Learning to Live

I\'d like to thank the people who reviewed. One of the suggestions I got inspired a later chapter, and I\'d like to thank Storm for that. Enjoy and please review.


Chapter 2: Shattered Hopes

Harry awoke to the dulcet sounds of his aunt screaming for him to come downstairs. He had lived through the night, much to his disappointment. He groaned in his mind and tried to get up, but found that he could not move. He was able to feel all his limbs, which were in searing pain, so it wasn’t that he was paralysed, just immobile.

He could hear Petunia storming up the stairs, demanding that he get his lazy ass up out of bed and start the laundry. He was in too much pain to so much as move a finger. His face was turned to the door, so he was able to see the woman that was his mother’s sister as she came into his room and understood why he wasn’t doing as he was told.

Petunia was in complete and utter shock. When she had come home last night, she had seen the smug look of contentment on her husbands face, but had figured that he had visited a whore on the street. Seeing her nephew sprawled out on his bed, naked and covered from neck to knees in blood and other liquids, she came to full realisation of what had happened.

Rage burned a deadly swath through her. She may not have liked having her sister’s brat in her house, but he was in her custody, and she knew her duty to him. He was supposed to be safe here from those maniacs terrorising through England. And Vernon had gone and ruined everything, just like he usually does. With a promise of retribution flaming in her eyes, Petunia calmly walked to Harry and sat at his side, uncaring of the blood that soaked into her skirt. “Harry, I know you’re in pain, so just listen to me. I may not like being forced to care for you, but I try to provide you with the necessities. Nothing like this was ever meant to happen. Vernon will pay for doing this to you, don’t worry. Either I, the police, or that infernal Professor of yours will make him regret ever touching you. Right now, I need to take you to...” Petunia’s voice trailed off as Professor Snape whipped off his Invisibility Cloak.

“I’m sorry, Petunia, but I had to know that you weren’t involved in this. I’ll take care of Potter. Dumbledore will be around in a moment to take care of that lout you call a husband.” Snape’s usually sneering face held a soft, almost tender look.

In his school years, when others had tormented him, Lily Evans had been a dear, sweet girl to him. The fourth year they had been at school, she had invited him to stay with her for Christmas break. He had gone and been introduced to her family. At the time, he had been put off about meeting a bunch of Muggles, but her parents had been nice to him. To his amazement though, her sister had seemed as cynical and pessimistic as he. He immediately conceived a tendre for the muggle girl and had not gotten over it yet. It was part of the reason he hated Potter so much, both the father and the son. They got to spend so much time with the woman he admired so much.

Petunia had been aware of the feelings of the dark man, but she had been unable to allow herself to feel anything for him. He was one of them. She could never, would never, have feelings for someone like him... no matter how much she wanted to.

“Somehow Dumbledore was able to hear Harry. He said that Harry had screamed to be saved, but no one heard him. He said that Harry’s mind had screamed. By the time he heard the echo of it, it was too late. I’m sorry, both to you and your nephew. Now, come on Potter, we have to get you to St. Mungo’s. Scourgify! I’m sure you will appreciate not being covered in such mess. Now hold still.” Harry’s Professor did a spell that put the boy on a levitating stretcher, lying on his stomach as his back had the most damage. Snape pulled a portkey from his pocket and let it rest by Harry’s hip, before helping him wrap his hand around the handle of the chipped teapot. The older man rested his hand on the side and it took effect, whisking them away to the wizards’ hospital.

***
Harry was slipping in and out of consciousness. He had not only sustained a huge amount of trauma, but he had lost a lot of blood. He was literally at the brink of death; he could see his mother and father, he could see Sirius, he could see the family he had never known. And the medi-wizards didn’t know if they could bring him back. Secretly, Serverus Snape wondered if they should. The boy may have been a pain in the ass, but he was the Golden boy. He was supposed to be the saviour of wizardkind. That kind of pressure is terrible. Knowing that you are nothing more than a pawn, a weapon, must be demoralising beyond belief.

But he kept silent and let the healers work on Harry. The most that they were able to do was stabilise him and heal the more minor of the wounds. The larger bruising and cuts refused the touch of magic. Harry’s own magic funnelled it away from the wounds, as if he didn’t want them to heal. The phenomenon troubled and baffled the healers.

Harry’s body was kept in a private room, guarded by witches and wards. St. Mungo’s wasn’t the most secure place. The people there were healers, not fighters. But they could at least keep away the curious people and the reporters. As soon as Serverus with Harry had entered the hospital, the wizarding world had been alerted.

So now Harry’s body lay in a cold, hard hospital bed, while his mind and soul took flight. Dumbledore and McGonagall sat at his bedside, the older man holding tightly to the younger’s hand. The renowned and powerful man now looked just plain tired and old. His face was sagging, the wrinkles now more apparent, and most alarming, his eyes had lost there twinkle and glitter. It was the face of a despairing, disillusioned schemer. He had planned for so long, planned so well, and now was to be thwarted by a heavy handed muggle.

“What are we going to do Albus? They said they didn’t know how to bring him back. We need him. We all need him. What about the prophecy? Only Harry can kill He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Can’t you do something Albus? Do something! Say something!” Minerva McGonagall was getting hysterical, tears sliding down her face, hands and fingers twisting and contorting in fear and grief.

“There is nothing I can say or do, Minerva. Except hope. Our only chance left is to hope.” He held out a hand to his friend, and she came to him, crying into his shoulder. He held her, rubbing her back as his own tears made their way down his craggy, weathered face. Two friends comforting each other as their hopes lay as shattered as the boy in the bed.