Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. You know that. I know that. Harry doesn't know that. Ssh! Don't tell him, he thinks he's mine and that's the way I like it! hehe.
Wow, did I leave you with a scary enough ending last time? Good. This one shouldn't be so much the cliff hanger, I've actually finally managed to get a little ahead of myself with this fic so review and I'll try and post it up sooner. (Though I'm going away on a school/church retreat and won't have access to a computer Monday, Tuesday, or possibly Wednesday) But the next chapter is just about finished.
I hope you like this. Originally, this story was going to be going in a whole other direction after the end of the last chapter you read, but I was attacked by plot bunnies and one of my other stories inspired me to write this instead. I'll put the inspiration piece at the end so as not to give anything away.
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CHAPTER 37: Part I: The Awakening
Harry drifted around the rims of consciousness for he didn't know how long. All he knew was that he was sore all over and that he didn't have the energy to open his eyes. He barely had the energy to breathe. Consciousness drifted away again for a time. He had dreams. Dreams of his parents, of his friends, of green grass and blue skies, of blue grass and green skies. He dreamed of Renata. He dreamed of Hedwig bringing him letters from Sirius. He dreamed that he got a letter from the Ministry saying that the Dursleys had disappeared (but really they'd been turned into toads, the back of he's mind in the dream giggled and knew) and that he would be living with Sirius. He dreamed that Ron and Hermione got married, then he saw images of them aging until they were old and practically rotting with age and bickering while bushy-haired redheads (their grandchildren of course) ran around them. He remembered none of these dreams when he woke.
Harry found himself drifting on the edge of consciousness again (the dreams unremembered) and he found he still ached, though not quite so badly as before. He heard sounds, but his mind was too weary to make sense of the noise and his eyes too weary and weak to bother opening. His breathing wasn't a struggle anymore, but it required all the energy he could muster to deepen one breath to try and take in the smells of where he was. He smelled starch and cleanness, tonics, and the very faint smell of flowers. Lilies, were they? He didn't have the energy for another smell.
He went to sleep. Real sleep this time, not just unconsciousness.
When he awoke again, he slowly, very slowly, opened his eyes. He was so much less sore now; most of the general aching was gone. He stared up at the ceiling for some time, uncomprehending. Thoughts started to form, simple and unconnected thoughts. I'm lying on my back. It's very comfortable. I think I smell flowers. I'm awfully thirsty. "Excuse me?" he asked, his voice hoarse and barely a whisper. He suddenly became aware that somebody had been holding his hand. He couldn't quite see them. After all, he was still staring at the ceiling, which was very blurry.
"Did you say something?" asked a voice.
Funny, that voice was soft and kind and worried. Why would anybody be worried? The world was exceedingly comfortable right now. He just wanted to snuggle back deeper under the covers into the softness of the bed and stay there forever.
"No, of course you didn't. You haven't spoken for days. You've hardly moved for days. They say you might never speak again. But they thought you wouldn't regain consciousness or be able to move. Your eyes are open, I know you're conscious. I know somewhere deep inside you can hear me. I know it. You have too." The owner of the voice began to cry.
He gave a slow blink. Why would the person with the voice cry? The world was comfortable, wasn't it? Maybe the person with the voice didn't think it was. Maybe he should ask if she needed help. "Excuse me?" he repeated.
"You did say something, didn't you?"
He felt his hand being squeezed tighter. "Yes. That hurts. Would you mind letting go?"
"No, I'm not letting go of you again, you hear? Never. I can't lose you again like this. If you have to stay in this bed the rest of your life I should not leave though you grow old and bald and smelly and live to be 600!" The voice was very empathetic.
"Whoever you are, I can't really see you, you know. It's all blurry." His thoughts were becoming more connected now. He knew there was something that would help him see better. Something for…his eyes! That's it. A second pair of eyes.
"Here, your glasses." The voice (which he had by this time recognized as a person) came back and put his glasses onto his face and the whole world just seemed to click into focus. The visual world did anyway, but his mind was still a bit fuzzy.
"Thank you."
"Your welcome."
He watched, curious. The person looked very anxious. "What are you worried about?"
"You."
"You're pretty. You shouldn't worry. I'm fine."
"No you're not. You're not fine. You the way I know you wouldn't act like this!"
"Like what?" He was very confused now.
"How you are right now! You're…you the way you usually are…not like this…" A complete though seemed quite unable to come.
"You don't sound well. You should lie down and rest. That makes everything better."
"Rest? Rest? Rest!?"
Another person, a woman who looked vaguely familiar, appeared. "I think you'd better leave him be."
"No, I already told you. I'm not leaving him and you can't make me."
"Really, I warned you. After all he's been through, that night was just too much for him. Just too much. Whatever happened…" She sighed. The woman looked very sad too.
"Why is everybody so upset?" he asked.
"It's nothing, dear boy." The woman sat down on the opposite side of the bed from the other one who was there. She stroked his hair. "He might not get any better than this." She was looking the other person and talking as though he were not even in the room. Wherever the room was.
He was starting to get annoyed. The world wasn't so comfortable after all. No wonder these two were so sad. "Don't be sad. And don't talk like I'm not here. It's not nice. Very impolite. I forgot. I'm thirsty. Could I have something to drink? Please?"
"Of course, sweet." She got up and looked over her shoulder, "You and I will have to talk. He may have to stay here for life, but I don't know that we can let you do the same." She scurried off.
He struggled and managed to sit up and found he could manage. He inhaled and knew he smelled flowers again. He looked around. Aha! There, that vase definitely had flowers in it. "What sort are those?"
"What sort of what are what?" the first voice, he knew she was a she too, asked.
"Those. What sort of flowers?"
"Lilies. Your friends brought them."
"I've got friends?" he asked, surprised.
"Yes. You've known them for seven years now. They care about you very, very much and so do I."
"I never had friends before. I'll be your friend though if you stop squeezing my hand so hard. It really, really hurts, you see."
"Oh. I'm sorry." She let go of his hand but moved and sat facing him on the edge of the bed.
"What's your name?" he asked, curiously. She's pretty. "I know I've seen you before somewhere. I'm just trying to remember where."
"You don't remember," she said dully. "You don't remember anything? Anything at all?"
"I just said you look familiar but your name escapes me. Does that count as remembering? That nice lady who's supposed to bring me water looked familiar too."
"What do you remember? What do you really remember?" she asked, more anxious than ever.
"Not much," he admitted.
"What's your name?"
He had just opened his mouth when the nice lady came back with a tall glass of water. The lady held him upright while the girl helped him sip the water.
"Thank you very much," he said politely. "What happened to me?"
The pretty girl said, "Well, there was a fight."
"Did I get beat up? I think people beat me up a lot." He furrowed his brow in thought. Things were just beyond the reach of his mind right now. Maybe if she answered questions for him, he could remember.
"Well...we're not sure."
"You weren't there."
"I wasn't really conscious when whatever happened to you happened."
"Oh."
"When you were found, they thought you were dead. Then they realized you weren't dead, but they thought you might never wake up. Now you're awake but they don't think you'll ever be the same."
"What was I like before?"
"You were brave. Very friendly. Kind. Smart. You knew how to think on your feet. You could do anything. But you were sad sometimes. You had lots of good reasons to be sad, but sometimes you were lonely. You had nightmares and there were bad men who chased you."
"Oh. I think I'm going to take a nap now. Will you hold my hand again? I felt safe when you did before."
She took his hand and watched as he fell asleep. When he was truly asleep, she cried again as she had cried for the past two weeks, sitting here, leaving only for a few minutes at a time. He didn't remember. He didn't remember. He didn't remember her. He didn't remember anybody else. Maybe this was what he wanted. Maybe he didn't want to remember. If she were him, she knew she wouldn't. If she'd been through all the pain in her life that he'd been through, she'd want to forget. She hadn't been through as much as him, but she could remember crying herself to sleep on nights when all she wanted to do was forget. Forget everything. Holding his hand and crying still, she fell asleep, tortured by dreams and wonderings of what had happened to him after she lost consciousness that night, and tortured too by the fact that people in the streets were celebrating and she had no room in her heart for celebrations.
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He woke again; curiously enough his glasses were still on. That was good. He didn't think he'd be able to see them if he had to look for them. He looked at the pretty girl. She was in a chair, but still holding his hand most of her upper half was leaning across and over him.
"I'm hungry," he announced. The girl, snoring softly, didn't hear him. "That's okay," he whispered to her. "I can get something myself." Very carefully, he slipped out of the bed. He was wearing pajamas. He had only taken two steps when the familiar lady with the water from before came and found him.
"You're awake," she said.
"Ssh!" he put a finger to his lips and shushed the lady. She was going to wake up the girl. He didn't want to wake her up. She was so beautiful lying there. She looked like a princess. Everyone knew you weren't supposed to wake up princesses. They slept in towers in big castles got hundreds of years (sometimes) until prince charming came for them.
"Young man, you'd better go back to bed." The lady looked at him in a mock-stern way. Very motherly actually. Mothers were never as fierce as they pretended to be.
"Whisper," he said, pointing a finger at the sleeping girl. "You'll wake the princess."
"Has she been telling stories?"
"No. But she's so pretty. I think she must be from a fairytale."
The lady ushered him back into bed and she was thinking, This poor boy. This poor, poor boy. How shall I break the news to the others? The world doesn't care, the idiots are celebrating; but to a few of us, he is the world.
He climbed under the covers very carefully and managed to squirm and gently move the girl a little until they were exactly as before and so she was still holding his hand. "Could I have some breakfast?" he whispered to the lady.
"A healthy appetite. That's a very good sign. What would you like?"
"Sausage. Eggs. Toast. Bacon. Marmalade. Orange juice. I think that's everything."
"I'll be back soon."
He tried to remember. It seemed very important that he remember. The princess-girl wanted him to. He didn't want her to cry and she looked very sad when he said he didn't remember her. Maybe he was her prince? No. He wasn't a prince. He knew that much at least. He thought and thought. Maybe he was. He remembered a castle. There'd been lots of people there. Lots and lots of people. He could see it in his mind, but all the faces looked very blurry (even with his glasses on!) and he didn't know who they were.
"I still can't remember," he said quietly and sadly, when the nice lady returned with his breakfast. He'd really wanted to, too.
"That's alright, dear. Nobody really excepts you to remember after all you went through."
"What did I go through?"
"To tell it all would take a lifetime, and I don't have all the facts."
"Oh."
"How old am I?"
"Almost 18. You'll be 18 in a few months."
"Really?" He was surprised. He hadn't expected to be that old. Darn it, yesterday he thought he almost remembered his name and now he didn't. He wondered if he was dead. He remembered hearing once that being dead was confusing, so maybe he was dead. He was very confused. "Am I dead?"
"Yes, really, and no you're not dead."
She stayed there while he ate his breakfast. "Could I have a puzzle?"
"A puzzle?"
"A jigsaw puzzle."
"Of course." She blinked in confusion and to keep the tears away. She scurried off to find the boy a puzzle. Maybe he thought he was five years old or something. Oh dear. She returned with the puzzle. "Here you go, darling."
"Thank you." There was a special table that could be pulled out so it came over the bed, and he used that to work the puzzle on. When the pretty girl woke up, she helped him.
He heard arguing. "Somebody's yelling," he whispered.
She could see that he was afraid. "It's okay," she said softly to him over and over again.
"No, it's not," he whimpered.
She put her arms around him so that he would have the same safe feeling that he had when she held his hand.
He was crying, but he listened to the arguing. When grownups argued, you heard things they didn't want you to know.
"Just let me in to see him!" a man said.
"You don't want to see him. It'll break your heart," the voice of the lady replied.
"I don't care. My heart's been shattered to bits as it is. It can't end up in worse condition."
"You haven't seen him," she whispered.
"What do you mean I haven't seen him? I've checked on him everyday. 5 times a day!"
"You haven't seen him since he woke up."
"What? Did he grow an extra arm or something?" the man asked sarcastically.
"No."
"What then?"
"Just believe me when I say this. If you speak to him, you're going to cry."
"Nothing has ever made me, Si—"
Another woman's voice broke in, "Just let us see him."
Another man's voice too, "Please. Please, we just want to see him. We need to know that he's okay. We just need to know."
The lady gulped. "He's not okay and he's not going to be okay. He's happy, but he's not the boy you know."
"Then we'll get to know him all over again. Let us in."
Another sigh. "Don't say I didn't warn you." She bustled ahead of the others and reached his bed first, "Honey, you've got visitors."
"I do?" He tried to act surprised and not as though he'd heard the conversation.
"Yes, sweetie."
The others came up behind her.
He looked at them from his puzzle. "Hello, nice to meet you. Who are you?"
The three of them were dumbstruck. They'd known him for a long time. They were not used to seeing him like this. He looked genuinely happy and at peace, except for a few tears of wetness on his cheek.
The girl next to him nodded miserably, her own face stained with tears and her hair haggard.
The woman (well, it was a girl the same age as the blonde princess) asked the blonde, "What's wrong?"
"All of you made him cry with your yelling," she retorted.
The man (a boy of about 18) said, "Don't be ridiculous. He never cries. Certainly not over something like that." Then his face fell and he realized that yes his friend had been crying, but he looked quite cheerful now, doing his puzzle.
The worst reaction (though they were all awful) was from the man who'd first started the shouting. He gasped, "Harry, listen to me. Listen. Do you know who I am?"
The boy on the bed blinked. "Harry? Are you talking to me?"
The man's eyes widened and he came toward the bed. He grabbed the boy by his shoulders firmly. "Harry, you've got to know me. I'm your Godfather. It's me. Your old buddy Sirius. Sirius Black. Remember? You saved my life with that hippogriff. Don't you remember? Don't you remember?" He was frantic now.
Harry (if that was his name) began to cry again. A child's tears.
"You've upset him!" the princess whispered fiercely, putting her arms around Harry (let's just call him that until we have reason to believe otherwise, okay?).
The red-haired boy whispered, "He looks like seventeen year old Harry, but he doesn't act like it. Not like seventeen year old Harry. Not like Harry at any age I ever knew him. He's not himself anymore, is he? He's not coming back to us."
"Don't you dare say that, Ronald! I'm not giving up, so don't you give up. He's still got to be in here somewhere." Harry's princess-girl started to sob.
"Don't cry. Don't be sad. I'm here."
Hermione looked on with horror. Renata could deny it all she wanted, but Hermione knew that her best friend would not return to them. Would not be who he once was. But as she looked at him, she knew he was happier now for it. He'd never wanted his role forced upon him, and now it wasn't. "Ron," she said gently, "He's happy now, let's leave him be. Let him rest. Don't you think he deserves it?" Tears were stinging in her eyes.
Ron turned away, the tears spilling out of his own eyes. "He deserves it more than anyone I know."
The man, who called himself Sirius Black, had left despondently when he'd made his godchild cry.
Harry went back to his puzzle in peace, the princess-girl crying quietly by his side.
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The above and below were inspired by my Harry Potter 6 story. In one chapter, after Harry fails to explain the seriousness of the fight against Voldemort, he becomes very frustrated. He is emotionally drained and quite desperate.
Harry Potter 6, Chapter 59:
"I can't go on like this. I'm trying to teach them and they're missing the point. They don't understand what it's going to come down to in the end. I wish I were them. I wish I didn't know. What's that line again? 'Ignorance is bliss'? I want to forget everything, Luna. I don't want to remember that there's a psycho out there who wants me dead. I don't want to remember that he'll hurt anyone I care about to get to me. I don't want to remember that if he's willing to pay or threaten enough he can get anyone to join him. After all, doesn't everyone have a price?" he asked bitterly. "What was the price he paid to Peter to betray my parents? Or was it fear? The others don't get it, Luna. They don't understand what's going to happen. It's all a game to them. What I did to them this week did nothing to sober them. I'm afraid they're still as reckless as ever and there's nothing I can do about it. Don't you understand? NOTHING."
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Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own him. Drat, somebody told him I don't own him, didn't they? I bet it was you, wasn't it? Now he won't return my phone calls thank you very much.
Is it just me, or was the last part of this chapter really depressing? See, originally that and this were going to be two chapters, but I decided on doing one long chapter (soonest update is the weekend, I'm going away for three days this week, so that's why you get a really longer chapter today).
CHAPTER 37: Part II: The ReawakeningHarry was alone when he received another visitor the next day (the lady had sent the princess off to take a shower).
A woman with red hair came in. "How are you, dear?" She embraced him.
"Are you my mum?" he asked with interest. So far he'd gotten visits from friends and a godfather, but no parents yet. Nobody would have had the heart to tell him the truth, had he asked, but it never occurred to him that he might not have parents, so he didn't ask.
Mrs. Weasley (he didn't know this was her name and not having looked in the mirror since the incident, had no idea that they looked nothing alike) starting crying and hugging him more.
He wondered if this meant he'd finally gotten something right and this was his mother and she weeping with joy that her son had her memory back.
Mrs. Weasley seemed torn as to what to tell him. She'd felt as though he were her son (and treated him that way) from the beginning. He had no recollection now of those horrible Muggle relatives that had raised him. She could take him home now and pretend forever that he was her son. Forever. But would it be fair to him, to lie to him? The boy had the heart of a Weasley and was practically a member of the family already anyway. Scratch that. He was a member of the family. She only wished she knew how to answer him now.
"You're like a son to me."
"Like a son. Am I your nephew? Yes, I'm your nephew then." He smiled. It felt so good to figure things out!
She couldn't, she wouldn't, and she didn't tell him the truth. She just bit her lip and whispered, "Yes. That's right."
"Is this my house? I haven't really left this room since I woke up. The bathroom's right there, you know," he said knowledgably, pointing at a nearby door.
If only she could keep him from asking questions! "I brought you a new sweater, and some minced pies."
"Thank you very much," he said politely. He put the sweater on over his clean pajamas. The sweater was obviously hand-knitted and it was black with a big, green H on it.
She sat by his bed while he ate his pies and then helped him with a puzzle. She started talking to the lady (who had by now returned from whatever errand she'd been on) and Harry listened to the conversation while he did the puzzle. It had a pretty white cat on it. "Why aren't the two of them here? I assumed they'd be like her and not leave his side."
"It was the hardest decision they ever made. They're afraid that if they come around him too often, he'll remember. She didn't agree with decision and said they could do as they pleased but she wouldn't abandon him. She's so worried because she's been with him night and day and he doesn't recall her at all."
"What's wrong with remembering? Doesn't he deserve to have his life back?"
"Poppy, look at him. Think about his life. Nobody deserves to be cursed enough so that they remember that if they've finally managed to forget it. Would you want his life? Think about everything he's forgotten. Look at him now. Look at how happy he seems. Do you want to take that happiness away from him?"
"No. He deserves to be happy, Molly. If anybody deserves it, he does." The lady sighed.
Harry looked up at them. Why were people always so sad around him? What had happened that was so terrible? Harry saw that his visitor was leaving. What had the lady said her name was? "Where are you going, Aunt Molly?"
"Home. I'll be back again. Don't you worry."
That night, Harry had a bad dream. Bad men were chasing the man who said he was his godfather. Harry didn't know how he knew they were bad, but he knew. He woke up whimpering. He saw the princess still by his beside in the chair and squeezed her hand, knowing then that it was only a dream and everything would be fine. He went back to sleep. When he woke again, he'd forgotten the dream.
Over the next 3 days, Harry got more visitors. There was a man with a silly looking lime-green hat. An old woman came wearing her hair in a bun on the back of her head, she looked extremely sad as though something (or someone?) was lost forever. A man with dark hair and a hooked nose came to see him. This man looked on him with great pity, but said no words before leaving. A round-faced boy, accompanied by a lady with a vulture-topped hat (the hat scared Harry), and a redheaded girl came together. There was a man with a lined face and brown hair that was going gray. They all looked so familiar to him, but the past was beyond the reach of his mind.
Over those 3 days, the Sirius man and Aunt Molly returned several times. Harry heard them complaining to the lady.
"His body is as fit as ever. He doesn't need to stay here," Sirius argued.
"His mind will never be the same," the lady said. "We don't know if it's safe to leave him alone."
"I'd stay with him every minute of the day then!"
"Be reasonable, Sirius."
"I am. That's my godson and I love him too much to see him cooped up like this." Sirius had never been one to deal well inside any sort of cage or prison.
"Would you rather him happy or not?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what if living with you brought back all those memories. He's happy now. Don't you see that? What if it all came flooding back to him? The shock might kill him even."
He was silent.
Aunt Molly started talking, "But couldn't he stay with me? Arthur and I have room for him and we love him dearly. Just as dearly as Sirius does. I'm sure he must be bored of this place. Really, Poppy. We need to take him home." There was pain in his voice.
"There's no good solution to this, Molly. None that any of us can see and I've talked it over with everyone. There's options, but none of them…" she sighed. "We could set him up as a Muggle, living quietly somewhere; but there are still people who want to hurt him and he's in no condition to take care of himself. He doesn't even know they want to hurt him. We could let him stay with a loved one, one of you, but what's the point? He'd still be vulnerable and not the same person you knew and you'd be frustrated and he needs proper care." She looked fondly at the boy. Seven years and seeing a person through illness and injury could make you become very attached and somewhat over protective, but even Dumbledore had agreed that it wouldn't be good to send the boy away. "We could bring him back to Hogwarts, but what good would that do? To keep him in the hospital wing and have the other children come stare at him? No. I will not do that to him."
"He wins and still he can't enjoy life," Sirius said softly. "Come on, Molly. We'll be back again tomorrow, Poppy." He walked over to the bed. "Goodbye, Harry. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
"Okay."
Mrs. Weasley came over and hugged him. "Goodbye, sweetie."
"Goodbye, Aunt Molly."
As Sirius and Molly walked away, Sirius whispered, "Explain to me this 'aunt' business again?"
The day after that, a new visitor came. Harry was lying down in his bed and whoever had come in was very short, so Harry couldn't see them. The visitor had a squeaky voice.
"Mister Harry Potter, sir!"
Potter, he thought. Must be me. All the other people who come visit call me Harry. As it happened, no one was there at the moment besides himself and this new arrival. Almost every single person that had visited him so far was now a few rooms away, holding a discussion with the lady and the princess. Harry hadn't bothered to find out their names (the lady and princess), after all, he knew who they were, so what did names matter?
"Dobby has come to see you, sir!"
What's a Dobby? he thought to himself. "That's nice."
The visitor was like nothing Harry ever remembered seeing before and he came into just as he said, "Harry Potter, sir, I've brought you your wand." He bowed and presented a wooden rod Harry, just as all Harry's other visitors came in the room and gasped.
"He's not to have that!"
"What you done, you stupid elf?"
"Dobby!"
Harry didn't hear these things. The word was echoing in his mind, whispering to him, "Wand". He stared at it.
It was with sudden clarity that the world came rushing back to him. He suddenly realized that if this is what he was remembering, he wanted to forget again very quickly. He wanted to pull the pillow over his face and cry while someone hugged him comfortingly. But looking at all those faces, how could he just forget?
He knew who each and every one of them was now. Even that bumbling, idiot of a Minister, Fudge was there. Renata stood in tears. His princess was crying. Ron and Hermione were staring at him. In fact everyone was staring at him. There was uncertainty and sadness in their eyes. He couldn't forget now. Even that grease-ball Snape looked anxious for him.
Harry also remembered his past. His parents were dead. Mrs. Weasley was not his mother, or even his aunt, as much as she wished she could be. It was Madam Pomfrey who'd been tending him these past days. Neville stood there with his arm around Ginny. Harry knew them all. Remus Lupin, his face as haggard as ever.
Harry also remembered with crystalline perfection, the battle. He'd fought with Voldemort, throwing everything into that Stunning spell before he passed out.
Harry smiled weakly, "Hey, everybody, you all look just a tad worried right about now. Did you know that?"
They stood stock-still. Not daring to believe.
He tried again, "Er, Professor Snape, you're not here to collect my homework are you? 'Cause I just don't have it at the moment."
Harry almost swore that he saw Snape grin, but he couldn't be sure because Renata, crying harder than ever now, had launched herself at the bed, and flung her arms around him. She was soon joined by Hermione and Ginny both slipping out of Ron and Neville's arms and jumping on the bed next to Harry (both half lying across his lap to get his arms around him).
Neville said weakly, "Ron, mate, looks like we've been replaced."
"Yeah, I think so." He was just about in tears too. Then again, it seemed everybody (except maybe Fudge and Snape) were crying now.
Neville and Ron made their way over and hugged him too. McGonagall got in too, and Sirius and Mrs. Weasley wouldn't be left out. Remus Lupin stood behind to pat him on the back (there was no free space left to hug him just yet), and Madam Pomfrey stood on his other side. Ron reached down with one hand and pulled Dobby up on top of the pile of people. Snape and Fudge hung back. Harry had history with these two and they didn't think he'd appreciate their ruining his moment of happiness and reunion with the ones he cared about. Instead, Snape did something nice for Harry, something he'd deny later when the picture mysteriously came to Harry, he stood there and took a picture of the happy mob that was on, over, and around the hospital bed. Harry's face only just showing and beaming with happiness and at least as many tears as anyone else.
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Thanks. I hope you review and keep reading!
Story still not done yet. There's more, and I think it gets better. Oddly, enough I'm not ahead of myself anymore. Oh well. Review please, it'll make me feel better that I've been neglecting all 4 of my other fics in progress to work on this one.
