By the Sickbed

Minerva McGonagall sat by her student's bedside in the hospital wing, having dosed herself on calming draughts and that was after needing something very, very strong to get her head around the fact that Horcruxes existed. That was before the realisation that the young boy of barely thirteen had lived with one embedded into his head for twelve years. She was very forcefully reminded of the conversation she had had with Dumbledore the night they left the baby with those muggle brutes. She more than ever rued the day she started trusting Dumbledore's judgement blindly. It had cost the little boy his childhood. It had cost her twelve years with a child that was as close to being her own grandson as would ever be possible. She remembered asking Dumbledore about that scar as if the incident had happened only the day before.

Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where- ?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy." The last part gave her shivers. "Even if I could, I wouldn't." Dumbledore meant for the lad to die!

The whole incident had led to an epiphany. Due to her blind trust in a secretive person like Dumbledore, she had failed her godson. She had failed all that was left to her in the world that could be called her family. Most importantly she had failed herself. She once was proud to be known as a formidable witch. What had that come to? In a word: nothing.

She had been living a life where she had long left behind the complete use of her mental faculties, both as a teacher and in her personal life. She had forgotten to exist beyond Hogwarts and beyond Dumbledore's words. He may have once been a great man, may even be great now, she thought, but he had lost her trust; just as he had lost Harry's trust. He had not trusted her with the secret that was vital to her work as a member of his Order. That had led her to resign that very day after admitting Harry to the infirmary. Her two-hour long tirade and rant against and at the Headmaster had failed to calm her sufficiently.

Nothing would do that now. Nothing would calm her, except- as she would realise a day later- the little green-eyed boy, currently seeming to be on his death bed, calling her 'Granny Min'.

Molly Weasley sat by her daughter's bedside, each of them equally angry. So, You-Know-Who hadn't left the mortal world. Her daughter had just been freed from nearly nine months of possession by the Dark Lord's own soul piece. It had made her attack students in the school by controlling a basilisk. The venerable, highly respected Headmaster, however, had done nothing whatsoever to warn the general public of this danger. The danger that her daughter was in had passed, at least for the time being.

No, what had really riled her up was the fact that the boy that she was coming to look at more and more as a son was left to his own devices with nothing being done to help him with one of those...things lodged into that famous scar. Twelve years had passed after that fateful night. Why hadn't the great Albus Dumbledore taken any measures to help the child who had saved them all? Wasn't at least that what they owed him?

She shuddered as she remembered the actions of the boy, a bit younger than Ronald. He was willing to sacrifice himself to prevent the resurrection of a Dark Lord. A wee child was what everyone saw him as, yet he had taken a stand against the darkness four times in his young life. What more could they ask of him?

Ginny was terrified. Since the time her parents had told her the story of the boy-who-lived, it had been the constant around which her life had revolved. She had made a mistake of trusting Tom and a diary. She was almost ready to languish in self-pity for ever coming into the possession of that accursed diary. Now, her mother told her, her hero had lived with a similar thing embedded into his person, into that scar that defined him. She felt strangely inadequate. She had been gullible enough to be possessed by an external source of darkness. He had lived with that darkness for twelve years, yet hadn't succumbed to it. How could she ever be good enough for him? He had sworn to protect her as a brother.

"A brother?" she spat mentally. It hurt her deeply that he called himself her brother. She would take what she could get, if it meant being at least a friend first- but a little sister? No. Never would she accept that. She wouldn't let up the hope she had harboured since she was seven. He could be convinced to think of her as something else. She would be having words with him for his foolish but brave and self-sacrificing actions, she thought with a stern giggle. She shuddered to think of a world without him in it. She was sure that she herself would most likely be dead. If he died, how was she to marry?

Hermione Granger was in a situation that she had never felt she would ever be in. She was bordering catatonia. She was currently bereft of coherent thoughts to a very large extent. She remembered her two months of petrifaction. In that period of time, Harry had made a conscious effort to keep her company, often even coming alone. For a girl with a childhood deprived of real friends, such a gesture meant a lot to her. She hadn't conveyed her relief and gratitude to him for helping to keep her sane. She remembered the time before Harry had become her friend. Even magic, as inviting and enchanting as it was, wasn't enough to raise her sagging spirits.

But after that first Halloween at Hogwarts, she had never been alone in any sense of the word. Her two friends (though now that she tried to remember everything, she remembered Harry being a friend and Ron sniping at her every now and then) had always been with her, and the three had really stuck together. Now that she tried to imagine life without them, particularly given the situation, without Harry, it was something that seemed unbearable to her. Now that she thought of it, she was sure that Ron was her friend only because Harry was. Harry was the one who had dragged Ron to save her from the troll. He was the one making sure that even her petrified self wasn't alone.

He was also the one intent on leaving her to prevent a Dark Lord's return.

That would never sit well with her. That he was alive was more due to Fawkes' intervention than anything else. Then there was the fact that Dumbledore knew about this. Had he been rearing Harry only with the intention of having him killed when the time was right? How Lucius Malfoy was even allowed to curse a student, never mind which curse he used, she would never know. There were too many questions and she had no answers. She had seen the memory, and it explicitly stated "'mudbloods' like that girlfriend of yours that Ginny mentioned." She had seen Harry's scar call out to Riddle, almost killing Harry with the pain. She knew what it meant. If she were in danger because of him, Harry would do exactly what he had done. If Harry made it through this ordeal, she was going to slap some sense into him, physically, if needed. In her worry, the thought of his will never crossed her mind.

She looked over to Ron whose head hung back across the back of his chair, mouth open slightly as he slept. He had asked a very pertinent question. Who had befriended them, Harry or Voldemort? Who was left in that body now? Mr. Weasley had given some very persuasive arguments which favoured Harry as the resounding answer to both questions. For one, Voldemort would never give up the chance to 'cleanse' the school. Harry had two years to do so. Then again, Fawkes, a Phoenix had intervened and saved Harry from the basilisk venom that had surely impregnated the Goblin-made sword. Phoenixes always aided those considered pure of heart. That was one way that no one would ever describe Voldemort. Hermione was in a tizzy. She was angry. But mostly, she was worried. She wanted her best friend back.

Dumbledore, having made a brief announcement that Harry and Ron had got special awards for services to the school and that the pair had helped resolve the situation to Madame Bones' satisfaction returned to his office to face an angry father and a furious half-giant.

The usually mild-mannered and calm Arthur Weasley was beside himself with anger. "You know Dumbledore, when people trust, and almost deify an individual it is a sure sign of oncoming fall from grace. You kept that boy away from our world among abusive relatives. I grilled my sons and they told me about the prison of a room in which they had locked up the boy. How is it that the saviour of our world was imprisoned by muggles while scum like Lucius Malfoy roamed free while you were the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot?"

"Arthur, I can understand your anger..."

"No yeh can' u'derstan' his anger, Dumbledore", roared Hagrid. "'arry lived with a piece o' you-know-who inside him fer twelve years. Yeh are a great wizard, aren' yeh? Self-proclaimed leader o' the ligh' an' all? Why din' yeh spend some time on that problem? Did yeh wan' 'arry to get killed in the end? I 'ave always respected yeh, Dumbledore, but what yeh did ta the boy was jus' as bad as You-know-who!"

To say that Dumbledore was aghast was an understatement. His staunchest, unquestioning supporter was veering towards estrangement. He could only hope Harry made it through this ordeal. At least, he thought, Fawkes proved that it would really be Harry that returned and not Tom.

Arthur wasn't done yet however. "Dumbledore, you talk so much about equality between magical races and also between the native magic of countries across the world. Your position as the Supreme Mugwump meant that you had many contacts. Was it so impossibly difficult to spare a thought for Harry? Your own mental faculties and knowledge could have been expanded had you tried. You just chose what was easy over what was right. I am not sure how much I can trust you right now, Dumbledore. You have behaved in a really reprehensible manner as far as Harry is concerned. He has saved our world twice already from the resurrection of You-Know-Who. Each time the incident has occurred at the school you run. Each time it is your skin that he has saved. You owe him more than anyone else, and each of us owes him more than can be ever repaid. I still find it hard to believe there would be one day when I distrusted Albus Dumbledore. It is upon me, sadly."

"Yeh'll be sendin' 'im off ter the Dursleys, won' yeh? They actively 'ate 'im there." Hagrid's growl was almost threatening.

"Yes. Those are blood wards on Privet Drive that need to be recharged each year. He has to live there for at least four weeks. They will continue Lily's protection till he comes of age; or at least, until he considers the place home." Dumbledore knew that this argument was not going to hold much water with the two men. Sure enough, they snorted mirthlessly.

"Then those wards most probably never really worked, Albus. I sincerely doubt that any of the concerned parties actually consider that place his home."

"They do. I have a monitoring charm for the wards. I am always updated if changes in the wards occur."

"Suit yerself, Dumbledore. If they 'urt 'arry, they will 'ave me to answer to."

It was then that Dumbledore knew he had lost the battle.