dumbledore, the only people in the room who knew, or thought they knew, him, since they didn't know him at all, looked on in horror. Suddenly Harry's eyes darkened and a feral twisting of his jaw showed everyone what he thought of the request, and the magic crackling off of his body and the darkness in his eyes were unwelcome.
The Healers pulled back in horror as they felt the air crackling around them as Harry's magic began to react.
Harry leaned forward. "Tell your daughter to get a life and grow up. I am not a hero. I never was," Harry hissed, his voice slipping into parseltongue. "Now get on with the examination." He leaned back and the air stopped crackling with magic. As far as he was concerned the matter was closed.
Unwisely the Healer pressed on once he shook off his horror and shock at the refusal. "Please, Mr Potter," he went on, ignoring the danger signs as well as the looks he was getting, "My daughter is truly sorry."
"Do you really think I care? I don't know your daughter," a note of danger crept into Harry's voice. "Nor do I want to. Now please, will you perform the examination?"
"But Mr Potter-."
"You are trying my patience!"
"I think that's enough," Madam Bones stepped forwards, making the Healer jump. He had forgotten there were other people present. "Mr Potter has made it clear he is not interested. Now, continue with the examination and leave your personal requests at the door."
The Healer looked startled and turned to the Healer in the room with him; the second Healer, a witch in her mid-30s or 40s, gave him a sympathetic look but she was also clearly pleading with him to stop this. The Healer gave Harry a look, but the teenager said nothing and he was unaffected by the Healer's personal agony.
Finally, the Healer took in a breath and his voice became more clipped, and professional as he waved his wand over Harry. "We received a report saying you used the magic from the Death Eaters and You Know Who to rejuvenate yourself."
"That's right."
"How?"
"Voldemort and the Death Eaters were linked to one another; every Dark Mark was how he was able to survive for so long, and how he survived that night my parents were murdered," Harry emphasised the last words with a pointed look at the Healer, to make it clear to him while his daughter saw him as a hero, the true heroes had died that night. "I found out about it last year-no, I mean before the year before last. I had a nightmare, where he murdered an old muggle, but that night I learnt how he had gained immortality so I did my research. The Dark Marks form a network for the Death Eaters, and they gave Voldemort some of their magic. The Dark Marks are a combination of soul, Thaumaturgy and runic magics; when he took my blood, he gave him indirect access to the network. I planned to capture a Death Eater when Voldemort returned and tear the magic out of all of them and then walk off, but it didn't work. Voldemort gave me a good enough fight, but each time I tried to get close to a Death Eater, I was driven off. Eventually, I gave up and tried to leave the way I came so I could rest and come up with a fresh plan, but Voldemort cast the Dark Curse on the Trophy.
"When Voldemort came for me at Azkaban, I saw a chance to put my plan in place, and the magic just came into me; I just simply told it to rejuvenate my body."
"You….saw how Voldemort had attained immortality?" Dumbledore said slowly, looking at Harry curiously.
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell anyone about your plans?"
A sneer of contempt crossed Harry's face. "Why should I have told you anything, Headmaster? Don't you remember; back in my first year I asked why my parents were murdered, and why I was left alone. It never ended there, did it? You kept telling me I needed to enjoy my childhood, yet you were content with me being forced into dangerous messes no one in the student body should have been exposed to. You can't have it both ways. When the Triwizard Tournament came, I decided trusting you was a pointless waste of time. I saw your expression when I swore that oath, you looked dismayed and disappointed as if I'd killed your puppy. Why would I tell you anything about what I was planning if I despised you long before we met? I grew strong in fear of you and I swore to never be hopeless ever again!"
Dumbledore reeled back in shock. Harry didn't pay him any more attention as the examination went on, answering questions and asking some in return, but otherwise, he kept silent. The examinations took the best part of two hours. Finally, the Healers led Dumbledore, Bones, Black and the Aurors out of the ward, and left him alone. Once he was sure they weren't going to come back in a hurry, Harry sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. That had taken a lot out of him, but he knew he would have to expect morons like that Healer coming up to him. Harry had no intention of being a hero figure ever again, but if he could play his cards right he would finally be able to leave that chunk of his life behind.
And yet…
Harry sighed again and stood up, and walked around the wardroom before he opened a door. He'd noticed it earlier when he'd walked inside, and to his relief, there was a small bathroom inside. Harry walked to the sink turned on the tap, cupped his hands underneath the water and splashed it against his face. He gasped at how good it was to feel warm water against his face; after a full year of being soaked with foul-smelling fetid water and piss, it felt good to feel the clean, fresh, and warm water on his skin. It was so amazing, to feel pleasure from something most people took for granted. Pleased with the pleasure, he did it again before he picked up the bar of soap and he held it under the flow, and he rubbed it for a moment to make the soap lather before he washed his face.
It occurred to him he would use the opportunity to have a full wash, but a glance around showed there wasn't a shower cubicle or even a bathtub to bathe in. And then there were his clothes. He could transfigure them, of course, but ultimately he decided against it. He would have to wait and see what happened later.
As he washed his face, feeling the long white hair, Harry refused to look at his face, but as he washed himself a little bit at a time, he realised the temptation was too great. After sucking up his courage, Harry looked at his reflection in the mirror. To his relief, the rejuvenation he'd gone through had taken away the haggard effects of the Dementors, who took away the good looks of their victims after years of exposure. Thank god he had learnt of the thaumaturgy in the Dark Marks, which had given him access to the magic of Voldemort and his followers. He had undergone a ritual in his fourth year to let him get rid of the stupid glasses which had been his trademark for years.
While he still had the soft bone structure he had seen his mother had possessed and he'd inherited and the emerald green eyes, Harry noticed that his eyes were slightly darker with a different sparkle than before, and as he looked at his new expression, he realised that the dark shade and the sparkle gave him a harder but more powerful appearance. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not, but if that was how his eyes were going to look for the rest of his life, he would need to get used to it. Still, he was sad they would never look as they had before.
Harry was not sure what to make of his white hair; he had heard that some traumas could turn people's hair white, but he had never imagined he would become one of them. His hair was completely white, there wasn't a single strand of the infamous Potter black hair in the strands of white. His hair was messy, but it was now down to his shoulders after a full year of being untended to. Uncared for. His hair was matted and currently dirty, but he hoped he could find a place where he could clean it soon. He also needed a shave to get rid of the stubble on his face.
If he was not sent to Azkaban; Bones might have told him he was free, but Fudge was likely still the Minister, and he would likely look for a second excuse to throw him back into prison without a thought. If that happened, well this time he would finally end it.
A deep sigh of sadness made him rest his head against the mirror. This wasn't right. This wasn't right at all. He was a teenager for god's sake; he should be having fun, getting drunk, worrying about girls, not contemplating suicide because of the stupidity of a world which was too stupid to get the truth, and because of the dimwits in power who were more interested in their images.
Why the hell hadn't his parents done the right thing and left the country? This was one of the reasons he saw them both with contempt; they had put so much stock into the Fidellius Charm, and their faith in Sirius and Pettigrew had been their downfall. Dumbledore should also be blamed. If they had asked questions and made different choices, this would never have happened. They might even be alive. Instead, he was alone without anyone in his life, and he was just locked up in the filthiest prison in the world for something he hadn't done. It was just so wrong for them to pile accusations on his head without asking for the truth.
Harry pulled away and walked back to the wardroom. He slipped the borrowed wand out of his waistband and flicked it against the door, casting a nonverbal alarm spell before he sat on the bed.
Idly he began casting spells around the room. As his Death Eater-Voldemort-boosted magic channelled into the wand, Harry created lighting spells, he summoned and banished objects back to their proper places as he slowly went through the First to Fourth-year curriculums while he also practiced transfiguration spells and charms he had learnt from Voldemort. It wasn't just magic he had taken, it was knowledge.
As he was transfiguring a pitcher of water from glass to ceramic, Harry took the time to think while he mentally adjusted to being out of Azkaban. Every moment of being in that prison hell had made him lose all track of time, and if he was not going to be sent back to that hellhole, then he would need time to adjust to 24-hour days again. When the Dementors had been near him, they had torn open the connection he had with Voldemort, and so every single atrocity the Dark Lord committed blended in one unbroken sequence of events, so time no longer had meaning anymore. But now Voldemort was dead and he was out of prison, he was going to have to get used to being free.
As he transfigured the pitcher into an ornate glass vase, Harry turned his thoughts to his future. He wanted to leave the magical world. He had meant what he'd said after he had killed Voldemort, but he did not want anything to do with them any more. Harry just wanted to leave and avoid his so-called friends, and given how many of them didn't know anything about the muggle world, hiding should be easy. At the same time, he was convinced many of them were stupid because they indulged a bit too much in magic, but he wasn't certain of that. Even Granger who was supposedly smart was a moron for what she'd done; instead of using her common sense, where she would have realised if he had cast that curse, then he would have been miles away instead of right next to the blast, she had joined the crowd.
They hadn't been friends in a long time. When his name was drawn out of the Goblet of Fire, she had at first believed him but she left after a week. Some Gryffindor. After the First Task, Harry had become so used to being on his own he instantly shoved her and Weasley away. As far as he was concerned he was on his own. He didn't need fair-weather friends with him, and he refused to make the same mistakes his parents had.
He had learnt the hard way when he was younger that the only person you could depend on was yourself. He would need to relearn that lesson. His view friendship was a weakness was merely proven and concreted when they testified against him.
If he stayed then there was a chance he would be pushed into committing more deaths, and Harry did not want to do that. He wasn't afraid to defend himself, but he didn't want to go anywhere near Azkaban again. He wanted to return to the muggle world, but he was unsure of what he could do; he hadn't bothered sticking to his non-magical education, and he was five years out of date, so unless he found a solution he would be sunk.
But at the same time as he gave the matter serious thought, Harry was not sure if Dumbledore would be content to let him just leave. The old man loved being in control. He had learnt that during his time at school, and while he'd come up with a plan to do his OWLs and NEWTs in one setting so then he could leave the old fool before Dumbledore could react, so much had happened to ruin that plan for him. He had seen killing Voldemort immediately after his resurrection would be the perfect cherry on the cake.
Was the plan still viable or should he concentrate on slipping away quietly before Fudge made some stupid decision where Harry would never be allowed a chance to be free? As he gave the matter some thought, Harry realised something else. There was no doubt in his mind as the thought dawned that Dumbledore would try to make sure he couldn't leave, not without completing his magical education. As he looked into his mind, Harry realised that while he had some knowledge of the Death Eaters, it wasn't all of it. His knowledge of charms, transfiguration, DADA, and the Dark Arts was greater than it was before, but as he took more notice, he found there were some holes in that knowledge.
Harry realised something else, and as he thought about it as he continued with transfiguring the pitcher into different objects of various sizes and colours, he realised that despite his desire to leave, he might not have a choice but to return to Hogwarts and complete his education. Was it such a bad thing? Harry was stunned when the answer he got back was a definitive no.
When he had learnt magic was real, he had been ecstatic at the thought of learning more about magic, about the whole incredible magical world. It was only his experiences which had turned his desires into apathy. But he realised he still wanted to learn magic. He wanted to fill in the gaps of knowledge he had taken from the Death Eaters (he had a feeling he had only taken small amounts from them because he had been more interested in their magical powers), and he wanted to take his heritage which was rightfully his.
He wanted to become a fully educated wizard. He wanted to know every spell, ritual, every curse. He wanted to learn how to become an animagus and after his recent imprisonment, he wanted to have an escape plan in case something like Azkaban reared its head over him again. He wanted to learn the kinds of spells the Marauders had learnt to create the map, and he wanted to be skilled and knowledgeable in other fields like runes and healing.
Harry, despite everything, still wanted to be a wizard.