on the 20th of october, harry potter woke up in st.mungos hospital for magical maladies and injuries right as his doctor shoved a bezoar down his throat.

he'd never had the best of luck, and he supposed the fact remained true, even as he lay dying. his desperate attempt at fleeing his rapidly unraveling reality had failed too. the least he could ask of whatever higher power may reside beyond the skies was to allow him the gift of unconsciousness while they fought for the life he no longer wanted. and yet, at the very moment an uncomfortable bunch of cold, gloved fingers pushed through his unmoving lips in order to shove a stone down his esophagus was the exact same moment that his dumb, irritatingly resistant body decided to rouse from death induced slumber.

the worst part was that he was only somewhat conscious for those few, agonizing moments. he only saw the blurred image of a blue latex hand before his wilted, stinging eyes before the pain, the scraping of rubbery claws against the walls of his raw, frigid throat, and the horrible lump of rock falling further and further down. he wanted to gag, spit up the feeling until he vomited and could no longer recall the sensation, the brief yet horrifying choke of breath as the bezoar blocked his airway, and the hands pulling his passive mouth wider and wider...

but he could do nothing but lie there noiselessly and motionlessly as they chased away the lingering poison flowing through his slowing bloodstream. could do nothing but feel the harshness of hospital lights, and the roughness of freezing palms running over his porcelain body desperately checking for signs of life, with his eyelids half closed and an uncomfortable ache everywhere. he was only conscious for a few seconds after the healing rock hit his stomach, and then dizziness overtook him in an endless cloud of pitch black darkness, and he gave himself to it readily, sickened by his own miserable existence, and suffering even more greatly than before.

as he slept in a near catatonic state, without the faintest glimmer of pink flush dusting his cracked flesh, and an oxygen bubble sealed to his mouth, healers moved frantically in and out of that empty hospital room. they were unsure of what to do in the presence of the boy who lived twice, the master of death, the vanquisher of the dark lord, unsure of how to look at him. reading about his likeness in the newspaper, it made him seem untouchable. invincible even. a boy of fairy dust blood, red lips, raven hair, with a heart that lived and beat and pulsed with so much life that even the killing curse couldn't force it into stillness. he looked healthy and proud and dare they say it, happy, beaming that glossy, haphazard grin on the front cover of the daily prophet. and yet, he lay there, drowning in the stiff white hospital sheets, smelling of anesthetic, of medical potions, a mere ghost before them. he had lost all flesh, all weight, was nothing more than tender skin hanging off of sharp, jutting bones. shallow cheeks, sunken eyes, chapped hands, and stringy locks.

they had found him hovering on the very brink of death in a cemetery with a bottle of poison in his limp hand.

the boy who lived. he had been dying in front of his parents grave, almost blue from the biting winds, and with dried tears hanging from his weeping lashes; and they only just managed to bring him back.

they bustled around him, replacing the nutrients in his iv, applying different medicines to his many wounds, both external and internal, and checking his breathing, his sluggish, dragging heartbeat to make sure that he was still with them, still clinging to the world, still fighting, even now.

but never once did they look at him.

on the 25th of october, harry awoke again. this time, he was able to pry his eyes open for thirty minutes before sleep took him again, and he almost wished he hadn't. the excruciating pain that set his bones on fire while he was unable to move was unbearable. he wanted to cry, weep and weep for his sickly body, and his sinking bones sucked dry of marrow, and his leaking veins struggling to contain his grey blood, and his broken mind of scattered, stuttering thoughts and unraveling pink caverns slowly going daft. but he could not move, did not even want to blink for the anguish. he might have thought he was trapped in a nightmare, lingering visions that squeezed at his lungs at night when there was no one to breathe for, recollections of scarlet stained memories. when he lost himself again and again in the ruined past, recalling the screams as he was tortured and tortured, mercilessly until his organs were inside out, squished together, and beating out of control. until his entire body was suddenly blazing furious white hot yet frigid enough for his limbs to fall off. stones on his chest, his lungs shoved right through his mouth, vomit coating his bitten tongue.

pain, pain, pain, so much pain that there couldn't be a word for it.

but he knew the curse, knew what it felt like to be relentlessly driven towards madness, to plead for death, for the end to rid him of the utter agony, the tearing of his very soul. and while this agony was miserable, it was tolerable in comparison.

so he kept awake for as long as he could, enduring it. long enough to hear the far off mumble of hushed voices outside his door, though he couldn't make out their frantic tones. he had to strain to catch even a snippet of their conversation, his head so hefty and stuffed full of pounding heartbeats and thick cotton that he couldn't even mull on the pieces of which he heard.

he was out again before he could listen to the end of a sentence, out again before the strangers arguing away in the hospital hall, fretting over his condition, interrogating healers tasked with caring for the golden boy so grey he was deteriorating, could enter. but if he'd kept his eyes open for only a few moments longer, he would have heard an all too familiar murmur utter his name.

"harry, oh harry..."

the following week consisted entirely of short rouses from death like sleep in which he felt so hazy and high off of his medications to do anything more than lie and choke on his stuttered breath. people moved around his lifeless body, adjusting his blankets, and brushing the knots out of his nest of ebony hair, and brushing fingertips over his glass skin. pulling away after the frightening cold he carried seeped into them too. he remembered none of it, lost to the effects of his self inflicted predicament. the hospital grew antsy, terrified that his eyes would never flutter open again, that, despite all of their efforts to keep his heart beating, to keep the warm flush underneath his flesh, he would desert them. a mirage, a distant legend that future children would speak about in bouts of disbelieving laughter and offhand comments, not understanding that the reason they stood there, alive, and smiling was because of harry potter.

his healers and nurses, sworn to secrecy, began to weep over his immobile figure, and the stale, linoleum scented air began to roil with relentless fear, heavy sadness that tainted his tongue even in numb unconsciousness. no one wanted him to die. of course they didn't. for who would save them then? who would they look to for constant reassurance? who would they beg for a mere glance in their direction, who would they lift upon their shoulders and pretend to respect, despite every invasion of his privacy that left him feeling violated and trapped, and every jab at his fragile history, his glass mentality in an attempt to yank him from his unwanted pedestal. they didn't want him to die, not because they truly cared for his well being, but rather because he was the one, constant thing they had, the one person they could rely on to solve all of their problems unasked, no matter how many times they betrayed him, turned their backs on him, or abandoned him.

even their praise did nothing but tighten the chains on his weary heart, for they praised him for achievements that left him harrowed, without the slightest hint of sympathy, as though his adventures had been a breeze, perhaps even a chosen path that he took fearlessly, and without hesitation. they didn't praise him, but a fantasized character they'd all collectively decided to replace him with.

and they all forgot, time and time again...

that harry was just a boy.

perhaps that was why harry never woke for their tears or their pleas or their desperate, scrambling hands scraping at his body. because he knew their watery eyes and trembling mouths were not for his lifeless gaze, his shattered skin, his bloodied, bruised mind. he knew that he had no reason to willingly come back to the world for them. he didn't know them. and they did not care to know him.

he remained in pitch black slumber, warm and more inviting than the bitter winds that beat down upon him from the roiling skies and the glaring faces. he remained there, tucked away, safe from his pain, too far gone to scream from it any longer, for days and days and days. more tears were shed, more cries and shouts hurled over his hospital bed, more potions shoved down his throat, more crisp sheets laid over his slow chest.

and he remained there, long enough for others to grieve for his life, though not yet lost, because not even the boy who lived could come back from a poison like that, right?

on october 31st, most had all but given up on him. in spite of only a short time having passed since he was wheeled into the hospital, the deadly effects of magical poison were serious. serious enough that they could all assume that he was a lost cause after only a week and a half. and by then, they thought he was either one step out of death's door, or lost to something similar to draught of living death. whisked away by eternal slumber.

the day marked the day of his dear parents departure from the world, something that had happened so long ago that even if he'd been conscious to feel the pain of the evening, he would not have been able to remember the exact moment he realized he would never see his parents faces again. he was a baby, innocent and untouched by the evils of the world, except the scar marking his seamless skin. he knew nothing of cruelty, not yet. not in the way he would as he grew, not in the way he did now, whenever he looked back upon faint recollections of bubbling laughter, gentle hands, and forest eyes swirling with tones of deep blue. he missed his family, plagued by a loneliness that terrified him so deeply that he couldn't find his breath sometimes. he missed his family through rosewood tales of their adventures, through moving pictures of their beauty, something so inherent and unique to themselves that age could not change it. he missed them dearly, oh yes, and the nurses looking after him thought morbidly of how fitting it would be for him to die, cold and little more than brittle bones in a hospital bed, no one around to hold his hand as his heart slowed to stillness. he would die on the same day his parents had, except, strangely, without anyone there to lead him peacefully to the doors of the afterlife-if there was one. it was a ridiculous thought process, one they perhaps would have been scolded for if they hissed loud enough.

but alas, no one heard their shamefully uttered fantasies, spoken with disinterest, as though losing the golden boy would surely be a tragedy for the wizarding world, but as though he were nothing more than their broken doll. one they would miss for a short while before quickly and eagerly replacing. it was the sad truth of the human heart. one that harry knew all too well, and it was a good thing that he could not hear them. otherwise he may not have found the will to revive his own.

he was left all alone in that hospital room while healers dressed the sick children up in their magically heated winter coats and attached oxygen bubbles to their chattering lips. they held their skeletal hands, and lead them out into the sugar scented night for one lively evening to brighten up their weary, sunken eyes. and they deserted him, leaving him with nothing but the aching throbs of his heart, and the comfort of unconsciousness.

they left him all alone, and left with all of the children...all of the children, except one...one little, brown skinned girl with a wandering mind, an open heart, and bruised lungs. she'd been watching him, had seen them wheeling him through the doors of the hospital, frantically screaming at each other over his immobile form. she'd heard them crying, their panic roiling hot, and searing waves of blood red, thrown into a frenzy of salt stained fear because the boy who lived was dying.

dying.

she knew all too well what it was, what it felt like to be dying. she knew, that if his eyes were open, if his thoughts weren't a scrambled mess knotted to the corners of his brain, and if his breaths weren't so strangled that his body couldn't bring itself to hold them in, he would be afraid.

she didn't want him to wake up in a unfamiliar place, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, and ears bleeding and burning under the pressure of a thousand unfamiliar voices, and be afraid. she didn't want him to wake up with his palms cold and his body aching and no one there to rub his back when his eyes fluttered open and he started gasping, and be afraid, scared out of his mind, and alone, alone, alone.

she liked the nurses. they were kind and they told her stories. but they kept running in and out, and leaving him by himself. and when they were with him, they were either drowning in heavy silence, or yelling at each other, and that was enough to scare anyone.

she knew best what it was like for a dying boy to wake up in a place he did not recognize, surrounded by people he did not know, in pain, and afraid, and alone. she was the best person to go to him. she wouldn't run in and out and leave him by himself. she wouldn't stay silent, so silent that he began to lose himself in her unbearable quiet, and he felt he was in the room with a ghost, and felt he'd gone quite mad. and she wouldn't yell at him. that might make him cry.

she was the best person to look after him. she was. she knew that, and so she saw no harm in sneaking out of her own hospital room in the dead of night, dragging her iv pole as quietly as she could behind her, and looking for him when the nurses weren't around to scold her for it. she didn't know what his room number was, but she thought that finding him would be a bit of an adventure. he was like a long lost prince, and she was the knight meant to rescue him from his prison. she held the metal stand between her fingers like a sword, hesitantly peeking through the windows of every room as though a monster would jump from the shadows.

considering the difficulty of the task, it was surprising that she managed to find him after only ten minutes. it was lucky that he happened to be on the same hallway as her. she caught a glimpse of him, all white and bandaged, like a clumpy snowman. except that shock of obsidian locks framing his thin, protruding face. she recognized him immediately, in spite of his drastic change in appearance since he was last featured in the daily prophet.

she recognized him, though not for the scar upon his head.

he was just a boy in need to her. and she wasted no time in rushing in.

and while everyone else was out trick or treating, and enjoying leisurely walks among the muggles in their billowing cloaks of emerald and royal purple, and their tall wizard hats, on the night harry's life was forever changed, that little girl held his cold, grey hand ever so tightly between her own chubby fingers.

and she whispered to him, gently, as though he would break should she speak too loudly.

and she told him something strange.

something he had not heard in a long, long while.

"it's okay," her breath splashed shades of gentle butterscotch upon his passive cheeks. the color of her soft words chased away some of the ill whiteness clinging to his flesh, and the warmth of her seeped into his frigid bloodstream. she was a bright, kindling spirit in a place of misery, and she held his fingers until her candy scented warmth touched the frigid surface of his veins. "i know you're tired. but you can rest now. i'm here and i'll keep you company."

she giggled, something sad and meek, woven through with underlying hints of aching sympathy, an understanding cobalt for his beaten heart, the exhausted bruises rimming his sleeping, yet restless eyes, and his protruding structure. her laughter was as delicate as her disposition, stumbling in frail petals of pressed flowers. her smile only just pulled at her lips as she gazed upon his face, burdened by deep despondence. but it was similar to his own, when he was her age.

choked by sorrow too well known for someone so young. drowned by defeat that only came from trauma.

a trauma that no heart should have to endure.

maybe that was why it meant so much that she stood in that room with him, while the nurse assigned to him was out and about readying medications and stirring potions. maybe that was why her touch bled through the thick and endless numbness that had overtaken his entire, lifeless body, melted sheets of ice that had buried themselves in his being. maybe that was why her words fought past the hefty cotton filling his brain, awakening his thoughts until they stirred him back to life, her eyes engulfing him so fully that his heart recognized the pain in them.

and he knew, that no one else understood, no one but this girl.

and what was he to do?

what was he to do in the presence of a little girl with a myriad of wounds upon her heart, a smattering of weeping orchids upon her lungs, and an anguish in her eyes...yet a girl who had come to him, for all of these reasons and more...because she understood what it was to be afraid. and to be hurting.

what was he to do, really, if not...

wake up.

a/n:

hello my lovelies. this was the first chapter of you have me. how was it? did it disappoint, does it need any improvements? did you like it? did you hate it?

if you had expectations, is it living up to them so far?

please leave comments telling me your thoughts and feelings and thank you sooooooooooooooo much for reading!

i love you guys so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so much! i can't tell you how happy it makes me that you've decided to read this, and i hope you know how much it means to me. you are all so so so amazing. stunningly amazing.

you are all beautiful. infinitely, eternally beautiful inside and out. and you're all my lovelies, you hold pieces of my heart and just know you have my love and my support. so please eat well, drink lots of water. rest when you need to. don't push yourselves. don't be too hard on yourselves. be kind to yourselves. make yourselves comfortable. allow yourselves to be upset or tired or frustrated and allow yourselves to be happy. surround yourselves with people who make you feel loved and cared for and happy.

your body is precious. your mind is precious. your heart is precious. your voice is precious. your everything is so so so so precious. and i love you guys. i can't say it enough.

you are doing so good, i am so proud of you.

take deep breaths, don't be afraid to ask for help, and don't be afraid to take breaks or to treat yourselves.

you deserve that too.

hold yourselves for me, and hug yourselves tight, and know i'm hugging you from where i am.

take care of yourselves, be kind to yourselves, and treat yourselves because you're special and you're worth it.

i'm sending you all super warm cuddles.

eat and stay hydrated!

love youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!

(' ▽｀).。ｏ♡