He was looking at his arm. The bandages were gone and a long, jagged scar remained. Curiously, the scar was in the shape of a lightning bolt. The edges of the scar were red and when he reached up with his good arm and touched the scar on his head, pain shot through his arm . . .

Harry Potter awoke with a jerk. Instinctively, he reached over to his bedside table for his glasses, but when he moved his arm, pain shot through it.

"Oww!" he muttered.

"Careful there, now, Harry, dear." Someone gently moved his arm back to a comfortable resting position at his side. "And here are you glasses. Hold on…"

"Thanks," mumbled Harry, gazing through his glasses with sudden clarity at Ron's mum, Mrs. Weasley. She was sitting on a soft rocker pulled up close to his bed. A worn old book rested in her lap.

"How are you feeling, Harry?" she asked as she adjusted the covers over his legs.

Harry looked down at his legs beneath the sheets. He wiggled his toes experimentally. Nothing happened. He looked up at Mrs. Weasley.

"Can't move my toes," he said. His voice was scratchy.

"No, of course not dear. Poppy's got your legs immobilized still, hasn't she?" She reached behind him and fluffed his pillows, then helped ease him up into a seated position. His legs dragged along with him. He could feel them, feel a vague, dull ache deep in his bones. He figured that was a good sign, as signs go.

"What time is it?" he asked sleepily, glancing out the window across the room. It was the same window that Hermione had slammed just a little more than a year ago, capturing Rita Skeeter in her animagus form.

"Nearly noon, dear," answered Mrs. Weasley. "I expect you're famished. I'll have something brought up to you to eat."

Harry did feel hungry. He wondered how long it had been since he'd had a proper meal—nearly a day, he guessed.

"Sure, that would be great," he answered, smiling at Ron's mum. She ducked out of the room for a minute but came right back and sat down again.

"So," he said after a moment, "Why are you here? Don't you have . . .er . . . things to do at the Burrow?"

Molly sighed and put down her book. "Well, Harry, it's like this . . . you see . . . well, things have . . . er . . . happened that we didn't quite expect." Her face was turning pink, rather like Ron's ears did when he got nervous.

Harry felt a twinge in his stomach. This didn't sound good at all.

"Things?" he asked. "Er, what kind of things, specifically?"

She was interrupted—and Harry knew from experience that that was never a good sign—by the arrival of a house elf carrying a large covered tray. The elf, one that Harry didn't recognize, handed the tray to Mrs. Weasley and scampered away.

"You were saying?" prompted Harry as Mrs. Weasley placed the tray on the next bed and uncovered it.

"Oh yes, of course," she said. "Well, it all has to do with a Muggle newspaper. The Surrey Sun, I think Hermione said…"

"That's the paper Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon get," said Harry quickly. "And what about Hermione?"

Mrs. Weasley practically wrung her hands.

"Listen, Harry, dear," she said as she placed the tray on his lap, "Ron and Hermione will be here in a few hours. They're taking the Knight Bus. Hated to let them come by themselves, but with the rest of the Order on . . " She paused, flustered again. "Oh never mind! They'll explain everything, Harry. Just eat your lunch and then how about another nap?"

Fortunately, the smell of the food and the promise of a visit from Ron and Hermione were enough to buoy his spirits and he let Mrs. Weasley off the hook . . . for now. Whatever had happened, he would find out from Hermione. Mrs. Weasley returned to her book as he chewed on his roast pork and potatoes. His accident must have been in the paper, he figured. Maybe they were worried that the Death Eaters would find out he was hurt by reading the Surrey Sun. He smiled at that. It couldn't be that bad, now really, could it?

Madam Pomfrey bustled in soon after he finished his lunch. She pulled down the sheets that covered his legs and waved her wand over them.

"Wiggle your toes now, dear," she commanded. Harry was relieved to find that they did, indeed, still work. They felt strangely stiff. He doubted he'd ever before had stiff toes.

"Now make fists and hold them," she instructed. He tried to keep his face neutral as pain shot up his injured arm but she wasn't fooled.

"Ahh, still hurting you, is it?" she asked. "Bad cut, and deep. It was quite a dirty wound—those hup cabs are full of grease and dirt…"

"Hub cap," Harry corrected softly, looking at his arm. Apparently, it had been sliced open by one of his uncle's designer hub caps, the ones he used to polish every weekend.

Before she left, she actually got Harry up on his feet. He stood there, quite unsteady and decidedly wobbly, and not without a good deal of pain. Still, he couldn't help but realize that he would have been flat on his back for weeks or even months if he'd been taken to a Muggle hospital.

"Isn't it a little soon?" he asked as she asked him to take a couple practice steps. "After all, it's only been a day since the accident. . ."

Madam Pomfrey glanced at Mrs. Weasley.

"A day, Harry?" she replied. "Three days more like. Healing bones is hard work for healer and patient. Professor Snape's sleeping drafts kept you quite safe and tight in bed while your bones did the hard work."

"Three days?" he asked, unbelievingly. Snape was probably doing cartwheels of glee in the dungeons at the prospect of keeping him comatose for even longer. As she helped him back in bed, everything felt different. He wanted to grill Mrs. Weasley again, but the good food and the small amount of exercise had taken their toll. He settled back against the pillows and closed his eyes. Sleep came fast, and this time, it was peacefully dreamless.