As it Once Began...
Then the nurses come, wheeling his bed through corridors and hallways towards the operating theatre that will be used to house him while he gets cut up and fiddled with. He goes under with a small smirk on his face at the cooing nurses reaction to the heavily knotted scarring on his left leg, her brown eyes shocked by the sight.
. . . .
He wakes up the next morning to Wilson and House bickering by his bedside. His body is heavy with sleep and he feels lethargic enough that he doesn't fight the pull of sleep once more, shooting House, who is watching him expectantly, a knowing look.
The next time he wakes it's late morning and Wilson's no longer there but House is, his feet propped up on Harry's bed, his thumbs dancing across his gameboy as he fights a loosing battle against a boss level. Harry feels vindicated by the sight, slightly bitter in knowing that the other man is a better man, a better human than he is. Able to save lives. To heal them. Harry can't do that, he can only destroy because all he is, is a soldier. A weapon to be pointed at an enemy and released when the time is right. And it makes him bitter and angry and disappointed because this isn't what he wanted for his life, but it's all he's going to get and he's okay with it, but it doesn't make him happy.
"Your surgery went well," House comments, his blue eyes darting briefly to Harry's face and back again, focussed more on his game than his patient. "I was right. The scarring resulted in a lack of blood flow to your musculature, starving your thigh muscles of oxygen. The reason behind the hurting was the slow death of your muscles and their rotting in your body. You would have died had it been left till later."
"But I'm okay now?" Harry asks, bored and not particularly interested.
House sets his gameboy down and meets Harry's dull gaze. "Physically, yes. I did an MRI of you while you were out and there is nothing physically wrong with you. No lesions, no tumours or cancerous growths. Physically, you are now perfect."
"Physically," Harry repeats slowly, wondering what House is getting at.
House shrugs, disinterested. "It is my medical opinion that you require intense psychological therapy, which I have booked you into, as well as physical therapy, which I have also signed you up for." He picks up his gameboy once more, "I had a phone call from a very interesting woman in the United Kingdom, inquiring after you. Naturally doctor-patient confidentiality prevented me from specifying, but I was able to express my deep concerns for your mental health, particularly in light of the work she has lined up for you."
"And?" Harry drawls, more interested now.
"She decided to seek help elsewhere, particularly in light of your physical disabilities and scarring," House said, jabbing at the buttons on his gameboy. Cursing as he lost, House set it down once more meeting Harry's bemused gaze. "Such a shame that, you're out of a job for the rest of your life, what will you do now?"
Harry watches the man stand and limp from the room, stunned. He was free. Completely and utterly free. It has been three days since that phone call with Elizabeth, well, technically since it happened close to midnight it's more like two and a bit days, but the point stands. Harry was no longer beholden to the Queen, free of her iron grip and controlling gaze. House may have betrayed his condition which he had been concealing from the woman for the past seven years, but Harry couldn't be more grateful. What would he do now though? Ron and Hermione would be getting married and having their two point five kids and that would leave Harry where?
Like a lightning bolt it struck him. Stunned and gasping he stared blankly at the opposite wall. He could do whatever he liked. Whatever fascinated him. Whatever made him curious, interested and happy. It was a novel experience for a man who had lived the past twenty four years doing what other people wanted or liked. Even when he had fled Britain it had more to do with avoiding his responsibilities to the country of Great Britain and trying to help Ron and Hermione by getting them away from the poisonous memories that stalked them back in dreary old Blighty.
He throws his head back and laughs loud and long, revelling in the glorious knowledge that his life was his own to do what he wished. It was his. All his. He owed House big time and he scans the room, his eyes landing on a pair of wooden, underarm crutches and then on his IV stand. He throws his blankets off of him and carefully stands, ignoring the blazing heat burning beneath his bandages and uses his IV pole to hobble over tot he crutches and, picking up a crush for his right arm, limps out of the room.
He makes his way down the hallway, ignoring the staring eyes that follow him, nurses trying to waylay him and Wilson shouting behind him. He stabs at the button that marks 'down' next to the elevators and waits impatiently for the doors to slide open with a muffled 'ding'. Wilson hops into the lift with him, his brown eyes concerned as he takes in Harry's fevered eyes and fervently determined expression.
"Harry?" Wilson questions, confused and worried. "What are you doing? You shouldn't be up and about yet. You've just come out of surgery!"
Harry ignores him, his teeth clenched and his eyes set on the doors of the elevator as he presses the button labelled 'first floor' and stands there, silently, as the lift drops downwards carrying him to the lobby.
"Harry? Are you okay?" Wilson has his penlight out now, flicking its beam across Harry's unresponsive eyes noting the rapid dilation and response to the intruding light.
"Please stop," Harry states as the elevator reads: Third Floor.
Two minutes later Harry is hobbling across the lobby on the First Floor, swinging his crutch and rolling his IV pole, his left leg not touching the floor while his right leg still reads with the rude message that he'd written eight hours later for the surgeon operating on him. Wilson keeps pace beside him, steadying him whenever he falters and trying to understand the other mans determination to reach Cuddy's office. Because it is clear that's where Harry is going.
A nurse snatches the clinic doors open as they approach, staring at the determined but clearly in pain man as he wheels/hobbles/limps past her towards the Dean of Medicines office, Wilson following behind closely, clearly concerned. They hit a snag once they reach Cuddy's office, carpet not being made for the wheeling of an IV pole but Harry determinedly just lifts it up and struggles across the intervening space, Cuddy watching him approach with shocked surprise. She leaps up and circles her desk, pulling out a chair and with Wilson's help, sits the green eyed man in it. Wilson wastes no time in checking the mans pulse and general health, wondering how he could escape the Witherspoon ward so easily.
"A billion dollars," Harry rasps, looking a mixture of pained and elated.
Cuddy stares at him, confused. "I'm sorry, what?"
"It's what I want to donate!" Harry snaps, his eyes fevered as he stares at Cuddy in determination.
Cuddy staggers backwards, "you want to donate a million dollars to this hospital?" She asks, a minute of hopeful and worried.
"No," Harry shakes his head, still panting for breath. "A. Billion."
This time Cuddy hears the difference and she stares at the man in utter shock. "Why?" She asks, staring at him.
"House," Harry gasps, batting away Wilson's nervous hands that are continually wandering from pulse point to pulse point in blatant concern. "I owe him my life, my mobility and my friends life."
"But that's…" Cuddy stops herself from arguing with difficulty.
"All I ask is that a portion of that money goes to to House and his department," Harry says, his breathing steadying.
Cuddy sinks into her chair, stunned. "This is insane," she mutters, meeting Wilson's bewildered gaze.
"You're right," Harry agrees, missing the swift disappointment crossing Cuddy's face. "That's not enough. Triple it."
Cuddy collapses backwards in a faint, murmuring the number breathily, stunned. "Three billion?"
Harry nods in determination, reaching for her phone. "I'll make the call, what's the extension line for outside the hospital?"
Cuddy barely manages to string the words together as she watches Harry press the buttons on her telephone rapidly and hold a rapid fire conversation in a sharp tongued language that she doesn't recognise. Harry looks grimly satisfied when he finally hangs up and meets her gaze with determination.
"That was the manager of my accounts, according to him I can spare five billion, apparently not touching your accounts for seven years and leaving it to a tiny man with more business sense than common sense wracks up insane amount of money," Harry shrugs. "Who knew?"
"Who are you?" Cuddy asks him, still struggling with the knowledge that her hospital now had FIVE BILLION dollars to play with. It made Vogler's donation look like a pittance in comparison.
Harry rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, "well, I've not been entirely honest, I'll admit that."
"Who are you?" She demands, worry creating a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Was this blood money being given to her hospital? Was this money attached to drugs or worse? Was she signing a deal with a whole 'nother kind of devil for this money?
"My full name is Harold James Black Potter, Lord of the most Ancient and Noble Houses of Black and Potter," Harry says so nonchalantly that for a moment, Cuddy wonders if he's lying to her, until she sees the ring on his finger, engraved with obsidian, emerald and ruby set into a heavy gold band. It's gaudy and gauche and could only belong to an old family line and in that moment Cuddy realises that she's sitting across from a genuine old world Lord.
"Lord?" She whispers numbly, the shocks of the day piling up in such a way that she's becoming somewhat immune to them now. "God."
Harry shrugs sheepishly, "this is why I don't mention it."
"I'll say," Wilson says in a stunned voice, reminding them of his presence. "And you're really just giving Princeton Plainsbro five billion dollars to use?"
"Not like it's doing anything else," Harry shrugs.
"What did House do?" Cuddy wonders, staring unseeingly at the man in front of her.
"He saved my life," Harry replies, gratitude oozing from his voice.
"You know what, I don't care," Cuddy says, realisation leaking tears from her eyes. "We can have a whole new wing, dedicated to you of course, and new surgeries, new equipment, new beds and more staff!" Cuddy rattles this off excitedly, "I will never complain about that impossible and annoying man again! I could kiss him!" She spins around in her chair, relief making her giddy.
Wilson laughs and pulls Harry into a hug, ignoring the mans flinch at the contact. He knows how hard Cuddy works to make everything stretch, this money could not have come at a better time. They are desperately short staffed and in dire need of new equipment, Harry's donation takes care of both problems as well as the need for a new facility/wing that Cuddy has been planning for the past eight years. A wing she never expected to see during her time here. A wing complete with fifteen thousand news beds and enough jobs to draw in more specialists and doctors and nurses who are the best in their fields.
Cuddy is still crying and hugging Harry ten minutes later when House staggers in, peeved at receiving a page from various nurses describing his patients disappearance. Even more peeved when he heard that it was Wilson aiding his newly operated-on patients escape. Cuddy spots House in the doorway and runs over to him, thanking him, apologising and generally making a fool of herself while the pissed diagnostician tries to understand the garble of words being blurted out of the crying Dean of Medicines mouth.
"What is going on?!" House demands, bewildered.
Harry waves from his, soggy, position in the chair in front of Cuddy's desk. "Just donated some money," he informs the other man. "Doctor Cuddy is apparently a little happy."
"A little," Wilson breathes, in the chair beside Harry still trying to believe the good fortune that had just landed in their lap. "Five billion is not a little amount of money."
"Five billion?" House complains mockingly, "what do I get?!"
"Part of our agreement is that ten million of that goes to your department," Harry says, stroking the scar that ran beneath his arm to his hip. Seeking comfort in the face of the doctors shrewd gaze.
House stares in surprise and then he grins. "I knew I liked you for a reason," he turns to Cuddy who is trying to dry her eyes and look dignified after having just hugged and cried over House. "So, will you sleep with me now?"
Cuddy barks a short laugh, rolling her eyes. "I'm grateful, House," she agrees sardonically. "But not that grateful."
"But Mo-om!" House whines, leaning on his cane pathetically. "I saved the donors life! Surely I get some gratitude thrown my way."
"I'll buy you a new TV," Cuddy replies, sitting behind her desk once more and tugging her blouse straight.
House grins, "okay!"
Harry laughs breathily, shaking his head and standing with difficulty, using the IV pole for leverage. "My work here is done," he says and Wilson snatches up the crutch from where it fell and passes it to the hospitals biggest donor with a smile.
"Come on then, my little trendsetter," House mocks, chivvying his patient from the room. "Mommy may not care about your health, but I do and you've only just gotten out of surgery." Cuddy doesn't hear the exchanged because she's chattering excited down the telephone line, making plans with an architect to meet next week. House rolls his eyes, amused more than anything, knowing just how much the Hospital Director had been waiting for this moment.
Harry limps after House, his leg throbbing so much that he suspects that if he didn't have a damaged nervous system that he's be on the floor screaming the hospital down. Twenty minutes later they're back in Harry's room, House quickly sedating him before checking on the raven haired mans leg and scowling darkly at the tearing and damage done to the leg in the brief time that he'd been walking.
"Idiot," House grumbles, paging for a surgeon to come and fix the damage before limping from the room to mull over his most recent discovery about Harry Potter, Wilson following close behind him.
Five days later Harry was well enough to be discharged and was gifted with his very own personal cane, courtesy of Cuddy in appreciation for his insane donation that had arrived into the Hospitals bank accounts three days ago, the actual total closer to six billion as apparently the bank manager had done the donation in pounds and the exchange rate favoured the Brits currently. Harry grinned at the mahogany cane with an etched silver handle as he stood beside House and mockingly leaned on it in direct copy of House's own preferred pose.
House rolled his eyes and accompanied the other man through the halls towards Ron's newest room, the redhead having being down graded from ICU to the Carnegie Wing one floor down. The reasoning for the transfer became immediately apparent from the gathering of redheads in the hallways, and House was swift to bulk and flee the area, leaving Harry to slowly limp towards the room, ignoring the curious gazes that follow his progress.
Ron is sitting up in bed when Harry arrives, Hermione at his side laughing and clutching his hand tightly, they both look healthier than ever as they converse with Percy and Charlie who stand on the other side of the bed, grinning widely. Molly is at the end of the bed, still self-righteous and annoying despite her apparently softened tone and apologetic stance. Arthur sits beside her, his hand resting on Ron's ankle, his arm wrapped around a tiny blonde child, her eyes sky blue and the perfect mix of her parents who lean against the wall opposite the bed, their arms wrapped around each other. Bill's still scarred and pained looking but he looks more relaxed as Fleur leans into his, her head on his chest.
Hermione spots him first, taking in, wide eyed, the pained stance, the drawn lines on his face and the way he leans heavily on the silver and mahogany cane in front of him. She stands hesitantly, guilt and apology flowering like a shadow across her face and Harry realises that she believed him to have fled the hospital, leaving her and Ron alone to deal with the influx of Weasley's around them. Ron too, notices him, his blue eyes widening with shock and dismay, his voice blurting out a single word in his surprise, on hand stretching out to the shorter, darker haired man in silent plea.
"Harry!"
Harry smiles, waving slightly as the rest of the Weasley's turn and stare at him, taking in his healthier body and fuller features and the way that he is clearly disabled and leaning heavily on his new cane. "Hello, Ron, how are you doing?" He asks, ignoring the stunned silence that settles around them like a blanket, heavy and stifling.
"I'm good, the treatments working," Ron is excited but curious, his eyes wandering along Harry's bowed body with concern. "Where have you been?"
"Doctor House noticed my proclivity to rubbing my leg as if I were in pain," Harry answers slowly. "Which I was but I refused treatment until I knew you were okay. They had to remove a majority of the scar tissue that built up on my leg and the muscle that had died and was rotting away, trapped by the heavy scarring."
Hermione claps a hand to her mouth, tears spilling over her cheeks. "Harry!"
"I'm okay," Harry reassures her. "The surgeons here are very good, there were no complications."
She nods and Molly hesitantly approaches him, as if her was a frightened animal. "Harry," Molly whispers, holding out her arms, half-expectantly, half in fear of rejection. Harry observes her for a beat, seeing no lies in her gaze and with a low cry, collapses into her arms. "It's okay baby boy, you're home now."
"He got me out of it," he whispers to Molly, clinging to her tightly. "He got me out of it."
"He got you out of what, sweetheart?" Molly asks, hugging him firmly without restricting him, recognising that her children, adoptive or not, are damaged in ways she cannot understand and perhaps never will. But that's okay because she can be there for them, she can love them and maybe, just maybe, that will be enough for them to heal and live.
"House," Harry gasps meeting Hermione's concerned gaze. "He told Elizabeth I can't work for her. I'm too hurt. I'm too broken."
Hermione staggers around the bed and embraces him tightly, crying lowly, relieved. "Oh god," she gasps. "Oh god!"
"Hermione," Harry whispers pulling her back, his expression morphing from relief to elation. "I'm free." He grins, slow but steady, splitting his face in half and baring all his teeth. "I'm FREE!"
"Harry," she laughs and she flings herself at him and then spins around and tackles Ron. "He's free! Oh Merlin and God above!" She shouts, Ron joining her and Harry in their bright, relieved laughter. "Harry you're free! Completely and utterly your own man. No more war. No more violence!" She kisses Ron firmly on the mouth and hugs Harry tightly once again. "Oh God, yes! I'm so fucking happy!"
Harry laughs loud and long, tackling Ron in a hard hug and the three war survivors ignore the bemused gazes of their family, too busy celebrating and laughing to care that they look insane. Only Molly understands because she knew of the Queen's demand and she's crying too, watching her dark haired son laugh like he hadn't for so very long and Arthur, who suspected, is smiling widely and bouncing the baby in his arms in delight. They are so very happy and it's so very brilliant to see.
"I donated money," Harry says, breathing hard and still grinning widely. He meets Molly's eyes, seeking approval from the only parental figure left to him any more. Molly who patched his bruises, made him hot milk after his nightmares. Molly who counselled him and soothed him after the dozens of deaths before and after the war. Molly who was his mother in every way that counted and who was smiling at him in the brightest pride he had ever seen. "I gave back, because I could. Because it was right. Because these people saved Ron's life and mine. Because it feels good!"
"How much?" Bill asks, smiling with amusement and happiness, even if he doesn't understand the elation of his littlest brother and his friends.
"Five billion," Harry answers blithely, uncaring. There is a stunned silence and Hermione stares at him in shock.
"Five billion American?" She asks for clarification.
"No," Harry grins. "Galleons. Ron's worth it. I'm worth it. My leg is worth that money. These people do good work and I'm helping save lives the only way I know how."
"That's," Hermione breathes in stunned amazement. "Amazing."
Harry nods, "they're building a new wing, they're dedicating it to us."
"Us?" Ron asks, stunned but eager. He's never had anything named after him before.
Harry nods fervently, "the Amicitia Wing."
Hermione smiles gently and radiantly at him, "the friendship wing," she translates. At Ron's curious look she continues, "it's Latin for 'friendship'."
"The most important thing in my life," Harry adds easily. "The thing that has saved me over and over, the thing I owe everything to. The donation is me giving back to the people who saved my best friends life, ensuring that they continue doing this important job in the best way possible."
"Harry," Hermione breathes, wrapping him into another tight hug, Ron doing the same from his position on the bed, barely reaching their waists. "I'm so proud of you."
Harry hums in acknowledgement, relaxing into Hermione's hug and leaning into Molly when she joins the group hug. He wouldn't return to England, he rather suspected that he'd be staying here in Princeton while continuing his various physio- and psychological therapy sessions, but right now he was happy and at peace. In the arms of his family. In knowing that he was his own person after twenty-four years of being other peoples flying butt monkey. In the realisation that life is so very special to him after all and its continuation with forever be his task and delight.
Perhaps he'd take up Agent Bodner of the FBI on his offer after all. Become a protector, not a murderer. Ensure the survival of people like him. The world was his oyster and he had no idea what he wanted to do but knows that for the next fifty years, he's completely and utterly free to choose and do as he will. It's a giddy and inspiring thought, Harry grins, smiling around at his family in pride and pleasure, he really would have to do something extra nice for House. Refurbishing the Diagnostics department isn't nearly enough, he thinks.
… So It Ends.
Authors Note:
So this fiction was supposed to be a one shot, but doesn't allow you to post more than 8,000 words without glitching the fuck out on you. Or at least, that's been my experience. R&R if you liked, didn't like or just need to be heard because you're oh-so-sad.
Regards, Sar'Kalu