What's in a memory?

Chapter One

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Harry woke up disorientated which was nothing new. After a particularly bad night or vivid nightmare, Harry could really struggle re-introducing himself to where he was.

He had taken to sleeping in his glasses after the war, a reflex from living on the run that wouldn't go away. Harry hated feeling out of control and it took months to convince himself he could afford a few seconds of blindness in the mornings.

"Christ" he groaned out. His head felt like a rogue bluger hit him off his broom.

He opened his eyes his vision was blurry around the edges and vignetted a little -though that could be accounted for with the extra thick frames he was wearing.

Instantly, he was greeted with florensent lights and a tiled ceiling -awesome, not Grimmauld place then.

A steady beeping to his left captured his attention -his vitals, he belatedly realised- were flashing in air beside him. Without much thought behind it, he absently raised his left arm to gently caress the numbers to see how they would react to touch, when he winced.

His arm was bandaged up and it hurt to move. Retracting it slowly away from the red numbers, which were increasing in value alongside the constistent bleeps as he registered where he was.
Harry couldn't be surprised, he had been in infirmaries before. At Hogwarts, Him and Madame Pomfrey became pretty good at short hand by his eighth year. (She even sent him a card on his 19th birthday).

Before Hogwarts, he visited the school nurse on the odd occasion when Dudley's beatings were particularly rough and she would always kindly nudge him to tell his gaurdians. He used to internally scoff, he couldn't imagine anything productive in that conversation with the Durselys.

He could easily imagine what Aunt Petunia would say, if he raised the notion that her wittle-Duddlikins were harming Harry in anyway, she'd call him a liar rather than face the reality of the brutish son.

God forbid. Harry have feelings about the whole ordeal, he could easily picture Uncle Vernon saying something like: "man up" excusing Dudley's behaviour with a self-derisive snort."he's roughhousing","stop being a girl", or perhaps he would simply tell Harry that he deserved the treatment he was receiving.

Uncle Vernon was good at that, telling Harry how to feel and what he deserved. Hell, maybe he would encourage Dudley to put more punch behind his throws.

Certainly not whatever the school nurse envisioned.

Perhaps, she was just optimistic or maybe, she thrived off of damage -that made sense in Harry's child mind. She worked with the sick, the injured, not someone sane in Harry's opinion.

Maybe she was hoping for more carnage.

Harry stopped going to her eventually, he could deal. That's what he did after all. He could deal.

He had to stop the raising concerns in the school anyhow. Some teachers were starting to stare at Harry with....with pity and disgust.

Merlin forbid, Harry had had to see the school counsellor one time after a few eyebrows were raised about his large hand-me-downs and his scrawny, starved appearance.

A few of his teachers forced Harry to sit down in their own offices and asked some very pointed questions about his home life. He didn't know what to say, with them leering over him and looking all so...

sad?

disappointed ?

He told himself that he was over-reacting again, being oversensitive, not dealing well like everyone else.

Harry hated those looks, so he lied.

He told them about how nice the Dursley's were for taking him in. How his cousin and him shared toys! and, er,and storybooks? He told them anything to throw them off the truth.

He couldn't have them calling in the Dursleys or worse, calling social services.

He may be partially sighted, but even Harry could see from a mile away how bad it would be for everyone if the Dursley's were portrayed as anything but the nice, normal family who 'graciously' took Harry in.

Vernon's face would go red if he had to be called in to the school. 'Not my son', he would grumble whenever there was a parent/teacher conference. Afterwhich, he would take to punish Harry for wasting his time with Harry's nonsense.

And Aunt Petunia would flip her lid if the neighbours saw social services (or the like) pulling outside her front door.

And so what if he was taken away?

He'd heard the stories about homes and foster families: worse than being given rations and living under the stairs, if you asked him.

And Harry never deluded himself that there was some mythical family who would want him, he was told as much when Petunia rattled on and on, about how lucky he was for the cupboard.

"Your hair. your voice. your grades! Abismal!" she'd shriek. "Freak."

He could see how disappointed everyone was with him, he didn't need any more eye witnesses, Thank you very much.

So overtime Harry lost his respect for the nurses, the grimacing teachers, the counsellors.

What could any of them do anyhow but make things much worse? 

Hogwarts really changed his perception of adults and asking for help.
Sure, it took a while to trust a few people but he got there.

Eventually.

He even reported to them when things got dire.

Eventually.

Besides Madame Pomfrey really did help him whenever he was sent to the medical wing (rebuilding his arm bones was particularly impressive).

The point is, Harry knew a hospital bedside when he saw one, magical or no.

Harry tried to steady his breathing and ignore the pain in his arm and his head.

He could handle this.

It's probably just a small error on the quidditch pitch or during his auror training, he explained away.

Calm, Harry thought.

Safe, he continued.

He tried really hard to believe that he was.

"It's over. He's gone. I'm safe." Harry spoke aloud, his voice rough with sleep.

These words held more weight the longer he repeated the mantra.

Hermione read a book, or article, or something about the importance of repitition and mantras.

He trusted Hermione, but he thought it was riddiculous at first. He only started it because of her pestering, and it did seem to help her.

He kept them short and quiet whenever he needed them, whispering them into the empty room lest he be overheard. He didn't need people to know just how fucked up he was, or worse exploit this for profit. He could see the newspaper article now:

!Saviour Batshit Crazy! a scoop for the daily prophet.

'!Saviour cannot save himself!'

Or

"Could Harry Potter's acts of heroism actually be telling of his suicidal tendencies?"

or even

"Whispered voices telling Harry Potter to sacrifice himself"
see more on page 5.

Merlin, better keep it down, he thought.

He couldn't handle another published article analysing his behaviour and actions, or even another bizarre editorial on his food preferences.

Man, it took forever for him to convince the minster to allow him to be an auror. Harry certainly didn't need a new flurry of publications hurting his application and training. It was already disasterous enough.

He has already tentatively agreed to having two mentors, a supervisor and weekly counseling, if he was successful.

Harry was fustrated enough that his skills and talents weren't even questioned, he defeated the Dark Lord and that was all well in good. But they were questioning his mental and emotional stability?

(Harry was always a little defensive about these things).

Not only that. Everyone had an opinion.

But what riled Harry up the most was that Ronald Weasley, his best friend. Ron, who had fought in the same war, had the same losses, and shared a fair few nightmares himself -got accepted, no questions asked.

No one harrassed him. Or questioned his judgement or mindset.

Fuck. If Ron could be an auror and Harry couldn't...

Harry shuddered, he couldn't imagine Ron on the frontline without him.

They were best friends. They did everything together. They had each others back.

No one would take better care of Harry than Ron, or vise versa. They had been fighting dark wizards and strange happenings since first year, no one was better qualified in their group, and if Harry was held back because of his....his PTSD? he's gonna be pissed.

Because it wasn't only him.

They all lived through it, hadn't they?

Harry couldn't sit in this bed thinking about his doomed auror application, he'd go crazy.

Rolling onto his right side to examine the room without further injuring his throbbing arm.

He flailed a little. He thought of how embarrased he'd be if someone walked in whilst he did so. He must look a bit like a merman out of water what with him wriggling up to sitting position.

He noted his body was a little sore as he did so, but nothing he couldn't handle.It kind of felt like the day after Dudley furiously kicked him in the ribs, or when he pushed it too hard at a work out.

Nothing to complain over, certainly not after everything.

His room was plain and underwhelming in all.

It had a singular window past the monitored vitals on his left. The window had beige curtains and it was magicked to look out into an image of the ocean -far too clear and well, blue to be England's shore, probably a beach somewhere abroad.

Presumably, it supposed to be calming.

But it wasn't telling to Harry's current location, so he sort of hated it.

As soon as he thought that it changed.

It fizzled slightly like a hologram before the entire plane became a leafy forest. Which just reminded Harry of camping with Hermione and the creepy forbidden forest.

Unsurprisingly, it fizzled again and changed this time to a city skyline of buildings and skyscrapers.

Harry hated it less, but he really couldn't bring himself to care for some illusion.

He'd much rather the real view outdoors, even if it faced out onto a brick wall as so many London buildings do.

But alas, the screen kept showing different landmarks that Harry just finished rolling over.

Finally propping himself up on hospital bed as best he could, he looked to the right side of the room: it had a weird moving painting of shapes directly opposite, which honestly made Harry feel kind of sick.

He couldn't understand how that would calm anyone down. Growing up in the muggle world, as he had, he was still more accostomed to frozen images in artwork and didn't care for the floating colourful shapes.

Looking away from the loud colours and shapes which were bobbing around the frame like some baffling screensaver, Harry noticed a door just beyond the foot of the bed. Harry noted that it was about eight steps away from him and filed that information away.

Directly across from him was a sideboard with cards scattered haphazardly on the top and an old sonograph shoved awkwardly in the corner.

Harry saw a bedside table too on either side of him, which held a glasses case, a glass of water and a framed photo of his favourite people smiling out.

Harry squinted to read the collection of get well soon cards at the foot of his bed, just to pass the time. However, as he couldn't see who they were from, he got bored of that pretty easily.

Harry flopped back on the bed considering how bad it would be to just apparate out of here.

My wand, Harry started at the thought, where's my wand?

He scanned the tabletops again, in the hopes he'd just missed it in his confused state.

But no.

Harry's wand was not next to him, nor was it on his person as he seemed to be in a dreadful hosptial gown/tunic which had no pockets.

He launched himself out of bed, ignoring the sharp ache in doing so.
He frantically lifted the thin duvet, flapping it about hoping his wand would roll out of its confines.

It ached to do so, but he was determined to find his wand.

He needed it.

Harry wouldn't survive without it.

He needed it.

Damnit where is it?

Just then, the door opened letting in a weird draft and the sound of footsteps.

"Harry" two voices called out.

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