The Relative Truth

Warnings: Attempted Suicide

Chapter 5

Harry was lying on an isolated bed in the infirmary, favouring his left side, which had been slightly less abused. Memories seemed to plague him, preventing him from sleeping, despite his fatigue and the amount of restorative draughts that had been poured down his throat. Sleep would have been a blessing, a temporary oblivion, respite from the pain. He hurt all over, physically as well as emotionally. Cracked ribs, contusions, Madame Pomfrey had given him the whole rundown of his physical ailments. They were nothing, though. Easily remedied with sleep and the proper potions. No, compared to what he was experiencing mentally and emotionally nothing short of death would have even come close.

Severus, the only teacher he had ever really trusted had lied to him. Perhaps it had not been an intentional falsehood, but it was a lie all the same. It did not matter that he could not have predicted the night’s events. He had told Harry that he would be safe at Hogwarts, that he was not a freak. Obviously Professor Snape had been wrong, and that hurt more than anything else. There was a feeling of utter disillusionment that did not entirely correspond with the attack. Severus Sn imp imposing, demanding Head of Slytherin was not infallible. While it should have served to make him seem more human, it only confused Harry more.

Harry had fallen in love with the Potions Master; it had happened before he could even realize what was going on. Really, he could not even pinpoint a date or a year when it had happened. There had never been a school-aged crush, at least, not in his own mind. Harry had always felt a deep-seated affection for the older man. He told himself it was probably because Severus treated him like he was something special; it was not the way that Aunt Petunia had spoiled him because he was like her daughter or even how Draco and Blaise doted on him because he was the “Princess of Slytherin.” As with the origin of his love, Harry could not quite place what it was about the way Severus acted toward him that was the cause. Sev always treated him like he was special for no particular reason. Harry felt safe, respected, and appreciated around the professor, things he had never felt before.

But now Harry had lost everything. He was no longer safe, and no one would ever respect a freak like him. Obviously he could no longer be Aunt Petunia’s daughter or the “Princess of Slytherin,” both of those required something that was no longer… no something that had never been true of him. But neither could he be Harry Potter; that person did not exist. He had come to a crossroad and the child did not know which path to choose. Neither seemed correct any longer. Harry James Potter had died the night Asphodeline Isabelle Evans had been born, and no matter how many times he tried to tell himself that he was Harry, the distraught teen could just not believe it.

His musings were interrupted by the Mediwitch coming in and forcing potions down his throat. As he swallowed obediently, he heard muttered spells and felt a tingling sensation as the major and most life threatening wounds were quickly healed. Despite the fact that his body was once again more or less in tact, he was still sore and too much in turmoil to get any sleep naturally. The last potion he was giving was obviously a s aid aid, as he was able to drift off quickly. He was vaguely aware of being tucked into the infirmary bed. A calloused hand that did nothing to conjure images of the Matron caressed his face as Morpheus claimed him.

After the potions had run their course, the injuries had healed, and Harry had rested, the mediwitch informed her patient that he had visitors. Draco and Blaise walked in a few minutes later, only to see Harry pointedly turned away from them. His back was to the door, and his eyes were closed tightly. As sure as he was of his own repulsiveness, Harry did not want anyone around him. It only made the fact that he would never be wanted by the one he loved more painful. Try as they might, neither boy could get Harry to speak to them. It was as though the fragile youan han had never met the other two boys in his life. He had reverted to the shy, withdrawn person he had been when they were all first years, but even as a nervous first year, Harry had not been this reticent. True to their friendship, however, Draco and Blaise stayed with Harry until Madame Pomfrey informed them it was time to leave. Harry’s back remained turned even as they left and they did not see the look of anguish on their friend’s face.

In the middle of the night, when the rest of the castle slept, the young man who had been a girl for fourteen years of his life sat awake in the infirmary, the soft moonlight gleaming off of the surgical scalpel in his hands. No crimson blood yet stained the sheets and the sharp blade lay benign in one gently curled hand, resting on his lap. The sterile scent of the room filled his nostrils, but he paid it no mind as he sat in quiet contemplation. His thoughts were in turmoil as he considered each possible path his life could now take. The fragile young man feared, beyond anything else, that someone, the Ministry, Voldemort, would discover the truth of his birth and force him to become the hero everyone expected Harry Potter to be. He did not want that to happen. In his heart, he knew that he could not live as Harry Potter; he found it pointless to try to live at all. He had no identity, not Harry Potter, not Asphodeline Evans, it was as though he did not exist.

“No name, no identity, no life”

With that the distraught child turned the scalpel on himself, shakily cutting a line up his left wrist. For a moment he watched the viscous liquid flow, almost black in the darkness, over his pale skin, beginning to pool on the stiff hospital linens. Taking the instrument in his left hand, he steadied himself to create a matching wound on his right arm. As the life poured from his body, the child known as Asphodeline Evans smiled to himself. The peace that washed over him was astounding, the pain nearly nonexistent. Never would he have to face the fate of Harry Potter. Never would he be expected to be something he could not be.

The clatter of metal against the stone floor of the infirmary shattered the peaceful night silence so thoroughly that the head mediwitch of Hogwarts was instantly awaken from the half-slumber of those accustomed to always being on guard. She was out of bed and on her way to the ward even before the night nurse made it to her chambers. The young man, barely past is own seven years at Hogwarts was nearly incoherent and the only words the outwardly serene mediwitch would make out were a consistent string of apologies. Upon entering infirmary, she immediately realized what had the young nurse so stressed.

With a professional demeanour that belied the fear in her heart, Poppy Pomfrey set to work treating the newest wounds of her charge. It was the work of but a minute to heal the twin cuts that marred the slim forearms, however, the loss of blood had her concerned. There was a potion that could aid the body in replenishing its supply, but it spoiled quickly and was not one she normally needed. Instructing the nurse to wake Severus Snape, hoping the man had not been called away that night, Poppy forced the near lifeless figure to swallow a medicinal variety of the Pepper-up potion used to help patients recover from traumatic injuries and surgeries. She prayed to whatever gods or ancient powers would listen that it would be enough until the necessary potion could be made.

Severus had been unable to sleep that night, too distraught by his inability to protect Asphodeline from the less savoury aspects of society. While Harry slept, or so he thought, in the infirmary, Severus paced his quarters. He continually berated himself for his supposed failing. It did not matter that it was hardly his fault that Weasley was a bigoted delinquent unworthy of his bloodline. All that mattered to the potion Master was that Harry was suffering and hat he wanted to do everything he could to prevent any further pain.

He was interrupted from his ruminations by a frantic nurse calling him by floo. Hearing what had occurred, Severus wasted no time in gathering the ingredients for the Sanguis Munitus potion. Ignoring the panicked nurse, the Potions Master, like the mediwitch several floors above him, maintained an air of calm as he began his brewing. It was not a complex potion, nor a time consuming one, but it required exceedingly precise timing and a sure hand. He could not let fear or nerves interfere with the process. A ruined potion would only waste time that they did not have. Within a quarter hour of receiving the distressed call, Severus flooed to the hospital wing, a sealed vial of Sanguis Munitus clutched tightly in his hand. With long, brisk strides, he quickly crossed the room to the bed of the fading boy. With no time to dally, he poured the potion into Harry’s mouth and massaged it down the boy’s lax throat.

All that could be done now was wait to see if they had been victorious in the race against time. If they were lucky, the potion would work quickly enough to replenish the lost before the child went into shock. Were the potion to be a success, Harry would still require several days of bed-rest to regain his strength. Poppy and Severus traded watches throughout the rest night, dismissing the overly stressed nurse. Their night of work was rewarded when, two hours after dawn, the boy regained consciousness. With the soft whimper of pain, a sound more nasal than vocal, the mediwitch was at the bedside in an instant. It did not even take a call to Severus to have the Potions Professor in the in the room as well. Together the two adults fed Harry another dose of the reviving potion. When the colour returned to the boy’s pallid countenance, Severus carefully gathered him into his arms, cradling him close. Ignoring the incredulous stare of the shocked matron, the older Slytherin spoke in soft tones to his student.

Poppy watched as stern man tenderly wiped tears of shame from Harry’s face. She had heard that he was much kinder with his Slytherins than he was with the rest of the inhabitants of the school, but she had never seen it in action. Surely this was a different man then the Severus Snape the students spoke so disparagingly of when they though no one was listening. She smiled softly to herself and went to her office, not wanting to embarrass her colleague and end this tender scene. While the two Slytherins held a conversation in low tones, the mediwitch firecalled the headmaster to let him know that the student would recover. Those boys were lucky; if the outcome had been different, they would have faced a much fiercer penalty. As it was, they were not likely to receive any leniency.

A few hours later, after Severus has returned to his own rooms, presumably to work on an experimental potion, Remus Lupin, Draco, and Blaise all visited Harry in the infirmary. The werewolf was first. He sat quietly with the boy, not accusing him, or demanding reasons for his actions. His presence comforted Harry slightly and he recounted to the young man many stories of his parents’ childhood at Hogwarts. He left out nothing, including their unfavourable actions against Severus. The young Slytherin was unhappy to hear of the harsh treatment of his favourite teacher and the man he loved, but he was able to admit that people change over the years, and if Severus was able to put the past behind him, then who was he to hold teenage indiscretions against his father and godfather. Still, he did not speak much to man and, resigned, Remus finally left the infirmary a few hours later.