Disclaimer: I do not own, nor do I have any rights to the Harry Potter franchise. I am neither creative enough, nor a good enough writer to have any delusions of being J.K. Rowling.

February 13th, 2013

9:13 pm

The tingling sensation of rain falling on his face and neck was ignored, as was the burning in his side and the sting of his shoulder injury. The small immobile bundle in his arms took up his entire concentration. His once pristine dress shirt bled red, all the while around him lights flashed and sirens wailed. This wasn't supposed to happen, there had been plans and contingency plans, even contingencies to the contingency but in the end none of it had helped.

All it took was one night to destroy three lives, permanently removing two and plunging the third into a hell none could imagine without experiencing it firsthand. Harry saw but couldn't understand, he had tried shaking her, he had tried CPR, he had even compressed the head wound but none of it had helped. Now all he could do was look down, silently begging and pleading, none of it helped for the child in his arms remained immobile. He couldn't speak, he had tried, all that would leave his mouth was a broken wail, he would be shocked if he had heard how animalistic his voice sounded.

A police officer had tried to pry her out of his arms but like a man possessed he couldn't let her go, he knew she was gone. He understood this truth on some level, but he couldn't evade the belief that if he let her go, if he let them take her from him then she was truly dead. His fingers tightened their grip on the little girl; there were more officers now, all of them trying to pull him away. He knocked one over with his shoulder but that was the opening the second needed and he shoved him back and away from the dead child and keeping him down as the paramedics took her.

The officer used his entire weight to push him down and Harry felt panic clawing up his throat. He increased his struggles; the officer was hard pressed to keep him down. Harry had almost gotten loose when the officer he had previously knocked over came to lend his comrade a helping hand. He couldn't breathe, he didn't know if it was the pressure the two men were putting on his chest or if the crippling panic he felt was impeding his airflow, either way black dots were over taking his vision. It didn't take long before his struggling completely stilled and he welcomed blissful darkness.

He knew that it had been five days since the start of his own personal hell, he knew that he had been unconscious for two of those, and that he had a broken hand, three bruised ribs, and a concussion. What he didn't know was how long he'd been staring at the spot on the wall; it wasn't a particularly interesting blemish on an otherwise immaculate surface, perhaps it had caught his attention because it signified the imperfection that was humanity in an otherwise seemingly perfect universe, but he knew that was crap. It had caught his attention because if he looked at it just right his medicine impaired eyes saw a turd, but he couldn't very well tell the doctor that he was hallucinating feces on the walls.

Yes that would have gone over well 'Doctor the poop shaped spot on your wall it looking at me funny, tell it to quit or ill wipe that smile off of its stinking little face' that definitely wouldn't have committed him to the nut house for the rest of his natural-born life.

Had he had the energy he would have been angry, he was easily angered, his wife had always joked that it was his one character flaw. She'd always been able to calm him; one knock on the head with the fly swatter always settled him. Now there would be no more fly swatter battles and long nights nestled in each other's company.

He wanted to rub the smugness off of the ridiculous spot. He was sure that it was left on the wall to torment him; he suddenly wanted that jello cup that he had tried throwing at the nurse 15 minutes ago.

So taken in with the spot, he was contemplating naming it since he couldn't rub it from existence, that he jumped when a knock sounded on his door. It hadn't been shut but the person waited for permission before entering. Harry thought about not giving it.

The decision's taken, like so many recently, out of his hands. He hadn't turned his head to look at the person in his doorway, only seeing an obviously female figure in his periphery. She moved from the doorway and directly into his line of sight. Her suit was on the cheap side, perhaps a social worker or another lower level government official. He ruled out detective, she'd have had a partner. Her hair was a dull brown, slightly greasy, and she had oily skin. She had a note pad in her hands, her fingernails were short but thankfully not because she chewed on them. A reporter then, come to get the scoop on the story of the decade.

"Mr. Potter, my name is Clara Kroger. I work for the Daily Journal." She paused, looking at him expectantly.

Perhaps she thought that he should have recognized her, or maybe the newspaper; he didn't care either way. She had stepped right in front of the spot on the wall – a welcome reprieve. Or it would have been if she would only stop talking. Her voice was a reflection on her appearance, unspectacular, so easily dismissed that he blinked twice when he realized that he had missed her entire monologue.

" I'm surprised it took you so long to weasel your way into my room. After all it's not every day that you have 43 dead people courtesy of your friendly highway accident." He was aware that the words were a continuation of his earlier thought pattern, and his current medicated state didn't help him filter his words well, he knew they would shock her. It hadn't been his intention but he couldn't bring himself to want to take them back.

"I am sorry for your loss Mr. Potter. It was not my intention to disturb your healing, however as you are aware the Daily Prophet's Rita Skeeter is coming with a story in this weeks issue on the accident. Painting you and your actions that day as the reason for the immense and unjustifiable loss of life, I am here not to exploit you or what you went through but to give you a chance, sir, to tell your side of the story."

Inadvertently his lips twitched, forming a mix between a sneer and smile. People rarely talked to him in such a way, especially when his face harbored as dark an expression as he knew it did now. If he hadn't wanted to strangle her he would have smiled.

"Then I am afraid, madam, that you're to be disappointed. I have no wish to contest the content Ms. Skeeter's article, seeing as there is very little in it that is not true. I am the reason that those people are dead, that my family is dead, now be a dear and leave me to my 'healing'."

He closed his eyes, concentrating on the thin and uncomfortable hospital bed sheets, as if ignoring her presence would send her from his own. It didn't take long for the medication to work, sending him to dreams of that night and everything leading up to it.

I'm not exactly sure of my over all plan for this story. I deleted all of my others primarily because I felt that they were not done well enough, nor thought out well enough for public consumption and will be reposting some of them after I have revised them. As for this one, well if it's crap then just think how bad the others might have been. Review please, I could use all the help I can get.