What They Seek Chapter 2

Harry breathed. It felt good. Hmmm, he thought. Why was that an odd thing?

He inhaled again and felt his lungs expand beneath his ribs. Then, they felt a constriction. Linen had been draped around his chest, under soft, unfamiliar pajamas. He attempted to raise his left arm to pluck at it, but found himself only able to wiggle his fingers and realized it, too, was enclosed in linen. Panic rose for a quick moment.

Then he remembered.

Sirius! He had intended to shout it, but only hot air emerged from his mouth without sound. Regardless, it drew attention from someone nearby.

"Madam Pomfrey come quickly! He's awake," a male voice shouted. It sounded like Lupin, which didn't make much sense to Harry's muddled mind. He tried to open his eyes but found them crusted shut and very lazy. Someone had grabbed his unencumbered right hand and was saying his name over and over. But aches were blossoming from every inch of his skin, dulled under a layer of pain numbing potions, but still very much evident. His brain balked at the thought of exposing his eyes to sunlight and urged him back to sleep. He drifted off again, an apology to Lupin lost in his throat.

The next time he woke, it was much more abruptly. He suddenly just found himself conscious, though still entombed in linen. This time, he raised his right arm and rubbed at his face. Nobody appeared to take notice, and finally he was able to open his eyes.

The blurry vision of the hospital wing curtains around his bed greeted him. He considered reaching around for his glasses, as he had done on countless previous trips to the hospital wing, but then realized he'd last seen his glasses at the Dursley's, oh so many ages ago now. He dropped his hand to lie limp on the covers that were pulled halfway up his chest and he blinked up at the ceiling.

He'd seen his parents. And hugged Sirius.

But something was nagging him, something he'd forgotten about, something important. It urged him to reexamine his memories from before that spiritual encounter. He resisted it, however, instead listening to the sound of his beating heart, the great clock tower echoing from down the corridor, and that, the quiet whispering of what he assumed was Madam Pomfrey chatting in her office. Eventually, however, his mind drifted back of its own accord and he found himself remembering dark things.

Snape. The name slithered to his tongue with remarkable ease, once he allowed it to, and he realized the question he'd been forgetting – Had Snape survived?

He blinked at the ceiling again, and then, with great effort, craned his neck to the right and paused.

He wasn't alone after all.

Sitting in a large, overstuffed, bright green chair, was Albus Dumbledore.

"Good evening, Harry," the quiet, gravelly voice greeted. It was layered with affection, concern, and something else, apprehension, perhaps. Before Harry could respond, he leaned forward and gripped Harry's hand, lightly, in his. Harry flinched at the touch and immediately wondered why he did so. The headmaster did not react but continued to hold Harry's hand and gaze at him, though Harry couldn't tell much more than that, even at this distance, without his glasses.

"I cannot express how glad I am to see you awake, my boy," Dumbledore said.

"Hmmm- S-sss – ,"Harry replied. His mouth felt dry and his tongue incredibly heavy, but he was determined to ask one question, just one. Dumbledore wisely did not interrupt.

"Sss—Snape. Is heee—" He felt Dumbledore's hand grip a bit tighter where it held his.

"Yes, Harry," Dumbledore said, slowly, when it looked like Harry had given up, "Professor Snape is here as well. Thankfully, he is alive and recuperating." Harry felt himself sag in relief against the mattress. "But," the headmaster continued, somberly, "it will be a long, slow recovery for him, I am afraid. He was very badly injured."

Harry craned his head back to look up at the ceiling. An unbidden memory returned to the forefront of his mind. He had been mostly spared the sight of the man's mangled body because of his blurry vision, but nothing had been available to block out the man's scream when Voldemort had forced him back to consciousness. It replayed again and again in his mind.

Suddenly, Dumbledore came into view. He leaned over Harry, his beard nearly brushing against his cheek. A wizened old hand swept across Harry's forehead, intentionally tracing over the lightning scar which was, mercifully, dormant.

"You accomplished yet another miracle, Harry. Thank you."

Harry stared back into the crystal blue eyes he could now make out. He wanted to protest the unnecessary praise but lacked the strength of body to do so. Dumbledore smiled lightly. "Go to sleep, Harry. Allow yourself to heal. You have earned a long rest, dear child."

The hand swept back his fringe again and then ruffled Harry's hair. Harry's eyes fell shut of their own accord. I need sleep, he thought groggily. But please, he added, no dreams.

For three more days, Harry woke on and off, during day and night, according to his body's own internal clock. Order members and friends trickled in and out of his room, keeping him under constant surveillance. But even when Harry woke up, he kept his eyes closed. He knew his friends were dying to see him, to talk to him, to comfort him, and he hated to keep them in this eternal suspense, but every time he considered opening his eyes, and finally being deemed 'alright', he would shrink back in anticipation of the questions. Well, one question in particular.

"What do you think happened?" He heard, on the morning of the third day. It was Ron. He was whispering to someone else at the foot of Harry's bed.

"Something awful," Ginny's quieter voice answered. "It's a wonder he even survived. I heard Madam Pomfrey talking to Dumbledore earlier," she added in a whisper, "they said it was touch and go even once they got him up here." Her voice cracked and effectively broke through Harry's self-imposed vow of silence. His eyes fluttered open.

"Harry!"

Harry rubbed at his eyes again, and gratefully found that his muscles were responding a bit better than they had before.

"Hey," he croaked in greeting as Ginny rushed around to his bedside, Ron on her heels.

"I can't believe you're finally awake," she said. "Here, let me get you some water."

She poured some crystal-clear water from the jug on the night stand into the available glass. Harry watched her, and decided he liked the way her hair sparkled to various shades of ginger in the natural light from the window.

"Ron, get around the other side and help him sit up," she demanded.

"Wha- oh, right," he muttered, blushing red for some reason, and sidling over to the other side of the bed. Harry traced him with his eyes and tried to hide a small frown.

"Hey, mate, here," Ron said, crouching, and awkwardly sliding his hand behind Harry's shoulder, and slowly hauling him into a half sitting position. Harry winced in anticipation of a twinge in his bound arm, but there wasn't any pain, even though Ron managed to jostle it a bit.

"How long have I been out?" He asked, reaching for the cup. His fingers were shaking though and Ginny, hesitating only a moment, shoved his hand out of the way and just brought the cup to his lips herself.

"Drink slow sips," she instructed, and ignored the blush that was spreading in Harry's cheeks. She was much better at the water than Ron was at helping him sit up.

When he was done, Ginny took the cup away and Harry tried again as Ron was lowering him back onto the pillows.

"How long was I out for?" He asked, more sharply.

"Well," Ron said, relaxing more now Harry was level, "Dumbledore brought you up on Thursday, so that makes…"

"9 days exactly, Harry," Ginny finished. "And you'd been missing for 4 days before that."

Harry locked his gaze back on his new favorite spot on the ceiling.

"13 days," he said, mostly to himself. He felt the bed tip on Ginny's side, and then on Ron's, and felt Ginny take his hand. He braced himself for the questions and started trying to come up with answers that might satisfy them, answers that covered only a fraction of the whole, horrible truth. But both Weasleys remained unusually silent for a long time. Even Ron, with his penchant for missing the subtle, wasn't keen to jump in and prod at his soul.

Finally, Ginny spoke.

"I'm glad you're back Harry," she said softly. He turned to look at her. "You know, if you ever need to talk, I'm – we're right here for you."

"I know," he returned, and squeezed her hand. "Thanks."

Two more days past in the hospital wing for Harry.

He greeted Hermione, when she came by to relieve Ron and Ginny, and had to work desperately to stifle her tears. Mrs. Weasley was worse, and ended up being led away by her husband, who did so reluctantly himself, and at the behest of Madam Pomfrey who disapproved of the woman's loud wailing in an infirmary. Lupin came back, and sat at Harry's bedside for a long time, chatting about trivial things, or about schoolwork. Only the way his eyes flitted over Harry constantly revealed the level of his concern.

It wasn't until his last day in the Hospital Wing that he remembered the Dursleys. Ron and Hermione were sitting together in a pair of wooden, straight backed chairs that Hermione'd transfigured from the empty neighboring cot. Harry was now recovered enough to sit on his own in the bed, and eat on his own, though his hands and legs were unsteady still, and lacked their full strength. On his face sat a new pair of glasses that Dumbledore himself had conjured for him, at an even better prescription than before.

"Hermione," Harry said, interrupting her quiet rant to them about the price of textbooks having gone up since last year. He'd been opening and closing his left hand, watching the healed muscles ripple beneath his skin, and suddenly remembered where he'd acquired that particular injury. He looked up.

"Does anyone – do you know what happened to the Dursley's?" He asked.

"Oh, Harry, hasn't anyone told you that already?" She said, in surprise. He shook his head, and his heart doubled its tempo. She must have noticed him go a bit flushed, and quickly went on.

"Don't worry, Harry," she said, comfortingly. "They're all okay."

"Yeah," Ron continued with a wry grin, seeming to think back, "Dudley – that's his name, right? – apparently started the fire while cooking breakfast or something, according to Tonks, and, when he realized what he'd done, panicked and ran out the back door across like 3 or 4 back gardens, I think. Turned out to be for the best though," he added, pulling a wrapped sweet from his pocket, "'cause Tonks reckons, if he'd run any slower, or stopped along the way, the Death Eaters might have taken an interest in him."

"Instead of just in me," Harry finished.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," Hermione said for possibly the hundredth time.

"Hang on," he said, distracting her from her sympathy, "did anyone go back for my stuff?" He looked from one guilty expression to the other.

"We're sorry, Harry," Ron said. "We tried, but Dad wouldn't let us go near the place. We told them there were some things you had that were irreplaceable that only we'd know where to find, but he said Dumbledore'd take care of it." He glanced at Hermione, and then plowed on, "on that note…mate, I'm sorry, but nobody has seen Hedwig since…it happened."

Harry looked at him, unblinking for a long second. Hedwig. He'd forgotten about her. He tried to remember if she'd been out on delivery when it happened, but his memories of that day were interspersed with darker ones he was avidly avoiding. His fingers clenched on the coverlet, and then he drew his legs up to wrap his arms around them. His spine complained, and some of his remaining bruises did too, but he just waited until they quieted.

"Ron," Hermione said sharply, while watching Harry withdraw, "you weren't supposed to tell him anything to upset him. Dumbledore and Pomfrey will have your skin."

"Hang on, so we're just supposed to let him wander around in the dark forever?" Ron sputtered in his defense, "In case you've forgotten, they tried that last year, and look how well that turned out."

"Ron!"

"It's okay, Hermione," Harry said, lifting his head. "Really." His voice was low and dejected, but he found both their eyes. "Ron's right. I'd rather know than not." He looked down at his borrowed pajamas. "What am I supposed to wear?" he asked.

"Oh, well, that's alright, mate," Ron said, "you can borrow some of my things. Mum won't mind, obviously. You could ask her for anything at this point, I reckon, and she'd give it to you." Harry smiled gratefully.

"It'll be alright, Harry," Hermione said with heavy false cheer, "I'm sure we'll be able to get you down to Diagon Alley real soon and replace your clothes and school things at least."

"That, I'm afraid, someone will have to do for him," Dumbledore said, pushing through the opening in the curtain around Harry's bed. "Good afternoon, Harry, Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley. I trust you're having a pleasant chat?" His blue eyes contained a measure of chastisement. They both blushed and looked away, but Harry met his eyes unflinching.

"If you'll excuse us, I believe Harry would like to have a word."

"Right, of course, sorry Professor," Hermione said quietly. She looked quickly back at Harry, and then leaned down to kiss him on the head. Harry, who'd been looking at Dumbledore, didn't see the kiss coming and jerked back instinctively. His back struck stone wall behind him, and so did his elbows, stinging sharply. Hermione let out a little shriek, her hand flying to her mouth. Harry wanted to tell her it was fine, that it was his fault, but his body was trembling out of his control. The breath caught suddenly in his throat, and he found himself in the middle of a memory of his back striking the cold stone floor of the basement where he'd been locked away like an animal. He gripped the blankets around him and tried to regain control of his thoughts and his body, but he felt like he wanted to be sick.

Just then, a wave of cold washed over him. He felt someone cup the side of his cheek and forced him to look up.

"Inhale, Harry," Dumbledore instructed calmly, staring into his eyes. Harry obeyed, drawing breath into his lungs. It was still shaky, so he drew another one. That one was better, more satisfying. He closed his eyes and buried his head in his arms and drawn up knees. He breathed.

Bloody hell, he thought desperately. What's wrong with me?

He drew in another breath, and this time it came out as a sob. Just once, and then he quieted it. Another wave of artificial calm washed over him. He blinked and felt his lashes brush against his knees. It was a calming charm. He blinked an unshed tear from his eyes, and then looked up.

His friends were gone. The two chairs were still sitting there, empty, and vaguely mocking. He turned to Dumbledore still sitting beside him.

"What just happened?" he asked in a whisper. Dumbledore gave him a sad smile.

"I believe, Harry, you just experienced a panic attack."

"A panic attack." The words fell like stones from his mouth. He stared, unseeing, past the purple brim of Dumbledore's hat.

"It is, regretfully, to be expected after a traumatic incident such as the ones you have just endured," he continued. "Do not worry, Harry. They too will pass." He stood up. Harry straightened his back with some effort.

"I have some news about your living situation which will, I'm certain, interest you, if you would like to hear it?"

"Yeah, of course," Harry said, in a much more normal tone. "Ron and Hermione did mention that the Dursley's had made it out alright…"

"Indeed, they did," Dumbledore confirmed, sitting down in one of the vacated chairs, paused, and then transfigured it further into something a bit more comfortable. "We are still trying to determine how the Death Eaters became aware of the general location of your aunt's home, which allowed them to attack in a moment of vulnerability with such speed and precision."

"You mean they were prepared for the fire?"

"They were certainly prepared for something, although I do think the fire was not intentional. Kingsley Shacklebolt, an auror, if you remember, headed the ministry team which investigated the incident and found no trace of magic in the area before the fire." Harry thought back to Dudley and his bacon and shook his head.

"Dudley was trying to cook, I think. I remember…" he paused, took a breath and forced himself to go on, "I remember going down the stairs initially. The kitchen was already pretty burned and smokey when I got to it, but there was a package of open bacon strips on the kitchen table. He didn't really know how to cook."

Dumbledore nodded, pensively, and seemed to silently follow a train of thought as his eyes went distant for a moment. He returned with a small shake of the head which made his beard quiver.

"In any case, Harry," he continued, "your aunt and uncle's home is no longer livable, I'm afraid, and after they've removed what few items they are able to salvage, they intend to move." Harry opened his mouth, but Dumbledore's hand went up to forestall his question.

"You will not be joining them in their new home, Harry," Dumbledore said with an indecipherable undertone in his voice.

Harry looked at the headmaster for a moment and then at the white bedsheets on his legs.

"Where will I go?" he asked.

"As they have terminated their guardianship of you," Dumbledore said gently, "you are now a ward of the Ministry."

"Meaning…"

"Normally, Harry, in situations such as yours, you would go into the care of a foster family, who would look after you until such a time as you turned 17. However," and here Dumbledore began to smile a bit mischievously, "given that you are under near constant threat to your life and given that you are only a year shy of being of age, I have sent a request to the Ministry for an exception to be made and to grant your guardianship to the Hogwarts School itself, and, by proxy, its caretakers."

Harry blinked.

"Wait," he said, processing the words slowly, and trying not to get his hopes up, "does that mean…you're my guardian now?"

Dumbledore smiled.

"The request was approved this morning. As the headmaster of this school, yes, I, along with a select number of your schoolteachers, will be charged with your safety for the remaining year before you come of age, including accommodation and living expenses during the months when school is no longer in session. I hope," he added airily, "that is agreeable to you?"

Harry's jaw had dropped open as the headmaster was speaking, and he couldn't believe his ears. He looked around. The curtains had been drawn back a bit from around his bed when Hermione and Ron had exited, and he could see the opposite row of cots lying against the far side of the large stone corridor. He looked up at the high ceilings, and intricate stonework on the walls, and the exposed rafters. A breeze blew through the partially open window and brought with it the briny scent of the Black Lake and, also, the damp musk of the Dark Forest. Harry smiled wider than he had in a long time and sunk down into the mattress in relief.

"So, then," he said, "I'm home."

The headmaster stayed long enough after that to inform him that he would, indeed, be borrowing some clothes and basic living necessities from the Weasleys for the day, but that someone from the Order, possibly Lupin or McGonagall, would be traveling to Diagon Alley to fetch his school things. Harry had insisted that they use the money in his vault for the new supplies, but Dumbledore had waved him off. "As your new guardians," he'd said, "we are glad to take on the responsibility of also paying for your expenses." Many teachers had already pitched in donations of their own volition for him. Harry had blushed violently upon hearing this and shrunk a bit in shame. Dumbledore leaned forward and gently told him, "Please allow this school to do for you, Harry, what we have been wanting to do for you since the day you were born." Harry had no choice but to sheepishly concede.

After a few more matters of business, wherein Dumbledore had explained the limitations of Harry's run of the castle – "stay in the castle walls at all times. No broom flying, if you please, and, if you can help it, do not wander unaccompanied" – and numbered for him the current inhabitants of the castle who would be joining him for the next month before school started – Ron, Hermione, Ginny, occasionally a smattering of other Weasleys, and sundry teachers – Harry was finally checked over by Madam Pomfrey and given the all clear to go, although with the warning that she didn't want to see him again until school started.

Harry gratefully began to stretch his muscles, which were sore and stiff from so long in the bed. Ron and Hermione came in, soon after, and flooded him with apologies, which he frantically waved off.

"It's alright, Hermione," he insisted, for the fourth time, "It's just me being jumpy, I guess. Dumbledore said it would pass."

"Well of course it will," she assured him. But she made sure not to touch him again without a direct invitation.

"Ron, c'mere and help me up," he asked, and Ron bounded over. He helped Harry to his feet. "Merlin, Ron, you grew," he stated, now looking way up at his friend. Ron blushed.

"Yeah, Mum says it must be my growth spurt, but I've already had one in fourth year," he shrugged.

"Don't worry, Harry," Hermione said, while tidying up his bed already. "You'll hit yours soon. Men keep growing until they're about 21, I think. Ron" she said, without a pause, fluffing Harry's pillow, "give Harry the clothes he's going to wear," she chirped.

"Oh, yeah." Ron went over to one of the other cots and retrieved a bundle of clothing which looked a bit worn but smelled clean when he handed it over. "Ginny picked these out, I think, from my wardrobe, but Hermione had to shrink them a bit," he added, a bit sheepishly.

Harry gave him a wry smile. "Thanks Ron."

They both turned to look at Hermione expectantly, who was standing now, regarding them with her arms crossed.

"Oh!" she said, realizing what they wanted, "I guess I'll give you some space," and quickly stepped out of the way, closing the curtain behind her.

"She's been a right mess, her and Ginny, since you went missing, you know," Ron said as Harry began the laborious task of slipping out of the pajama top. "Wooo ee," Ron whistled, suddenly in surprise. Harry looked down and found that, although it didn't hurt anymore, the burned strip of flesh where the unknown spell had wrapped around him, was still visible and looked like it was going to scar. Harry grabbed Ron's borrowed shirt from the pile and put it on as quickly as he could, even though some of his muscles were protesting the quick movements.

"You alright, mate?" Ron asked quietly, as Harry sat on the bed to put on the grey socks. "Like, I mean, it's alright if you're not, but…"

"Look, Ron," Harry said, standing up. He reached out and grabbed Ron's arm and commanded his eye contact. "I need you and Hermione to do me a favor and stop dancing around my feelings, okay? I know you're worried, Merlin, I'm worried, but if I'm going to get back to my life, if I'm going to feel normal, you guys have to treat me normal. Merlin knows the rest of the school won't when they get back. I really won't be able to take it if I get the same treatment from you two."

Ron steeled his face. "Right, yeah, sorry Harry. You'll be fine anyway. You've come through worse, I reckon, in all the years at this place," he said as he opened the curtains.

Harry didn't comment, but smiled at Hermione, who was sitting on one of the cots, waiting for them.

"Let's go down to the kitchens," she said, "It's a couple hours past lunch, but dinner's still a ways off and you need to eat." Just then, Harry noticed his empty stomach and heartily agreed. Madam Pomfrey had been filling him with nutrient potions since he arrived, and he hadn't had a chance to eat real food since…well, the end of last term.

Just as he was beginning to revel in the relaxing feel of being in the company of his two best friends and not being in any sort of agony, or even under the threat of having to return to the Dursley's, he glanced to his right. He stopped in his tracks and the other two took a moment to realize he was no longer with them.

At the far end of the long hospital corridor, there was one other bed which had the curtains drawn around it. He didn't have to wonder about who resided there.

"Harry?" Hermione asked, coming up beside him. She followed his gaze and frowned.

"Oh," she said, sadly, "that's Professor Snape. He's still asleep, I think." She gave him a sympathetic smile but, Harry noted with relief, didn't try to hug him.

"Can you guys give me a minute?" he asked. Hermione nodded. Ron looked nonplussed, but Harry didn't feel like explaining himself.

He started a long slow trek to the other end of the room, the fastest his abused legs would go. As he went, he had to mentally ward off images he didn't want to remember of himself and of Snape. He drew near to the curtain, hesitated, and then peeled it open.

He'd been expecting gore, he realized, but that was impractical. He'd been here nearly two weeks and was back on his feet. Snape, for his part, just looked a bit odd, lying in a hospital bed, for once not openly scowling at him. Someone had clothed him in a set of dark grey pajamas, not unlike the ones Harry had been just wearing, and had pulled the blanket up to his chest. It was undisturbed.

Harry wondered why there was no one sitting with him, like there had been for him. He caught sight of something sparkling above the man's head and chest, like little flashes of glass hovering in the air, catching the sunlight.

Oh.

Under a bunch of spells to monitor his vital signs, Madam Pomfrey would be notified immediately if any aspect of his health changed.

He blinked and realized that the same had probably been true of him when he first arrived. And yet he'd always had a friend sitting beside him. He was very lucky in his friends, he thought to himself, looking at the pale face surrounded by a sea of black hair, against the stark white pillow. Some people weren't so lucky.

Harry didn't know what had happened after he'd flung himself into the path of the Killing Curse. Even though he'd survived that, he would still have come back to his crumpled body, at the feet of Voldemort, surrounded by his cronies. And yet, somehow, here they both were in the castle, safe if not sound.

"I don't know how you did it, Professor," Harry whispered, "but thanks."

Someone tapped him on the shoulder from behind. He turned around to find Madam Pomfrey gesturing for him to step back. He did so and she peeked at Snape through the gap in the curtain before closing it. Harry braced himself for a tirade from the strict nurse, but she had an uncharacteristically soft expression on her face.

"How much longer do you think he'll be asleep," he ventured, walking with her back to where his friends were waiting.

"I wish I knew, Mr. Potter," she responded just as quietly. She touched his arm and he fought down the urge to flinch successfully. "I'll tell you in confidence, as I understand you have a stake in the matter, that he's very badly injured. I was able to treat his external injuries quite easily, but the internal ones were far worse, which is to say nothing of his mind. Torture is ghastly in its effects on the human psyche," she said, and gave him a pointed look. He nodded, understanding. "If you ever wish to talk or wish to receive counseling because of what you went through, just come by my office. Any time."

"Thanks, Madam Pomfrey," he said, feeling an uncomfortable ball forming in the pit of his stomach. He managed to smile reassuringly, and then turned to catch up with his friends, who were waiting patiently at the massive oak doors.

"Is he alright, then?" Ron asked, sounding like he was trying to be compassionate. Harry shrugged in response.

"Let's go, guys," he said, "I'm starving."

They broke into smiles and Ron hauled open the doors with a flourish.

Author's note: I'm still working on figuring out pacing, so, apologies if it gets a bit boggy some places. Also, can't for the life of me figure out how to get in line-breaks between sections. Hopefully, they showed up this time. If not, please use your imagination :D