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It starts when Molly Weasley tells him he has a charming smile. Something flips in his stomach and he tries to remember where he's heard that before. He can't place the phrase but he feels strangely uncomfortable around Mr Weasley after that.
~
Harry hates Ron's wand. It's a strange colour - one he remembers seeing only once before. That colour makes his head spin with strange snippets of memories he can't quite grasp. It's exceedingly frustrating to have his Charms lessons interrupted by a sudden influx of hazy, nauseating memories which don't make any sense.
Harry hates when people say his name too softly. It makes the skin on the back of his neck prickle and he'll often spin round because he's so sure there's someone there, watching him. There never is. Ron and Hermione are concerned about him. He can see it in the depths of their eyes, in the crease of Hermione's brow, in the tightness of Ron's smile. Harry wonders if they think he's losing his mind. Hermione says things like "anybody would be a stressed with everything you've got on your plate" and "it's completely understandable" both of which Harry takes to mean assent of his freakishness.
While he's on the subject, he hates that word too. But the difference is, he knows why. Hating small spaces and the word boy and being jostled too harshly in the corridors - those things make sense. They have a distinguishable root; a beginning.
But the other things seem to be random, nonsensical.
So why do they make him feel hot and uncomfortable? Why do his clothes seem to shrink around him whenever Ginny whispers his name at 4am in the Common Room after he's woken from another nightmare? Why is it that the prospect of Occlumency lessons - specifically, of being alone with Snape - sends him into panic attacks in the early hours of the morning?
He doesn't understand. He hates not understanding.
~
"I really hate that cat," Ron grumbles to him one morning when Crookshanks trips him up on his way out the portrait hole. Harry smiles. He feels okay this morning. Today might even be a good day.
He glances behind him to see that Hermione has scooped Crookshanks up in her arms. Harry can barely see her face behind the fuzz of orange fur but he can still hear her muttering to her cat like Mrs Figg used to do when Harry was dumped on her.
"Don't you worry about him, Crookshanks," she mutters. "You're such a good boy."
Harry's heart pounds in his chest.
you're such a good boy
such a good boy
Harry loses his lunch in the corridor.
good boy
~
"harry..."
Always the same voice. Low. Hoarse. Warm and cold. Harsh and soft. A flurry of contradictions that he-
"harry..."
-can't quite place. Ripping through his feeble defences. He should have-
"...not...you're safe with...quiet, now..."
practiced Occlumency harder. A man whispers in lower case in his ear.
"you're so-"
Broken.
~
Hermione comes to find him in the library that evening. He's been spending a lot of time there, trying to understand. Trying to sleep. She sits down beside him without a word and gives the hand he's resting on the page of the giant book a soft squeeze before shoving her nose into her own text. Harry is too focused on his reading to even notice that she's watching him.
"Harry?" She whispers and his head shoots up in sheer panic. For a moment, he's not sure where he is. The voice is back and his name feels dirty on its tongue.
Hermione frowns.
Harry thinks he might really be going mad. He abandons his book on the table and leaves, throwing one last glance over his shoulder to find Hermione perusing the book in question with concern.
~
"I need to talk to you," Hermione says without preamble as she plonks herself down in an armchair by the fire. It's almost 5am. Harry doesn't remember the last time he got more than four hours of sleep.
"Then talk," he says. He's too tired for games. He's too tired for everything. He's fed up sitting here with the fire burning into his eyes, trying to snatch at the ghost of a memory which won't stop haunting his dreams.
"Ginny said you'd probably be here," Hermione goes on. "You haven't been sleeping."
Harry doesn't dignify that with a response.
"That book you were reading earlier- Ron and I, we worry about you. I wish you'd trust us."
Harry sighs and rubs a hand over his tired face. He's shaking. He's been shaking for weeks. He can't stop. The fire always makes it worse but he sits close in the feeble hope that a little warmth will cure him. He almost wishes he were in first year again, taking on Voldemort in the flesh. Or perhaps even down in the Chamber of Secrets with-
His head screams with pain but it's not his scar. Even with his eyes open, all he can see is white and it's blinding. He can feel hands on his arms but he pushes them away, dry heaves tugging at his chest and his stomach. He can't see. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears and he's so hot all over but he can't stop shivering and-
"...do we do?"
"Harry!"
He can smell vomit but he doesn't remember being ill.
He doesn't remember.
"smile for me, harry"
He doesn't remember.
~
The hospital wing is silent when he wakes up with Professor Dumbledore sitting worriedly by his side.
"Madam Pomfrey has examined you, Harry," he says gravely, eyes devoid of twinkle. "I'm afraid I have disturbing news."
Harry can't help but shuffle away from Dumbledore. A desperate need to see Madam Pomfrey overwhelms him. He can't be alone with Dumbledore. It's not safe. It's not-
"Harry..."
He shudders at the sounds his name, so soft, so- wrong. He tries to call for Madam Pomfrey but he's hoarse and he's standing by the bed but he doesn't remember getting up and the floor is cold beneath his bare feet and he can't stop his legs from shaking. He's quite certain they'll give out on him at any moment.
Madam Pomfrey comes hurrying out of her office not a moment later and he flings himself into her arms before he knows what he's doing. He's fifteen years old, for God's sake, and the product of an abusive home. He's never needed comfort like this before, never craved the safety of caring human touch. Never like this. He's sobbing. It's humiliating. But he'd rather subject himself to ritual humiliation every day for the rest of his life than be alone with Dumbledore.
He doesn't understand.
It takes several promises on Madam Pomfrey's part not to leave him alone before he shakily clambers back onto the bed. He sits on top of the covers. He doesn't like being restricted.
"Mr Potter," Madam Pomfrey says and Harry relishes in her formality. She's safe. "I was summoned to Gryffindor tower last night to find you in quite a state. A diagnostic showed nothing physically wrong with you." She frowns. "However, it has come to my attention that a memory altering charm was used on you several years ago."
Harry's stomach drops to his toes. Something silver flirts with him at the back of his mind before dissipating like smoke.
"Do you have any recollection of such an event?"
Harry almost laughs. Does he have any memory of having his memory changed? Well...
"obliviate"
He chokes.
"Yes."
~
Madam Pomfrey can't do anything for him but offer him refuge until it passes. Harry declines. After all, she said it might take weeks, possibly a month of two, for the spell to wear off completely.
"It'll be gradual at first," she'd told him. "A snippet here and there. Eventually, it'll all come back in a rush."
She offered him a sympathetic smile there and what might have been a motherly pat on the shoulder.
"When that happens, come and find me. We'll work it out from there."
~
"harry...yes..."
Stop.
"you don't...that...me..."
Please.
~
Desperation clutches at Harry's heart. Somehow, he knows he needs to get out.
He leaves the Potions classroom without another word.
"not a word"
He can hear Snape's yells of "Potter!" but-
~
Ron finds him with his legs dangling over the edge of the astronomy tower, the Marauder's Map in his hand. He takes a seat next to him, careful not a sit too close. Harry feels awful because even being alone with Ron sets his teeth on edge.
"Mione's going spare about you, mate," he mutters, letting his legs batter against the stone wall. "Been spending ages in the library looking at psychology stuff."
Harry's mind flits back to the book about mental health services in the wizarding world.
"At the risk of sounding like a girl, you know you can come to us, right?"
He doesn't know what makes him say it.
"How high up do you think we are?"
Ron looks surprised for a moment before looking down, puffing out his cheeks in thought. "Dunno. Couple of hundred feet?"
Harry nods. He thought as much.
~
Madam Pomfrey was right.
~
Harry hasn't gotten out of bed in three days by the time Ron fetches Professor McGonagall who takes one look at him and summons Madam Pomfrey. McGonagall looks down at him without her usual sternness and says, "You are excused from your homework assignment, Mr Potter."
The good humour in her voice is evident but Harry can't bring himself to smile. His throat aches from crying and his eyes sting.
He has a new found appreciation for his surname.
Madam Pomfrey arrives with Professor Snape in tow. It might be Harry's imagination, but he looks somewhat less- hateful. It's probably his imagination.
"Mr Potter," he says, barely moving his lips, twirling his wand between his fingers. "May I?"
It's the first time in Harry's memory that Snape has asked for permission. He nods his assent and meet's Snape's eye. He hardly hears the whispered, "Legilimens!" before he's thrown back into the memory he's been reliving for the past three days.
~
"Ah, Harry!"
Professor Lockhart sat at his desk wearing a shirt of shocking fuchsia. The top two buttons are undone. With dread pooling in the pit of his stomach, Harry stepped cautiously into the room.
"Well, close the door, Harry!" Lockhart said cheerfully. "There's a terrible draught in here."
Harry did as he was asked and came to stand by the desk, hands fiddling with the sleeves of his robe. He wondered what Lockhart would have him do this time. If it was anything like his last detention, he's end up with cramp in his hand from addressing envelopes.
"You may as well lose that robe," Lockhart chuckled. "We'll be getting dirty this evening."
Harry just managed to hold back a groan. As if he didn't do enough cleaning over the summer. Reluctantly, Harry tugged his robes over his head and discarded them over the back of a chair. When he looked back at Lockhart, the expression on his face made Harry's stomach squirm.
"And that tie as well," he said softly, stepping round the desk to undo Harry's tie for him. Everything about the situation made him distinctly uncomfortable. Lockhart's fingers nimbly undid the top button of his shirt while Harry failed to tear his eyes away.
"Right," Lockhart clapped his hands together. Harry's throat felt strangely tight. "Roll up those sleeves."
Harry's heart was in his mouth. This was all wrong.
Harry glanced up. Lockhart seemed to be struggling to undo the buttons on his shirt. Seeing him looking, Lockhart flashed him a sheepish smile.
"If you would, Harry," he said, gesturing to his chest. "I'm afraid I'm a little sweaty. Can't get the buttons. Too hot."
And that was how Harry found himself taking off his Professor's shirt. He couldn't stand the hungry look in Lockhart's eyes. He didn't think he'd ever been more afraid.
Harry cringed away from Lockhart's hand under his chin, tilting his head back to meet his eye. "Smile for me, Harry. You've got such a charming smile. It's a pity to see you like this."
It was a pitiful attempt but Harry smiled nonetheless.
"Good boy," Lockhart muttered. "You're such a good boy."
"Sir?" Harry took a step back as Lockhart's hands reached for him. "I, uh, I think I'll keep mine on if that's, um, if that's okay?"
He didn't mean for it to come out like a question. Lockhart chuckled again.
"Nonsense!" he exclaimed, moving so they were barely an inch apart and beginning to unbutton Harry's shirt. With it discarded, Lockhart's hands slid their way across his chest. They were cold. Harry shivered.
There were so many things he wanted to say. Sir, please don't touch me. Please let me go. Please stop. But he keeps his mouth shut. Lockhart guided him to sit on the couch. Harry wondered why he had a couch in his office but only to distract himself from the knot of fear in his stomach. Lockhart smoothed the hair off his forehead, tracing the lightning bolt scar with his thumb.
He leaned in close. Harry could smell his minty breath, feel it hot against his cheek as he whispered, "Stop resisting me, Harry. You know you drive me crazy."
"Please, sir. Stop."
Lockhart's lips brushed against his ear. Harry shuddered. "Oh, Harry. You don't mean that. You don't know what you do to me."
Harry choked back a sob as Lockhart started guiding his hand towards his trousers.
"That's it, Harry," he said. His voice was almost soothing. "Yes. Good boy."
And then Lockhart's cold fingers were in the waistband of his trousers and his pants and he felt dizzy and nauseous. This wasn't right. The pain which followed was unbearable.
It lasted so long and Harry didn't think he'd ever get Lockhart's foul taste off his lips. And, finally, Lockhart raised his wand - it was a funny colour like Ron's - and smiled, eye twinkling.
"Obliviate."
~
Harry falls back into reality to the sound of Snape throwing up in the bathroom. He feels disgusting.
When Snape returns, his skin is more sallow than Harry has ever seen it and there's a look in his dark eyes he never wishes to see again. He tucks his wand back into his sleeve with a shaking hand and says hoarsely, "You are truly hopeless at Occlumency, Potter."
He sweeps from the room. Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey follow closely behind.
He might be a git, Harry thinks, but at least he calls him Potter.