AN: I'm baaaack! Knowing my exhausted state, this will be edited several times after uploading. I really wanted to get this out.

If it's any help, I've been slowly writing this since January. Now for some notes about this chapter: Being disabled doesn't mean that you can't fight; yes, the plot is taking a new turn; and there's some more swearing that one is accustomed to after surviving four years of an American public high school.

Thank you so much to the people that are reading this. Let me know in the comments about what you like so far. Now for the fourth chapter.

tumblr: conjure-at-your-own-risk

Disclaimer: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Even though JK Rowling and Bloosmbury and Warner Bros allow us to play in the sandbox, it doesn't mean that I owe a damn thing. Same for the Cuckoo's Calling.

Title: Gusts Come Around: Getting Up

Word Count: 4K

Summary: For the first time since his tour in Iraq ended, Harry felt somewhat optimistic with his group therapy partner. Muggle AU. HPFF Challenge

It's hard letting go

I'm finally at peace but it feels wrong

Slow I'm getting up

My hands and feet are weaker than before

-Monsters and Men, Silhouettes

"I look ridiculous," I said, checking my reflection in the conversation mirror. The shirt had enough starch for several more, and it itched at the seams. The bow tie that Hermione had done for me was lopsided, and my trousers felt too big even with the belt. I felt like a little kid playing dress up in his father's clothes.

Ron snorted next to me. "Right, if you look ridiculous then what does that make me?"

"Your uniform fits!"

"Not my fault that we don't have anything for midgets." Ron's smile was quick. "Once we get there I'll fix that tie for you. Sorry that I couldn't find any clip-ons."

"That's okay," I said. "I'll be surprised if they had anything." I was touched that he had thought about how difficult it would be for me to wear ties. It was the simple things like that were always escaping my mind. Wearing a buttoned up shirt, ties, getting a belt on… And it was bloody embarrassing to have Hermione hovering around me, acting very Mum-like with getting my clothes on. I was a fully-grown man and I needed my best friend to help me get my clothes on.

Still. That was my life now.

Quickly, the easy atmosphere started to chip away. Ron would dart his eyes at me, I would do the same to him, and we would stare at the road ahead. I wanted to say something, but I only had a handful of stories from Ginny, and I had uninteresting life save for the time in the military. What could I say to him? Oh, Ron, I think your sister is rather fetching in that dress. Ron, did Ginny ever do any upper-body sports because she has nice arms. Roooon, I may have a small crush on your sister, so please don't punch me...

I resisted the urge to bash my head uselessly against the dashboard.

"So…" Ron drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "You've known Hermione for long?"

Yes, relief.

"We grew up in the same neighbourhood. She didn't approved of me enlisting."

"Well," Ron huffed. "Seeing someone you care about who wants to go fight in a war, with minimal contact, and there's the off chance of being injured or killed…"

I winced. This wasn't the relief that I was looking for. Guilt wasn't good at making someone feel relieved. It made someone feel like shit.

"I'm just glad she's home," he finished. He was looking straight ahead at the road. "That's all I care about now. She's home, she's safe."

Next came the awkwardness and the silence. Ron's words ruminated in my mind, and I remembered back to when I'd came home. Hermione wouldn't let me out of her sight and her mollycoddling had gone up several impressive levels, always checking to see if I'd taken my medication, or if I was sleeping and eating enough. Her parents had compiled a chart of which clinic was the best for me to go to for my physical and occupational therapy. That was how the Grangers had reacted, clinically and rationally and they saved the emotional mess for later. It was painful and heart breaking to say the least when I'd heard Hermione's sniffles in the bedroom next door.

It was the culmination of kicking a puppy and leaving it outside in a storm.

"I was a mess," I admitted. The memories were plastered to my brain. "Nightmares, my arm, everything was a mess. My life was a mess."

"That's why Hermione signed you up for therapy. She has your back when you're not being careful enough," Ron said. "Ginny was...I had to do something. I'm her older brother, I had to do something..." There was clearly more but I wasn't going to push. He shook his head and wisely changed the very personal topic. "As you know, this event is bloody big. I have you, Hermione, and my usual group of people helping me out. And there's bound to be elitist snobs. Please don't punch any of them." The tips of his ears were red.

"I don't have anger issues," I corrected. "I have people issues."

"Trust me. You will want to punch them." The rest of Ron's face was turning to an unflattering shade of scarlet. "Why can't this be a small social gathering?"

"Because soirées are a thing?" I guessed, fumbling with the pronunciation of the word. I reached for the invitation that we were given about the soirée that was hosted by the Greengrass. The paper was heavy and the calligraphy gave me a headache if I looked at it too long. "It can't be that bad, right?"

"Oh, Harry..." Ron sighed, seeming almost amused by my naïveté. "You're so innocent."

I rolled my eyes.

One of Ron's colleagues was this energetic bloke named Dobby that would have given Collin Creevey a run for his money. He was this thin and elderly man with large green eyes and big ears, and he was always happy to help.

"Mr Weezy! Let me!" "Oh, you have a friend, Mr Weezy!" "Mr Potter, so good to see you! You're so kind, Mr Potter. Let me—" "Miss Granger, I can do this. You don't have to—yes, Mr Weezy pays me well—"

There were others: A woman with a strong jaw named Emmeline Vance, an auburn-haired woman that was also working to become a solicitor who's name was Susan Bones, joyful Seamus Finnigan, and half a dozen more faces that were more than glad to do the work. Many of them portrayed similar feelings about the people of the soirée, complaining about an incident at one that they had to do for a Parkinson. Whatever had happened, Ron had to give his team a firm message about good behaviour as he ears would go red and pink again.

Hermione was quick to work. She was in her environment with directing people where to go (and had done plenty of research the days before, her judgement was more or less sound). It was easy to let her tell people where to put the food since she wasn't much of a cook. Ron would watch her with this funny smile on his face. Hermione would take quick peaks at him to see that he was clearly pleased. I was clearly confused by what was going on.

"I don't get it," I whispered in Ginny's ear. I was holding a container filled with silverware while she was arranging them on one of the tables. One bright side about my injury was that my right hand had almost an amazing sense of balance. "They were just arguing."

Ginny turned her head and I dropped my eyes so that they wouldn't see her lips. "You really are thick," she said. She forcibly tied the silver ribbon around the heavy cloth napkin and wheeled away from me.

Well. I messed that up.

What was I supposed to do? Say, I'm sorry, Ginny. I would really like to redefine what we have but I am really afraid of what could happen? Sorry, Ginny, but I'm letting my fears take over? I was acting like a bloody coward, that was what.

"Ginny! Wait!"

And then the doors opened up and I lost sight of her.

I could describe the soirée with one word: Glittery.

Large wristwatches reflected the lights bouncing off the chandeliers, women wore faceted jewels of varying sizes. Everything was bright and loud with the chatter and laughter, but I was trying to focus on an apology, and trying not to get a foot injury with all of the dangerous high heels that were out.

I eventually found Ron who was very much red in the face and standing in front of another man who was grinning.

He had a pale, aristocratic face with eyes that appeared used to looking down with his pointy nose at people. His features were thin and his colouring was almost washed out in a way, like paint spread thin by water. There was something wrong about his smirk, and it twisted into a haughty smile when seeing Ron fuming next to me.

"Weasley," he drawled. "This would be the only way for you to enter a soirée." His eyes flickered over to me. "I see that you're just willing to bring anyone in."

I stiffened and fought back a biting retort, but Ron was already acting out. "Malfoy, I see that you haven't changed a bit. Was living off of Mummy and Daddy not enough for you?"

The two glared heavily at each other. It would be interesting to see how their physical looks would affect their argument. Ron was tall with muscular arms and legs from playing football and working; his farmer's tan was paler now but it was nothing compared to Malfoy's. The richer man was thinner, almost as if he never had to lift a finger for anything in his life. His suit was also white and was made from fine fabrics. The tie alone looked twice my rent.

There was something about the antagonistic man's last name that sparked something in my memory. I looked at him again and caught a signet ring that he was wearing: it was silver with the design of what looked like a snake burned into it. I rummaged through the recesses of my mind to—missiles. Why was I thinking of missiles and grenades?

I felt acutely aware of the scar on my forehead and the matching ones on my chest and hands. "Ron's great that way," I spoke up. "He knows how to help people."

"Oh, yes." Malfoy's eyes were on me. "Tell me, Weasley. Does your family even have enough to care for this one, too? I mean, with your sister and everything..."

Ron's shoulders hunched and his eyes flashed. Before he could lunge at whatever hidden meaning Malfoy had, a different voice spoke up:

"Draco!" cooed a blonde woman. Thin and slender, she fitted the image of a trophy wife with her expensive jewellery and slinky dress. She appeared by Malfoy's side and curled her arm over his chest. She must be the gracious Astoria Greengrass that had invited us. She held up one of Ron's éclairs. "Darling, you must try this. It's the most divine desert that I've ever had!"

Malfoy froze and Ron recoiled. A smile spread over my friend's face. "It's based off one of my mum's old recipes," he said. "Made with love." He turned his back on Malfoy and started walking in the direction of the kitchens.

"How do you—"

"Uni," Ron sneered. He kept his voice low. "He's from old family money and never failed a chance to flaunt it." He slammed the tray down on the table. "He had so much fun mocking the scholarship ones like me. Dammit, we worked hard to get our spots there, and Malfoy only had to show a cheque to the Dean and he was in."

I was almost certain that it didn't take that to go to a Uni, but I had no doubt that someone like Malfoy would use any connection and money that he had to give himself an easy ride.

"What an arsehole," I said.

"Tell me about it." Ron looked around the room, and something flickered over his face. "Can you do me a favour?"

"Sorry, mate," I said. "I may not be able to hold him back for you to punch, but I think I'll be able to get a video of it. Think he'll do well on YouTube?"

"Make sure that he doesn't get near Ginny and I." Ron looked over his shoulders. "He's bad news."

I blinked. "Like, snotty-rich-boy bad or..." I struggled with finding the right words to use. How bad could some snob get?

I would love to have said that the rest of the party had gone smoothly.

Sadly, there was a mix-up with the wines (I didn't get it, they were both white. What was so bloody different about white wine?); Hermione had successfully used her prosecutor skills to aggravate several men in important suits about civil rights issues; and I was doing my damn best to say calm.

Crowds.

I could do fucking crowds, thank you very much. I was not scared to be surrounded by large groups of people, I was not petrified at losing control of my environment, I could do crowds of strangers in an unfamiliar room and I could be fine.

I was fine.

I wasn't fine with Malfoy.

You know, I could probably handle a whole party of ridiculously rich people, but there was only one blond arse that enjoyed shredding people to pieces. Oh, Mr Zabini, where is that special friends of yours? Does your mother know whom you're spending your time with? Ah, Pansy. I see that you're on a new diet again. Maybe this one will get rid of those five pounds...

My cousin was an arse, but he was a bully that relied on his physical strength. Malfoy was the kind that used people's insecurities. Sticks and stones, yeah right. Honestly, I would rather get decked by Dudley any day.

I stood in the corner of the large room where I could see windows and several of the exits. I was safe there, my back was to the wall and I could see people entering and leaving. I wasn't the only one stuck with the habit. I finally found Ginny who was laughing with Hermione about something, and then she was subtly checking her surroundings, one arm posed near her armrest to get into a fighting stance. There were also these blokes following Malfoy like clumsy shadows. Thick, tall and built like typical thugs, wherever Malfoy was his goons were sure to follow.

Wow. Bastard rich guy with thugs. What else was new?

They weren't military, I could tell that by just their walks. They were more like predators—eyes straying on the weaker people prey, getting ready for the order to gobble them up.

And Malfoy was heading his way towards Ginny who was now alone. I did not like whatever he'd referred to Ron about her, I did not like his attitude, and there was no way in hell that he was going to ruin Ron's event that he had a put a lot into.

I had friends now and no on was going to hurt them.

I managed to intercept Malfoy with only a table blocking him from Ginny. She thankfully had her back turned at us. I stepped in front of Malfoy, blocking his view.

"Ah, you." His cold eyes flickered to the scar on my face and to my arm. "Weasley's best friend." He stepped to my right but I mirrored him. My good arm was out to stop him some more. "I know the Weaslette might seem fetching to you, but you have no idea what a—"

"Fuck off."

Malfoy visibly recoiled. "What was that?"

"I said," clenching my teeth. "Fuck off. I get it. You're a pampered bully who needs to get his rocks off somehow, but you're going to leave the Weasleys alone. Do you understand me?"

Malfoy waved his hand and I saw one of his bodyguards leave out of the corner of my eye. "Your brains might be addled, but at least I have the sense to not start a fight here in the public." He straightened his spine and fixed his tie, purposely showing me the face of his ring. "Next time."

This time I was happy to watch someone leave.

Revenge came outside of the building when I needed to get some fresh air an hour later. It was getting stuffy and overwhelming inside. I starting to feel twitchy with all of the people surrounding me, and whatever chaos reigned in the kitchen wouldn't help. There were too many people, too many sights, it was all too much.

I was resting my weight on the brick wall that stood opposed to the metal door of one of the exits. My fingers were curled so tightly that I was sure that my hand was about to bleed. My eyes were half-closed and I took sharp inhales and exhales, letting the air sit in my diaphragm in between each take for a few seconds before releasing it.

One...that was probably a bad move with Malfoy...two...three...I really needed to talk to Ginny about my actions...one...two...I need to get myself together before doing anything next...three...one...two...three...

The door opened and it wasn't Ron, Hermione, or any of the catering. It was a very tall and thick man with a rough face and bulging muscles.

Fuck.

He closed the door behind him.

So much for the party going smoothly. Up next on the menu: Chopped Harry with a dash of garlic.

"The boss doesn't like how you spoke to him," grumbled the bodyguard. I couldn't remember if he was Goyle or Crabbe. He crackled his knuckled and moved closer to me. "Says you need to learn a lesson."

"Does the next line sound just as cliché?" I asked. "I've been gone for a while, and even I know that I can find better material on the Internet."

Goyle made a swing at me first. From his perspective, a scrawny guy like me with a lame arm was a much better target than someone larger and taller like Ron. He wasn't expecting me to sidestep and let the years of training take over so that I could kick his sorry arse into next week.

He got the first punch in. His knuckles skimmed over my cheek and caused me to stumble. I was bent over, tasting nothing but the blood in my mouth. Was I out of shape because of my injury? Yes. Was there a chance of getting out of this? Yes.

I deflected his next punch with my good arm and brought his fist down. I turned sharply and jostled him with my shoulder to his to throw him off balance. Goyle tried again when he spun around to strike me again on his off-centred legs. It was one of those wild punches that could only hit someone with blind luck. I yanked on his wrist and wrapped my arm around his forearm to pull him in.

Suddenly, I wasn't in a small alleyway fighting—I was back on the base and getting pummelled for a lesson. They weren't kidding about muscle memory, which was for sure, because while my lame arm flapped uselessly by my side, the rest of my body was working out the logistics and strategies. A large weight heading toward me was a bad idea, but that was why I rose my knee and kicked his exposed chest hard and away from me. I released his arm at the same time, and stepped back to watch him fall to the ground with a heavy grunt. His arms and legs were stretched out, and his gorilla-like face went slack jawed with shock.

I towered over him, watching the fear and uncertainty flickering behind his eyes. I wasn't the disabled vet from a rough childhood, in that moment I was the pissed off solider that needed to protect his friends. "Fear me."

I was edgy with adrenaline when I returned to the others. They were in the kitchen and packing up to move everything back in the cars.

"Harry…" Ginny looked up at me. She had both hands on her armrests, looking as like she was going to push herself up to her feet, and hit me over the head with one of her pointy shoes. "You got into a fight without me? You son of a—first that—and—what am I supposed to do with you?" She came right up to me and rose so that she could see my face.

"I don't know?" I ran my tongue on the inside of my mouth and tasted blood. My teeth were thankfully intact, because I wasn't sure how Mr and Mrs Granger would appreciate me fighting.

Hermione's voice was icy and acted as cold water. "Do we need to call the police?"

"Which one?" Ron asked. He was leaning over the table with his arms crossed.

"Goyle, I think." I winced as Ginny prodded the bruise on my face. "Hey!"

"You're an arse, Potter." She sat back down, still glaring at me. "That injury better be worth it."

There weren't many job options for a bloke with one working arm. That fact that it didn't work was one thing, but it was just there—a simple piece of flesh and muscle that couldn't really connect with my brain anymore.

That one fact scared people.

I was still getting used to the strange stares from passing people and curious children. If it wasn't my arm then it was the strange lightning bolt scar on my forehead that attracted the attention. People mainly wanted the positive sort of attention, like the type that came from good looks, a friendly attitude, or some sort of impressive skill set. They don't want the negative attention from war scars and injuries.

I was happy with getting no attention. I was never particularly studious or talented back in school, and it had taken the group effort of school friends to help me get a date. After years of going through that and now suddenly having people wondering if you're okay in the head or not could do a number.

I thought that was why the temp job had sent me over to a private eye's office. It involved weird hours, strange people, and a numbers of skills leftover from my army training. It also helped that the detective in question had also fought in a war and had a prosthetic for a leg.

Yet we rarely got along despite our similar backgrounds Comoran Strike thought I was young and foolish, something of an upstart in his life that foolishly went off in a war that I was too young to understand. And I thought he was a cranky mess of emotional and social problems with a relationship that wasn't going to last much longer. Still, I did my part of the job and he gave me the paycheques. I wasn't expecting to have the position much longer, anyway. The temp agency made this temporary and had a nicer position in an office somewhere closer to my flat.

"Potter," he greeted. He limped inside his office and slammed the door behind him. His battered camera hung around his neck. "Got anything for me?"

"Nothing," I said. At least he wasn't saying anything about the bruise on the side of my face.

"How 'bout that bill then?" Apprehension laced his voice. I shook my head, knowing much that the both of us relied on the late cheques from the clients. Strike grunted some choice words and glared at the telephone. "Tossers." He slouched, reminding me of a bear that had woken up to early in the winter, and went to his office. The door slammed behind him.

What a pleasant person. An absolute ray of bloody sunshine in my life...

I ignored the inevitable future of my job, and I went back to research. Typing with one hand wasn't that difficult if you were already a shit typer. Spelling the name wrong only once, Google provided me with the information.

Malfoy

Military contractors. They made weapons and contracted them to military. I'd tousled with the bodyguard of the son whose father could influence the military with his wallet.

I was buggered.