Deep-Rooted
The Black Hole residence, Kent, England, the United Kingdom
1st August 1998
“Harry, you cannot let yourself indulge in the spirits. Don’t you think your life has been ruined enough? What would Teddy think if he saw his godfather like this, if you made this a habit? And don’t you say Albus Dumbledore brought this on you, too. You brought this on yourself.”
The same lecture, the same insistence, the same disappointment, the same disapproval, the same sharpness, the same exasperation….
Squinting blearily up at the blob of shadow looming over me, I reach up a hand and bring it down, kissing it soundly… somewhere….
A small, sharp slap on my cheek is the reward. Oh well.
“Get it all out. The potions are on the kitchen table. Sleep that mood of yours off after that. I shall speak with you only when you are sober once more. No seeing Teddy in the meantime, as well.”
`Teddy….` A baby is howling lustily somewhere not so far away. The cries go in tandem with the hearty throbbing in my head. “Awwwwh….”
A merciless shove from a pair of strong appendages topples me from my comfy perch. “Awwh….”
“Get you gone,” is the only response to my whinging, as merciless as the very recent shove was.
“Awwwh,” is my protest, but I scramble away, anyhow, mostly on all-fours but sometimes on the knees, and near the end I can even stumble on my legs.
But, “Awwwh,” the cries of the baby are much closer from here.
Maybe I’m masochistic. Maybe I’m interested despite the heartier pounding in my head. Maybe I’m sad for the sad baby. But all the same, I manage to creep closer to the source of the noise, despite the shooing words and gestures from behind me from the current bane of my comfiness.
The baby is important. I want to share something important with the baby, then; something that I have always kept to myself so far, something that comforts me, something that makes me safe, something that cuddles me warmly, something that means family to me.
The cocoon from my deepest, earliest memory returns to the fore of my muzzy mind, as well as my constant companion in it; and, most important of all, the wordless song.
I hum it, then croon it, then sing it.
The baby stops crying, gradually.
A gasp sounds behind me.
I smile, giddy not only with the alcohol swimming in my head. `Home. Safe. Comfy. Not alone. Warm. Cuddly. Simple. Nice.`
I stagger the rest of the way to… somewhere… while still singing, then crooning, then humming the song.
The baby’s cries return, if softer than before, as I get far enough away. But there is also some shushing noises from that direction, so I refocus my concentration on walking. Somebody else has handled the returning head-pounding noise; nice.
My foot stumbles on something not so hard, though not so large at that. I let myself fall the rest of the way. This is nice, too. My head gets a pillow. It’s enough. I’m used to hard places. Time for some snooze. I won’t be bothered here, right? “Out of sight and out of mind” is the motto, after all; “no question asked” and “earn your keep” and “don’t get better than the beloved star,” too. I’ve done it all. I’m good, right? Now’s my time to rest for a little bit, before those rules go back in place.
I curl up tighter. – See? I can cuddle myself. Comfy, too. Not home yet. Not not-alone yet. Not warm yet. Not too safe yet. But freaks can’t choose what they get, right? This is enough.
Nobody can take what they don’t know you have, too, and they don’t know I have the cocoon and my cocoon-mate. I’m safe. We’re safe. I can dwell in the cocoon with my cocoon-mate without fear, here in my own head.
But the cocoon is… shaken? Shaking?… and somebody is… talking? Shouting?…
`Shock. Pain. Danger.`
…I cry out, jerk up, fling myself against…
…Against?
Things break, crunch. Voices cry out.
Hard surface. Softer surface. Pain.
The cocoon and the cocoon-mate vanish. I cry out for the loss.
“Harry! Snap out of it!”
Wheezy. Not right. Sort of familiar. The voice of…?
I blink, blink, blink, blink, blink, and blink again.
Colours swim into view, gradually. Dark. Grey?
The scent is familiar. Not the alcohol in my breath, no, but the surface I’m half lying on.
“Harry!” – Softer. Wheezier. `Uh-oh.`
I slither off the soft surface, with the accompaniment of prolonged groans from the… said… surface?
My eyes open wide. `I’ve been lying on somebody!`
And Andy is the victim of my confused defence mechanism, lying prone on the floor before me, clutching the side of her chest, with blood seeping in-between her trembling fingers, with her eyes blown wide and her face all too pale.
The sight is a very, very effective sobering agent.
“Sorry, Andy! Sorry sorry sorry sorry!” I babble, even as I frantically pat my own person in search of my wand. I need to call for a healer now! Where’s the wand when you need it? I need to send a Patronus message!
But I don’t find it.
And Andy’s breaths are going wheezier.
A Firecall it is.
I look round. – Chairs. Couches. Tables. Rugs. I’m in the living-room, now; the place I began from, before Andy shooed me away.
`Andy!` – No, I mustn’t be distracted. `Firecall. Floo. Entrance hallway.`
My feet fly, albeit stumblingly.
“Hold on there, Andy! Sorry sorry sorry! I’m calling for help! I didn’t mean to – sorry! I didn’t know you were there! Hold on please!”
Oddly enough, frantic pleas and calls of a different kind in a different voice echo in my ears, overlapping my own rambling, even as a squeezing and pushing sensation ghost over my entire body.
I’m going mad….