This is, without a doubt, one of the strangest things I have ever written. It's deeply sad, tragic, and angsty, very nonlinear, and I offer no guarantees of a happy ending. Saying that, it's unfinished.
I've been working on the story on and off for a few months; if you're someone who has read anything I've written before then you will (hopefully) find it different to my other work. The chapters will be deliberately short and I've got no posting schedule in mind. And no beta. And no pre-reader.
Fred!Lives, because DHpt2 nearly broke my heart. It's HP/CW and canonish… You can safely assume that other than Fred, and Harry's entire relationship with Ginny, everything else happened as per canon. I hate over- explaining my plots (you're all intelligent readers) so I'll leave it there.
This is, I think it's fair to say, a rather experimental thing for me so I appreciate your patience and, more than anything else, your feedback.
- HFS xx

Unbroken

Death is at your doorstep
And it will steal your innocence
But it will not steal your substance.
- Mumford & Sons, 'Timshel'

He woke in a bed that had a lump right where his left shoulder blade dug into the not- softness of the mattress. A twisting, tightening nausea gripped his stomach and although the overwhelming urge was to be passionately, violently sick, he held that urge in check. More than anything else, he hated being sick.

The lump in the mattress caused him to squirm for comfort, which caused the sickness in his belly to pitch and tilt until he could almost feel the acid burn at the back of his throat, and a small whimper escaped from his throat.

"He's awake," a soft, female voice hissed and although his eyes were closed, Harry was aware that this room was filled with people.

"Glasses," he murmured and a dry palm pressed the square rimmed frames into his hand. On squeezing it in thanks, he decided that it was Ron's. "What the hell happened?"

The room swam into view and then Harry really did throw up; heaving, gut wrenching pulls that expelled the contents of his stomach over the white tile. Ron vanished it immediately. Hermione dealt with the smell.

"We'll get the Healer in, now you're awake," she said, reaching over with a cool, damp flannel which she held to his forehead. When the door clicked Harry realised that there must have been someone else in the room with them as well.

"I don't want to hear it from a Healer," he protested. "Please. You're my best friend."

It didn't matter whether he was directing this comment to Ron or Hermione – it applied to them both.

Ron looked away as Hermione sat down on the bed next to him, pulling one of Harry's hands into both of hers. Ron's Auror's robes were stained with blood, and, as he noticed Harry noticing this, he hastily pulled them off.

"You were hit with a very dangerous hex," Hermione said softly. "It has…" she broke off and looked to Ron.

"We don't know how much use of your legs you've got left," Ron finished for her in a gruff voice.

"Oh," Harry said softly.

Before his tired mind had time to fully understand the implications of this the door to his room was flung open again and a team of nurses and a Healer bustled in.

The prognosis was grim.

The force of the curse had knocked Harry unconscious, and although they had rushed him through the medical team and straight to St Mungo's, the lack of an immediate counter- curse being performed had inhibited what the Healers had been able to do.

Harry had been unconscious for nearly six hours.

As he was told that the best thing for him now would be to recover in his own time, and that with regular check ups they could possibly improve his condition but really, there was no way to tell what the lasting effects would be.

There was nothing left in his stomach, but Harry felt sick again.

While the news was being delivered Molly stood in the background, wringing a wrecked handkerchief between her fingers as Charlie stood behind her; he kept a solid, comforting hand on her shoulder. Looking behind her, ignoring everything else and their false words of encouragement, Charlie's eyes told him all he needed to know. His life, his career, his everything… it was over.

xXx

"Sweetheart, please," Molly begged. The others had disappeared with mumbled words regarding coffee. Harry had told them that his wand arm worked just fine and if they didn't come back with one for him he'd hex them into oblivion. Molly had taken the opportunity to start another tirade begging him to go home with her to live at The Burrow.

"Molly, I love you, but no."

"You can't go back to your flat, you know that. And Hermione doesn't have time…"

"Neither do you!" he protested. "You've got enough on your hands dealing with all the kids. I'll sort something out."

"You're not going into one of those care homes, you're just not," she continued. "I'm not having anyone say I don't take care of mine."

Harry laid a hand over hers and ignored the shooting pains going up and down his legs. After his third day in hospital he'd become used to them. Molly could insist all she liked. She had eleven grandchildren and looked after the ones who weren't at school yet during the day while her children were at work. Harry knew from his own babysitting experience that Weasley children were a handful. The last thing she needed was a disabled sort-of-son to look after as well.

"He's not going to a group care home," came Charlie's voice from the doorway. "He's coming with me."

They hadn't discussed it, there hadn't been time, too many other people in the room all the damn time. But he'd hoped. Oh god, how he'd hoped.

Catching Charlie's eye, he nodded. Molly looked from Charlie to Harry and back again and sighed deeply, standing and leaving them alone for the first time.

"Is that okay?" Charlie asked nervously.

"It's perfect."