Chapter Text
The man walked into the shelter and began tending to its daily tasks.
“His name is Tom, and he acts as both our jailer and caretaker,” I remembered. More of a janitor, really, since the place was akin to an old public toilet.
“And my name is Harry.” I felt compelled to focus.
The stalls were wide, and there were a few humans, chained to the far wall where the facilities should have been. Some bathroom fixtures were already present: a row of toilets, a row of showers, a few sinks at the entrance.
I couldn’t really see the others, as they were separated into stalls, but I could hear them—more complaints than coherent words. Tom spent more time with some.
When the man finally turned to me, his undivided attention felt pleasant. I was aware of the position he had placed me in: kneeling on the floor, face up, arms bound to my body. I was to remain like this at all times, and I could already no longer feel my legs.
He gave me water and soup—never solid food. He cleaned my face with slow, deliberate movements. I could feel sparks of his magic on my skin, making me clearer, more crystalline. He smoothed my hair back, smiling.
My nose was running freely, and he fixed that. He rubbed my ears a few times in a circular motion. That stirred something inside me, and I couldn’t restrain a moan. I cried a little, and he soothed me. I felt something becoming more solid within me, and it felt good. It was meant to be this way. He was fixing me.
The next day, I received water and vitamins from Tom. I was still dripping from my eyes and nose, so he corrected it. He turned my earlobes between his fingers, and the motion was relieving—familiar, almost precise.
On his next visit, Tom removed the chains. I did not move. My body was a perfect fit for his hands. He carefully opened my mouth and worked it so it would remain that way, so I could collect all he had to give me.
I remember how he shaped my lips until they were exact. By the end of his ministrations, he could regulate the flow of water. My skin had become a solid, cold surface of porcelain.
This is how it is now.
I suddenly remembered myself as Harry Potter and tried to convey that to Tom. I was running open, and he silenced me with a firm movement of his wrist. He looked faintly irritated. Of course, I could not permit myself to waste water when nobody required it.
He closed me, and I no longer felt water running through my body—my throat, my stomach. My pipe dried.
One day, I was finally able to hold an object on my porcelain surface.
It was my cheek.
Not my cheek. Please. Tom.
I tried to make it fall, and he left me open all night.
I could not stop until he tapped me closed. I sighed when he did, but all that came into existence was a siphon sound.
It might have started the day after. Or long before that.
I could recall limbs, weight, movement, yet none of it aligned with what I was now. It did not fit anywhere. It lost coherence, thinned, and dispersed into something I could no longer process.
The man cleaned his hands, thanks to me. I rinsed his fingers, and he tapped his nails against my rim. He smiled and approved of my use:
“Finally efficient. Good.”
.