FicWad

Harry ran and ran and ran. The slapping of his too big shoes was noticeably accompanied by the more uniform, correct shoe sized sound of Dudley's gang playing their favourite game. Harry hunting.

Harry dodged between the other children as they played normal games like tag and hide and seek. Maybe I should get some hiding tips from them thought Harry as he rounded the grey corner of the ugly, poured-from-a-mould excuse of a school. As if they would help me, too scared of the gang. Suddenly Harry tripped, and he twisted in mid-air. He felt a horrible sensation, like he was the last dredge of uncooperative toothpaste being forced from the tube. As quickly as the feeling came, it was gone again. Harry was on the roof of his school.

How funny it seems that my greatest worry used to be being beat up by my cousin. Ha-ha. Now I'm stuck in some terrible limbo, except that it isn't EVEN LIMBO! Dumbledore said I wasn't ready, which means that I'm not there yet. Unless he was lying, he's good at that. No that's not fair, he never misled me, just kept things on a need to know basis. Right? What does it even matter?

Hermione was sitting numbly in front of the old Weasley clock. After she graduated and Harry was well into his Auror training, Ron not long behind, Harry, Ron and Hermione had all moved into a flat together in a small village with quite a few old faces from their schooldays settling in the nearby area. As a housewarming gift, Molly Weasley had presented the reworked grandfather clock, with three hands, finely engraved with the name of each of them. Sometimes it helped set her mind at ease when she saw their names pointing comfortably at 'at work', and when the unexpected sound of the clock striking thirteen woke her from an otherwise peaceful sleep, she was quite unsure as to what it was.

Knowing she herself was fine; she didn't look at her own hand, and instead looked at the other two. Both were pointing straight at 'mortal peril'. Then Harry's hand had begun to spin around the clock, gaining speed as it went. A high pitched whine filled the room, and several glasses cracked. Hermione held her hands to her ears to block out the painful noise and fell to her knees. Then Harry's hand spun right off the clock. It lay on the carpet in front of her, the dying embers of the fire showing in the shiny metal.

She tried her watch, it was cold. She stayed like that until Ron came home.

When Ron arrived home, supported by a wooden cane, his face was grave. He limped over to the nearest chair and sat down heavily.

'Ron' Breathed Hermione. 'What happened to you?'

Ron grimaced as he spoke, and he spoke slowly. 'Case went bad. Had a little accident and ended up flying through a wall into Diagon Alley. That's what caused this' he indicated to the cane. 'They didn't detect it straight away. They call it MIMF, Magically Induced Muscle Failure. It's very rare, degenerative. A side effect of the accident. It's permanent Hermione.'

Hermione stood up and ran towards Ron, fully understanding the implications of what he'd just told her. There were some serious injuries magic could simply shake its head in response to, but something like this was different. A truly disabled wizard was a rare sight. He would be reduced to a near squib like state in the eyes of the public, and there was no way he could work in the field again. She made to go to him but Ron held up a hand. Hermione stopped.

'It isn't too bad. The Healers say that the effects won't spread for years. It's working its way upwards. They're going to give me a 'wheelchair' eventually.' Ron paused, and took several deep breaths. 'It's Harry, Hermione. He's broken.'

Hermione's legs went weak, and she grabbed a chair to steady herself. 'What do you mean, broken?'

'I think you need to see for yourself'

The Healer is coming again. Are they going to take my bandages off now? A-aha-ahaha- that tickles. What is that?

The Healer ran her wand up and across Harry Potter's torso, using the cleaning charm as she went.

I'm being cleaned. I can feel the tingle, on my chest, my arms and le- hold on. I can feel it on my side, it's down my side. Why not my arms?

The Healer moved the wand over the scar tissue where Harry's left arm had once been.

That-that's my what is that where's my arm I don't I can't feel it why can't I feel it please no oh god no PLEASE NOT MY ARM!

The Healer cleaned Harry's other side.

Not my other arm too! What's the use of a wizard with no arms?

The Healer cleaned the stumps of Harry's legs

My legs too… they just went ahead and lopped off everything. Without as much as a by your leave. I can feel it, the edge of me. Follow the edge Harry. What's left? No arms, no legs. My chest feels ok. Neck, ja-no. Just wet, all the way around. No face.

How can I scream when I have no face anymore?

Coming up, Hermione visits Harry and Harry begins his struggle to communicate.