Man of Iron, Child of Magic

2

JULY 31

At way too early in the morning for a day when he didn't have classes and wasn't stuck at Privet Drive, Harry Potter lay in his bed at St. Peter's Hospital, breathing shallowly so his ribs wouldn't hurt as much and idly watching the BBC Breakfast program. It wasn't exactly stimulating, but the hospital didn't have a wide selection of books and his textbooks were out of reach at Aunt Petunia's house.

Aunt Petunia …

They'd told him she died in the accident, and he wasn't certain how he should feel about that. He wasn't grieving for her, exactly, but without her somewhat moderating influence, who knew what Uncle Vernon might do? Harry didn't want to imagine the worst case, if only because the worst wouldn't happen since Hedwig had flown off a few days before, so at least she wasn't trapped in her cage at Privet Drive.

But what about the best-case scenario? In the best case, Harry supposed Uncle Vernon would throw him out - but then where would he live?

Harry's vault at Gringotts had a lot of money in it, and it would certainly be enough for him to stay at the Leaky Cauldron for the rest of the summer, if Tom the barman agreed - but what about next summer, and the summer after that, and all the other summers until he graduated and found a job?

Just thinking about it was making his head hurt worse, and he wished for one of Madam Pomfrey's pain relief potions. However bad they tasted, they worked much better than the paracetamol the hospital had given him.

Harry looked up as an orderly brought in his breakfast tray and slid it onto the bedside table. At some point around dinner last night, he'd been moved into a private room - which was great, if a little puzzling. There was no way that Uncle Vernon would have paid for a private room for him, much less the upgraded meals he seemed to be getting, and he wasn't well-enough known in the Muggle world to rate a private room.

Still, he thanked the man for the meal and used his good hand to push himself to a more upright position so he could eat with less difficulty. The movement sent a twinge of pain through his chest and he gasped, then breathed slowly and shallowly while the pain subsided somewhat before lifting the cover from the tray.

He was halfway through his porridge - he really wanted a full English, but with one hand in a cast, manipulating the knife and fork wasn't something he was ready to try just yet - when the advert came on the telly.

It was for a solicitor firm, Devereaux Peck, that specialized in personal injury cases, and Harry smiled as the solution to his problems appeared on the screen before him. He'd have to move quickly, to talk to them before Uncle Vernon could - Uncle Vernon would probably try to sue on Harry's behalf as his guardian of record, just to take whatever money Harry might be awarded away for himself - but that shouldn't be difficult, as he was stuck in hospital another day and didn't have a funeral to arrange.

The advert ended, and Harry grabbed the pencil they'd given him to place his meal orders and scribbled the number to Devereaux Peck on the serviette. He'd call later, after business hours started. For now, he'd finish his now-lukewarm porridge and the fruit cup that came with it.

By the time he finished, it was after eight - maybe that was early enough for the solicitor's office to be open? He had nothing to lose by trying, so he grabbed the phone the nurse had politely hung from his bed rail and punched in the number.

"Good morning, Devereaux Peck. We can help." The woman who answered sounding caring and almost motherly. Or what Harry thought motherly would sound like if it came in a quieter package than Molly Weasley.

"I hope so," Harry said, startled by the greeting. "Um - I was in a car accident the day before yesterday. My aunt died in it, and I'm afraid my uncle's going to take whatever compensation I could get for himself."