Dear Reader,

Welcome! I'm thrilled to share this journey with you! The narrative explores deep and complex themes, aiming to shed light on important issues while fostering understanding and empathy. Please note, this story addresses sensitive topics, including child abuse and child sexual abuse. While these themes are integral to the narrative, please be assured that the story does not contain any graphic descriptions. The content is handled with care and sensitivity, focusing on the emotional and psychological aspects rather than explicit details. Reader discretion is advised.

Finally, I am not, nor ever will be J.K Rowling. these characters do not belong to me, I'm simply borrowing them for a while.

I hope you enjoy the adventure to come.

All my love.

Chapter 1

Harry Potter slapped his hand around the bedside table, clumsily searching for his glasses. Another night, another bad dream, nothing new, except the room. The tang of disinfectant and electronic beeping let him know he wasn't waking up in Dudley's second bedroom. And the searing pain in his chest served as a reminder of yesterday's chaos. Trapping the tip of his tongue between his teeth, he stifled a cry of pain as he willed his limbs into cooperation. For Harry, lying down meant being vulnerable, and vulnerable was something he couldn't afford to be. Not even here, without anyone around to hurt him. Experience had taught him that. He had to sit up.

Five minutes later and drenched in sweat as slippery as blood, Harry found himself grouping around for the buzzer that would summon a nurse. As much as he loathed to admit it, the pain coursing through his body was too much to bear. And since magic wasn't an option, morphine would have to do. Fortunately for him, it didn't take long before the door creaked open and a middle-aged woman in pristine blue scrubs waltzed into the room.

"You're up early," she said, plucking a clipboard from the foot of his bed. "Harry, is it?"

Not trusting himself to speak, the small teen offered a jerky nod and watched the nurses scowl deepen as she flicked through his medical notes.

"Concussion, fractured ribs, broken right arm, severe bruising..."

The small teen cringed as she rhythmed off the list of injuries. He knew them all by heart. God knows he felt them all. Still, it wasn't easy to hear.

"We humans aren't built to withstand car crashes, are we?" The nurse shook her head and flipped to another page.

Harry's face burnt with shame. One more page, and she'd regret that comment. One more page, and everything would get a whole lot more awkward. He wouldn't be the new patient, Harry anymore; he'd be the... . he couldn't bring himself to say it. Not even in the private space of his own thoughts. To say it would be to acknowledge it. And acknowledging it would make it real.

"Oh."

And there it was. Everything he'd anticipated and feared summoned up in a monosyllable. He didn't have to meet the nurse's eye to know she was studying him now, probably with a thousand pitying thoughts twirling through her mind. It was humiliating.

"Could I... could I maybe get some painkillers?" he mumbled. His voice was sounding scratchy even to his own ears.

"Of course, dear. My goodness, I should have asked you that right away. Yes, I'll go and get some, yes, and the antibiotics for that infection. Just...just give me a moment, okay?"

Harry watched her scuttle from the room. He'd bet every last galleon in his Gringotts account that she'd send someone else back in her place while she gossiped in the staff room. He could just imagine what she'd say. Have you seen that boy in room four? Car accident, yes, but have you read his file? Apparently, the police and social services are coming to talk to him soon. He hasn't had any visitors. No one to sit with him. He's probably desperate for a familiar face, poor thing.

Harry sank back against the pillows and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't have time to waste feeling sorry for himself. He urgently needed to find a way of sending word to his godfather. If only Hedwig were with him. If only his legs would hold him up long enough for him to stand a chance at escape.

The throbbing behind his left eye increased as he mulled over his limited options. His aunt really was beginning to seem like the only possible way out of all of this. He knew she wasn't far away. His uncle was being treated on the second floor. And there was no way Petunia Dursley would miss a visiting hour. Maybe he could get one of the nurses to send her a message. He doubted she'd bring Hedwig to him, but she may agree to bring his stuff, especially if she knew she'd be able to get rid of him. He could tell her about social services—their impending visit. Then again, threatening her could make her angry. She'd kill him if she thought he'd breathe a word against her or his uncle. He'd have to reassure her he didn't have any intentions of telling anyone the truth about what happened. He'd have to convince her. Show her he'd have just as much, if not more, to lose.

He flinched at the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor outside his room. Pain shot through his ribs. His head spun wildly. The sound of footsteps grew louder. They were coming closer.

His eye prickled. He squeezed them shut and swallowed for every panicked thought, imagining he was squashing them until they were small enough to disappear completely. The strategy he'd taught himself had proved effective all his life, so he couldn't help but wonder why it's failing him now. A few tears slipped out of the corner of his eyes as his breathing grew increasingly erratic.

It's just footsteps. It's not him. It's not him. It's not him.

The door creaked open again. Yellow light spilt into the room.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

"Mr. Potter?"

Fear mixed with dread mixed with panic is all-consuming. He wasn't swallowing the thoughts anymore; they were swallowing him.

"Harry?"

His chest was tightening as though there were cords wrapped around his windpipe.

He couldn't breathe.

"I want you to listen to me, okay? I want you to focus on your breathing. In through your nose, then let it out through your mouth, okay? Come on, Harry, you can do this. Stacey, Stacey, can we get an oxygen mask in here, please?"

A hand coaxed his out of a first. Warm, soft, gentle. The small teen clung to as waves of pain rode through his body. As long as someone was holding his hand, he wasn't alone. He wasn't. He could remember he was safe, and he could get through this.

"That's it, dear; breathe, just breathe." The hand gave Harry's a squeeze. "Atta boy. You're doing really well; just keep those breaths coming nice and slow."

Harry opened his some hours later to find the pain had faded to a dull throb. He pushed himself upright in the bed to find the room wasn't tilting and swaying as before, but his head was somewhat fuzzy, and a quick look over his clipboard told him why. He'd been given an injection of morphine.

He reached for the bedside table and grabbed the jug of water, only to drop it nanoseconds later. He winced as the plastic hit the linoleum floor with a crack. After a moment's pause, he gingerly tested his leg muscles by tensing before deciding they could be trusted with his weight. Shoving the blankets off, he twisted and wriggled until both feet were on the floor. Feeling somewhat pleased with himself, he stood up a little faster than he should have and stumbled.

"Harry?"

His head jerked up at the sound of a newcomer. A woman with hair the colour of boiled lobsters stood framed in the doorway. Harry took in the smart, linen trousers, the shiny, black stilettos, and the file she clutched in her stumpy fingers. This wasn't a nurse, he realised with a pang of anxiety, this was. . .

"My name is Sarah; I'm from child services. I think the doctors told you I'd be seeing you this morning." She said with a smile that Harry couldn't bring himself to return. Water was lapping at his bare feet now, the puddle growing, and for the briefest of moments, he entertained trying to drown himself in it.

"Is it all right if I come in? I've got some questions I'd like to ask you, and—"

The door creaked again, revealing a middle-aged man wearing thickly framed square glasses and a police uniform.

Harry's insides turned to slush.

"Mr. Potter?" he said. "I'm with the Surrey Police Department. We understand there's been a car crash involving you and your uncle. We need to ask you about what happened. I'm sorry, who are you?"

"Oh, I'm Sarah from child services," the young woman said, offering her chubby hand to the officer. The man merely nodded and placed his own hands on her upper arms, shuffling her forward to allow him entrance.

Once inside, Sarah sauntered over to the set of plastic chairs stacked in the corner. The officer pushed the door shut. Harry flinched at the click.

"If you're going to talk about the incident, I may as well be here," said Sarah cheerfully, dragging the two chairs around and stationing them at the foot of the bed. "It'll save you going over it twice, Harry."

The teen trapped his bottom lip between his teeth and sucked. What was he supposed to do? It wasn't meant to get this far; he was supposed to have gotten word to Sirius or Dumbledore before these people showed up. Cold sweat rolled from the base of his skull down the back of his next as the pair stared up at him expectantly.

Improvise, a little voice in the back of his mind hissed. Lie if you have to; just get rid of them.

"I—I think I should clean this up first." He gestured at the puddle.

The social worker glanced at the mess and smiled while the officer frowned.

"It can wait," he said.

"Actually," said Harry, "I—I think I need to call the nurse."

Sarah's smile stretched into one Harry had only thought Mrs Weasley capable of. Somehow it made him feel worse.

"Are you in pain, sweetheart?" she asked.

Harry bit back a no and nodded frantically. He'd happily take more morphine if it meant he could get out of this interrogation. If he was lucky, the nurse might insist they leave until he felt better—that'd buy him some time.

"I spoke with your doctor on the way in," said the officer. "They can't give you any more medication right now."

Feeling as though the air had been crushed out of his lungs, the small teen dropped down onto the bed. Now what? He could refuse to say another word. He could insist an adult he knew be present while they talked to him—his aunt surely would want to take the opportunity to make sure he didn't slip up and tell the truth.

As if sensing his struggle, Sarah leaned forward in her chair and patted his leg. "Maybe you could walk us through what happened, Harry, " she said. "We already know some of the details, but I suppose what we're both wondering is how."

Harry frowned at her hand resting on his knee. He was almost sure he wanted to push her off. Almost.

"The report from my colleagues at the scene said your uncle was over the limit. Do you know what that means?"

Harry didn't reply. His heart was sinking all the way down to his navel.

"It means your uncle was driving whilst intoxicated. The paramedics confirmed they found bottles of alcohol in the glove box."

"Why are you telling me this?" The words left Harry's mouth without his authorisation. He cringed, wishing more than anything he could take them back. Sarah gave his knee a squeeze.

"Were you aware your uncle was drunk, Harry?"

What if he was? Did that mean he was some participant in the crime? Was it a crime? He knew it was wrong, of course, he just hadn't given the legal matters behind the actual accident a whole lot of consideration until now. Could his uncle be sent to prison?

The officer coughed as if to prompt him.

The teen found a stray thread on his sheet and started playing with it. He couldn't help getting into the car with him, he had no choice. When it came to what his uncle wanted to do, he never had any choice.

Suddenly his mind was a whiz with panicked thoughts and dark memories. He tried to push them away the harder they rebounded. He could smell his uncle's breath all over again, feel the violent jerk of the car as he crunched on the brake.

He closed his eyes and willed himself to focus on his breathing.

"It's okay, Harry. We know we're asking a lot. I expect the accident was pretty traumatic, wasn't it?"

Traumatic? In spite himself, Harry laughed. Trauma for him took on a whole different kind of meaning.

He remembered his Defence against the Dark Arts lesson in third year where Professor Lupin had introduced the boggart. His classmate's idea of trauma was giant, spiders, his younger self had been most afraid of Dementors. He'd give anything to go back to those days. Back to when the scariest monsters could be banished with the flick of a wand, and trauma was only a word that had as much or as little meaning as any other. But he couldn't. Not unless Professor McGonagall had another time turner lying around somewhere anyway.

He opened his eyes again in time to see Sarah and the officer exchange a look, one, Harry took to mean as they were about to change tactics. He braced himself.

"We have a statement from an eyewitness, a pedestrian. He reported waiting at the zebra crossing when he noticed your uncle seemed distracted. He said saw him reaching into the passenger's side, your side, I believe," said the officer.

"Please, I—I don't want to talk about the acc-accident."

There was a pause. Tension mounted. Harry swallowed thickly, sure they were about to press him again when Sarah fired a question that although he'd somewhat been expecting, caught him completely off guard.

"Your doctor told me you have some pretty serve injuries that you couldn't have sustained in the crash. Can you tell me how you got those injuries?"

Lie! Hissed the voice in Harry's head. "It—I, I fell down the stairs," he said quickly.

A flicker of disappointment crossed Sarah's face. "Harry, I think we all know that's not true. Of course, it might account for some of the bruises but not all and certainly not for the cuts or scars or the—"

"How do you know all of this?" Harry asked twisting himself away so Sarah's hand fell from his knee.

"We've seen the photographs," the officer replied. "You remember they took

photographs when you were admitted to A and E?"

Harry couldn't help it. Just the mention of the photographs and knowing strangers had seen them made his eyes sting. He let out a long, shuddering breath and curled his hands into fists.

Compose yourself. You can't lose it in front of these people.

"I understand how you must be feeling, Harry," said Sarah gently. "But whatever it is you're frightened of, you needn't be. We're here to help you, not make things worse."

This was too much. Too much. Fear and anger were having a cage match in his stomach and he couldn't handle it. He gave up on tugging the stray thread and pulled the sheet over him then fixed his gaze on the linear blinds. Maybe if he pretended he couldn't see or hear them, they'd disappear.

"Are you afraid of your uncle, son?" added the officer, his tone softening somewhat.

Ignore them.

"Would you say he has a bad temper?"

Ignore them.

"Does he drink often?"

Ignore them.

"Does he usually drive whilst intoxicated?"

Ignore them.

"Do you think by not talking you're protecting your uncle?"

Harry's head was starting to spin wildly. Even if he wanted to talk to them, they were asking far too many questions for him to keep up with. He thought of Sirius and almost wished he were with him until he remembered his godfather would be asking as many questions if he knew what was going on right now. And Harry couldn't bare for him to find out the truth. It was bad enough these muggles suspected it.

"Do you believe your uncle loves you, Harry?"

That did it. The small teen whipped around to face them. Instantly regretting when a wave of dizziness engulfed him and the nagging pain in his broken ribs flared. He waited for the stars in his eyes to fade before answering. "No."

"Do you think your aunt loves you?" asked Sarah.

His throat was thickening again. The corner of his eyes prickling. His headache had made a sudden and vengeful return. He hated this. He hated them for putting him through it. What he wouldn't give to have his Firebolt with him right now. He could fly right out of the window and start a new life somewhere far away. "No," he answered, wincing at how his voice crackled.

Sarah cocked her head and thinned her lips in what Harry supposed was meant to be an empathetic expression. "This," she said pointing at Harry's plastered arm. "This doesn't look like love to me either."

Perhaps it was the way the officer was now watching him with one eyebrow raised or the way Sarah had just summarised everything he could never bring himself to admit in a single sentence, but it was then, Harry's anger won the battle for dominance.

"I want you to leave," he said, his hands joining his voice in shaking.

"Harry—"

"Leave! Go on, get out. Get out now!"

Silence engulfed them. Harry built up his breath, ready to shout again when the officer diffused him.

"All right, we'll go, for now, but I want you to know, Mr. Potter, we'll be coming back tomorrow."

Harry didn't bother answering as the chairs screeched and the pair shuffled toward the door, instead, he threw himself back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, already wishing tomorrow wouldn't come.