Butterfly Effect ; H. Potter

7. truth or not.

Madam Pomfrey insisted on keeping Harry in the hospital wing for the rest of the weekend. He didn't argue or complain, but he wouldn't let her throw away the shattered remnants of his Nimbus Two Thousand. He knew he was being stupid, knew that the Nimbus was beyond repair, but Harry couldn't help it; he felt as though he'd lost one of his best friends.

He had a stream of visitors, all intent on cheering him up, Hagrid sent him a bunch of earwiggy flowers that looked like yellow cabbages, and Ginny Weasly, blushing furiously, turned up with a "get well" card she had made herself, which sang shrilly unless Harry kept it shut under his bowl of fruit. The Gryffindor team visited again on Sunday morning, this time accompanied by Wood, who told Harry, in a hollow, dead sort of voice, that he didn't blame him in the slightest. Ron, Hermione, and Antheia only left Harry's bedside at night. But nothing anyone said or did could make Harry feel any better, because they only knew half of what was troubling him.

He hadn't told anyone about the Grim, not even Ron, Hermione, and Antheia, because he knew Ron would panic and Hermione would scoff. Harry thought Antheia might have something comforting to say, but he didn't want to worry her. The fact remained, however, that it had appeared twice, and both appearances had been followed by near-fatal accidents; the first time, he had been nearly run over by the Knight Bus; the second, fallen fifty feet from his broomstick. Was the Grim going to haunt him until he actually died? Was he going to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for the beast?

And then there were Dementors. Harry felt sick and humiliated every time he thought of them. Everyone said the Dementors were horrible, but no one else collapsed every time they went near one ... no one else heard echoes in their head of their dying parents.

For Harry knew who that screaming voice belonged to now. He had heard her words, heard them over and over again during the night hours in the hospital wing while he lay awake, staring at the strips of moonlight on the ceiling. When the Dementors approached him, he heard the last moments of his mother's life, her attempts to protect him, Harry, from Lord Voldemort, and Voldemort's laughter before he murdered her ... Harry dozed fitfully, sinking into dreams full of clammy, rotted hands and petrified pleading, jerking awake only to dwell again on the sound of his mother's voice.

He awoke once more to tapping on his shoulder. He tried to slap the source away only to be slapped back as his eyes snapped open. He looked around and saw nothing until Antheia took off the Invisibility Cloak.

"Antheia - what are you doing here?" he said.

"I came to talk to you and ask how you're doing?" she responded unsurely.

"I'm fine, I really am"

"No, you're not. I saw you jerking around in your bed before I woke you and you're all sweaty."

She sat down on Harry's bed and Harry sighed.

"Before I fell, I-I saw the grim in the stands ... and then everything went quiet and then black."

"Are you sure it was the Grim?" she said.

"I'm sure. It had the outline and black fur," he said.

"How would the Grim have even gotten into the stands?" she questioned.

"I'm not sure ... I was looking for the Snitch and I saw the Grim ... and everything went silent," he said, ruffling his hair nervously.

"I'm sure it was just a coincidence, Harold. What else is wrong? That can't be why you're all sweaty."

"It's fine, Theia. Really, I'm fine."

"No, you're not. Now stop lying and tell me what's wrong."