Harry Potter

The antiseptic tang of St. Mungo's couldn't mask the other scent: sour, acrid. Harry lay curled on the padded floor, limbs twitching, eyes vacant. A thin sheen of wetness stained his robes. He babbled, not words, but fractured whispers of spells and screams. The Boy Who Lived was gone, replaced by a hollow shell, broken by horrors only he could see.