Basilisk Eyes

Chapter 67: Service animals

Harry opened his eyes and sucked in a deep breath... like he was coming up for air, but he wasn't in the ocean this time.

I'm not wet. It's not salty, he realized.

It wasn't dark, but it wasn't light either. It didn't smell like the corridor outside the library.

I don't know where I am! He panicked.

But then there was a calming weight of a small hand on his arm.

Gemma's here. His breathing became more regulated.

I'm laying down. I'm on a bed... no, a camp bed, he thought as his fingertips felt along the wooden supports of a camp bed, covered with a stiff canvas cloth. There was an aroma of peppermint.

Hospital wing... no... . there are beds in the hospital wing. His thoughts were crawling through a bog of confusion and it took a really long time for the thought to reach his throat and then his lips.

"Where am I?" he asked, his voice scratchy. He heard the paper fluttering by his lips.

Gemma squeezed his arm, then took up his hand and turned it over so she could write on his palm.

"H.J.'s" space "O-F-F-I-C-E" she wrote.

She had to do it a few times before he understood. He felt really dense, like he was running in slow motion, except that he was lying down.

He scrunched up his brow, "Why? What happened?"

"DO-N-'T" space "K-N-O-W."

He could almost feel a shrug in her hands as she wrote.

"Y-O-U" space "F-A-I-N-T-E-D." Her finger was jumpy, as if she were trembling as she wrote.

He felt his throat close in mortification.

"In front of everyone?"

She tapped twice, "yes."

He cringed and tried to roll over on his side, but the camp bed rocked and he stopped, afraid he'd topple out.

Gemma stroked his arm. He found it comforting. He realized that if she had been anyone else, he would have been annoyed. He would have felt pitied and pathetic. But Gemma felt like what he imagined having a little sister might be like. It reminded him of the way Ron acted around Ginny (when he wasn't annoyed with her)—she was someone he could confide in and someone he felt an innate urge to protect. He imagined a little sister as a person who would look up to him. Except that it seemed as though Gemma was doing a lot of looking out for him.

Maybe she thinks of me as a little brother? Or maybe little sisters also look out for big brothers. He thought about what it could have been like with Dudley if he hadn't been... Dudley.

His memory of the photos of his parents at their wedding floated through his consciousness, how they smiled and hugged each other and their friends. I'd probably have a little sister or brother by now if...

A sob escaped his lips and this time he managed to roll to his side without dumping the camp bed so that he could hold his face in his hands so that Gemma wouldn't see.

Why does it hurt so much to realize that I can't look at those photos anymore? It was just paper. It wasn't like holding a person or even talking to them. Why is that so much more painful than not having parents at all. What kind of a freak am I? He wondered.

He was embarrassed that Gemma had seen him cry (at least she didn't hear it—and he cringed at himself for even having the thought—that was mean) and worked really hard to keep the rest of the sobs tucked away. He kept his back to her until he was certain that he could control them. She rubbed his back. It felt like something a mom would do. Something he'd seen moms do at the park or at school when other kids had been sad or hurt that he had never experienced first hand. Maybe Gemma's mom rubbed her back that way?