Harry ended up staying in the hospital longer than was strictly necessary to heal. The nurses kept talking about finding the perfect place for him to stay, but Harry understood that they would have difficulty finding someone willing to take in someone like him. He later learned that the Dursleys had claimed they did not have the resources necessary to raise a ‘special-needs’ child, and that as much as it pained them to give up their beloved nephew, he would be better off with someone else. But Harry was not naive. The Dursleys had never hesitated before the accident to show him just how badly a freak like him intruded on their oh-so-normal life. And now that he was a blind freak…? That would be unbearable. No, he had not truly expected the Dursleys to take him back, not now. And as frightened as he was of where he would go, he stiffened his resolve not to be a worthless, freaky burden on his next guardians.

However, when he was released from the hospital, finally, he was not taken to a new foster family, but instead to what the social workers called a ‘group home,’ which Harry thought seemed a bit like a modern way of dressing up the term ‘orphanage’ to sound slightly less archaic. He was told it was just temporary, and he would be out of there and with his new family in no time, just a few weeks at the most. But a few weeks stretched out into six long months of waiting for someone to be willing to foster him.

The group home, the official name of which was St. Jerome Emiliani’s Home for Children, housed an interesting mixture of children. They were all there temporarily, some waiting to be placed with a new foster family if they had to leave a previous family unexpectedly, others waiting for the courts to decide whether they would return to their own parents or be put into the system, and still others, as in Harry’s case, waiting for someone to be equipped and willing to care for them. Consequently, the children ranged from infants whose parents were suspected of negligence in their drug-addled haze, to skittish youngsters who shied away from raised voices and open palms, to teenaged juvenile delinquents who snuck out at night to drink in the park.

All of them who were old enough to sleep in a bed were bunked upstairs in two rooms, one for girls and one for boys, with the crib room and their caretakers’ rooms across the hall. Between the boys and girls dormitories were the boys and girls showers and bathrooms, with doors leading from their respective dormitories. The stairs to the lower floor were at the end of the hallway closer to the girls dormitory and the caretakers’ rooms, and they led to the downstairs foyer. If one walked down these stairs from the upper floor, they would see the front door directly in front of them, the door to the mess hall to their right, and three doors to their left, leading to two small classrooms and one small rec room which was situated closest to the front door.

For the first couple of days that Harry was there he was mostly left to his own devices, and so he slowly explored his new home with his feet and hands. While he discovered that it was quite nerve-racking to set each foot into the unknown, the weeks of staying in his hospital room, except when he was led to the bathroom by nurses, had left him chafing for freedom. He learned, after nearly tumbling down the stairs, to pause briefly to explore with his toe before shifting his weight to that foot as he walked. Since his right hip was still rather weak, he ended up using an odd, somewhat shuffling gait, stretching out his right toe to explore then limping forward without quite putting his full weight on his right leg. After bumping his head a couple of times while trying to explore behind the staircase, he learned to hold one hand above his head and one hand out in front of him or trailing along the wall.

He tried both mornings to discern his various mismatched articles of clothing from one another by feeling them, smelling them, and eventually squinting hard at them in his first frustrated and fruitless attempt since the accident to see some color or outline. After these efforts told him nothing more than the fabric and size of the article, along with whether they were a bottom or a top, he eventually gave up on trying to match them, and for once was grateful that most of his somewhat ratty clothes were varying shades of faded gray, their colors having been stripped by many wash cycles. On the second day, he did begin wearing the cap with the brim pulled down low on his forehead in an effort to somewhat protect his head from low-hanging obstacles.

On his third morning at St. Jerome’s, he was at the bottom of the stairs when he heard a voice he recognized as one of the caretaker’s, though he could not remember which one, calling his name from near the front door.

“Oh, there he is now! Harry -- Harry Potter! Come over here, I have someone for you to meet,” she called out briskly.

Harry began limping towards her, trailing his right hand along the wall and using his toe to search for forgotten toys on the floor. About halfway there he was nearly bowled over as two boys shoved roughly past him.

“No football in the halls! Take that outside!” the caretaker called out gruffly. Then as Harry reached her she said a bit more kindly, “Harry, this is Ms. Syracuse, she’s going to be teaching you a few things while you stay here, and possibly even after we find you a more permanent home. I’ve got to run, are you all set with him? You can use one of those classrooms over there if you’d like.” Harry assumed the last was addressed to Ms. Syracuse.

“Yes, we’ll be just fine. Thank you. Hi Harry, you can call me Lucy. Can I take your hand?”

Harry nodded, though he was still somewhat uncertain about what exactly was happening, and raised his hand towards the direction of her voice. He felt her take it and then she led him towards one of the classrooms, saying, “We’ll just go in here while I explain how this will work, and then we’ll walk around for a bit. Does that sound good?”

Harry nodded again, knowing better than to disagree with or to ask questions of an adult, particularly an unknown one.

xxXxx

Albus Dumbledore stood in his office, facing the unlit fireplace. Just to his right and behind him, an old, straight-backed woman with gray hair pulled into a severe bun stood addressing him. In the shadows to Dumbledore’s left hovered a tall man dressed all in black with dark, intense eyes and somewhat greasy black hair that hung in curtains to his shoulders, somewhat obscuring his hooked nose and sallow complexion.

“... have combed the city thoroughly with no sign of him,” the woman was saying. “But we can determine nothing conclusively. It seems unlikely that he is truly dead; we have found no evidence of any sort of funeral being held, and information on him would likely not be quite so closely guarded if he had passed. However, between using muggle methods to avoid alerting the Ministry to the situation, and needing to tread carefully when gathering information to avoid raising suspicion among the muggle authorities, it is practically a miracle we found the leads that we have, even if they did dry up.” The woman finished with a huff, frowning as she linked her hands in front of her.

All three stood in silence for a moment, each appearing to be deep in thought. After a few minutes, the man dressed in black stepped forward and spoke.

“At this point, it appears most unlikely that the boy is in any immediate danger. And we unfortunately seem to have exhausted our current leads and resources. We cannot keep up this level of search without eventually alerting someone to our actions, no matter our methods. Besides, those who have been informed cannot continue to put their jobs and lives on hold, and we cannot afford to inform more people -- former Order members or not, the more people who know the more likely it is that someone will eventually slip. I propose that we come up with a more long-term search plan, rotating search shifts and locations --”

“We cannot give up on finding him!” the woman interrupted, eyes flashing.

“We are not giving up, we are merely altering our search plans to accommodate the changing situation,” the dark man snapped back, glancing at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore sighed and turned to face them, seeming to age ten years as he did so. “Severus is correct, Minerva. We cannot keep up our current strategy. It is neither feasible nor wise. No, for now we must trust that wherever Harry Potter is, it is obscure enough to keep him hidden.” He fingered the bridge of his nose absentmindedly in thought. “Besides, I do not expect any Death Eaters to make a move so soon after their lord’s demise, they will likely at least wait until Harry is at school. They have nothing to gain from rushing and everything to gain from waiting, as the wizarding world’s memories of those dark years continue to soften and fade.” He looked into Severus’ eyes as he made this last statement, appearing to be searching for something within their depths.

Minerva’s lips tightened into a thin line, but she nodded her acquiescence, then spun and stalked towards the exit.

xxXxx

As it turned out, Lucy was a treasure trove of information on techniques and tricks Harry could use now that he could not see, which she began teaching him over the next few days. She gave him a long cane with a roller tip that she told him was bright white and showed him how to use it to find obstacles, to descend and ascend stairs, and other tricks, as well as how to fold it up so it was small and re-extend it when he needed it again. Harry marveled at how much more confident he felt walking with the cane sweeping the floor in front of him, and how much faster he could move with it than with his previous toe-tapping method, even if he was still limping a bit. She taught him how to hold onto her elbow and take verbal and nonverbal cues from her as they walked in an unfamiliar area. She began teaching him to read Braille, which he picked up remarkably quickly, and she assured him that soon he would not be too far behind his classmates since his age group had only begun reading recently anyway. She showed him how to keep his things neatly organized in the small trunk at the foot of his bed, and even how to label his clothes (though he wondered if he would ever own enough clothing to need to do so).

Once he worked up the courage to ask, Lucy also answered his questions on what would happen to him in the near future. Harry learned that he would start attending the local elementary school next week if he was not placed in a new home before then, and that the staff at St. Jerome’s were looking for a family who would be capable enough to help him learn to live without sight. Harry thought they were probably just having a hard time finding someone willing to deal with a child without sight, but he kept this thought private and pushed it to the back of his mind. He resolutely continued learning all of the techniques and strategies that Lucy could teach him over the next few months, determined to be independent in navigating the world, daily tasks, and even his school studies, which had indeed resumed the week after he arrived at St. Jerome’s.

Over the next few weeks, Lucy also worked with Harry on using, and perhaps increasing, his residual vision. They were not very successful in improving his light perception; he remained only able to distinguish whether the area he was in was dark or lit, with little ability to recognize gradations. However, they were able to mildly improve his perception of movement. He could still only perceive larger, faster movements, such as if someone moved quickly across his field of vision, but he gradually was able to discern fairly consistently when the movement was in front of him or in his right or left peripheral. This became impossible for him, however, in a crowd (such as the hallways of his school), when it became just one mass of movement all around him.

Lucy also encouraged him to continue the exercises for his hip that he had been shown in the hospital. She said that although she was not an expert (and Harry thought he heard her mutter in a biting tone something about the government considering physical therapy optional), she thought that it would be wise to continue to work it. If he did not continue, the skin and soft tissue in the area would remain tight and stiff, and he may end up with a permanent limp and nagging soreness.

xxXxx

The vast majority of the children at St. Jerome’s truly were there very temporarily, for no more than a week at most. However, there were a few children (whom Harry was among) who were slightly more difficult to place and sometimes stayed a bit longer, from a few weeks to a few months. These long-termers tended to be split into two groups: those who had particularly violent or extensive records, and those who had some sort of disability, usually intellectual or physical. In Harry’s case, placing him was made more difficult, at least initially, because he was so newly blinded and had not yet learned and practiced many of the skills he would need to function. So while Harry waited, he became more accustomed to his blindness and was able to learn the necessary skills. However, he also ended up learning that children would always know just how freakish he was even if the adults appeared oblivious to his differences, and so he could never escape bullies for long.

For the first couple of weeks, the other children at the home mostly ignored Harry, as though they did not quite know what to do with him, which suited him just fine as he did not know what to do with them either. Any friends he might have made in school or in the neighborhood when he was with the Dursleys had been scared off by Dudley, and while Dudley had insisted on playing ‘Harry Hunting’ with him, he was not remotely disappointed to cease playing that particular sport.

However, such peace was not meant to last. Ricky came to St. Jerome’s at the beginning of Harry’s third week there. He was thirteen, and according to the other children’s whispers, he already had a record a mile long. Though young, his voice was deep and somewhat gravelly -- from smoking a pack a day, the children whispered -- and his footfalls seemed to Harry like Godzilla tromping through the halls. Harry did his best to stay out of his way and remain unnoticed, but he knew he stuck out like a sore thumb even among the other long-termers, with his long white cane that he swept across the floor as he walked.

The teasing began slowly, almost harmlessly, as Ricky learned just how closely (or not closely) the caretakers watched the children. It started with him flicking the brim of Harry’s cap up as he passed, frequently causing it to fall off. Harry would kneel down and sweep the floor with his hands in an effort to find it, his face burning with humiliation as Ricky guffawed with the posse he had quickly acquired. When no consequences came of these actions (Harry knew better than to go to an adult with his problems), the bullying increased. Seats were pulled out from underneath him when he would go to sit down in the rec room, feet would somehow get between himself and his cane and trip him, boys would snatch his cap from his head and hold it above him while they taunted him to reach for it, and shoving in the hallway far too frequently ended with him striking his tender right hip against the wall. Soon Harry’s belongings began being moved, or his trunk reorganized, so that he woke up most mornings with something missing from where he had set it last. He found it incredibly frustrating to spend hours searching for something he knew he had left in its proper place, especially when it turned out to be just across the dormitory or in the wrong compartment of his trunk. Sometimes he would feel the stares of the other boys on him as he scrambled about on his hands and knees in their dormitory (a position which at times pained his hip), but he never expected that any of them would have the courage to stand up to Ricky and help him, and so he was never truly disappointed when they did not.

Harry finally tried going to one of the caretakers after waking one morning to find that his cane was missing from the nightstand where he always set it before bed. After searching the floor around the nightstand and underneath the surrounding beds, he finally sought out one of the caretakers for help so that he would not be late for school. When she found it in the nightstand drawer, she told him off for not looking after his things, despite his protestations that he always left his cane atop the nightstand, and that someone must have moved it. Harry supposed that it was difficult to believe that an eight-year-old blind child was perfectly fastidious with his belongings, though he still fumed while he listened to her swiftly retreating footsteps. He learned to sleep lightly after that incident, with his cane and his mother’s photograph clutched in his hands beneath his pillow. At the time, he did not think things could get much worse than losing his cane, his primary vessel of independence and self-sufficiency.

Harry learned how wrong he was when he returned to his bed one night to find his mother’s photograph missing from his pillowcase. He searched his bed and his entire trunk, making a hopeless mess of his belongings in his panic, and the whole dormitory floor, before collapsing into his bed and falling asleep with silent tears leaking onto his cheeks. He moped about for the next several days, most of his mind fogged with grief, although one corner of his mind alternated between raging at himself for allowing someone such power over him and ranting at the injustice of it all. Harry was so miserable that he hardly even noticed Ricky’s parting shot at him just before his tormentor left for his new foster home. As the bully gathered his belongings, which had scattered somewhat across the dormitory during the course of his three-month-long stay, he noted loudly to snickers from his audience that Harry had the dubious honor of being the current longest-termer, and that a family would even take him, with his criminal record, before they would take Harry.

After finding the photograph replaced the next night on top of his pillow, Harry bitterly wondered which one of Ricky’s minions had enough pity for him to finally return the object that was obviously most precious to him. He never considered that perhaps someone (or even Ricky himself) might have had enough regret or even compassion to be moved to do so once Ricky’s threats were null and void. Instead, he vowed to harden himself from then on so that he could not be so easily taken advantage of or controlled. He began carrying his mother’s photograph on him at all times, tucked into the waistband of his pants where it could not be seen, and slept with his cane not only clutched in his hand but with the handle loop wrapped around his wrist for good measure. After weeks of searching amongst the odds and ends that had gathered over the years in St. Jerome’s corners and storage closets, he found a serviceable lock with its key still inside. He attached the lock to his trunk and took to wearing the key on a piece of cord around his neck and tucked into his shirt. His expression turned flinty and his staring, clouded green eyes hardened, warning off the predators that would think him weak.

xxXxx

However, there was one thing that made some tiny part of him almost grateful for Ricky’s never-ending taunting and pranks. He noticed at some point, over the course of weeks of what seemed like constant searching on his hands and knees, that he seemed to be able to feel the objects just beyond his hands in a vague sort of way. For example, he would sometimes know a couple of inches before his hand reached it that the foot of a bed was there. The ability was spotty, and even once he realized what he was doing, he was convinced at first that he must just subconsciously know the home better than he realized. It was not until he used this ability one time to avoid placing his hand on a little toy car (while searching the dormitory floor for his Braille primer) that he finally became convinced that he was actually feeling things before he physically touched them.

Harry likened it in his mind to having small extensions of his arms. It was not like seeing as  he could not discern colors or read printed words; it was more like his sense of touch had been given a slightly longer range. He learned to consciously use it, but reserved it for when he needed it after discovering that using it for more than a couple of minutes per day seemed to tire him greatly. He gradually refined it, first focusing on sharpening it so that he could distinguish finer and smaller textures, eventually succeeding in reading (for a brief period) while running his hands just above the pages of one of his Braille books. As he entered the fifth month of his stay at St. Jerome’s, he began working on extending his ability beyond a couple of inches past his hands. It was slow, arduous work, but by the time the caretakers told him that they had found a foster family for him in mid-January, he had succeeded in sensing the rough outlines of objects about a foot around his whole body. Although this did not really give him any information that his white cane could not, he felt quite accomplished, especially when he remembered what it had felt like that morning three months ago when he had believed his cane was lost.