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Harry hasn’t heard about his husband in nearly 24 hours. There has been not a word, not a fucking peep, from the healers. Every second that dragged by sent his stomach closer to his feet, every minute had the lump in his throat growing, and every hour dread continues to tangle itself through his lungs.
His blood pumps through his body, of which Harry is uncomfortably aware of, and he can still feel the ache in his feet as he paces through the length of the hospital. He glances to the small bundled form wrapped in Harry’s jacket, curled up in a hard plastic seat, and fear courses through his body faster.
If Marius— Harry swallows, cutting off his own thoughts with a harsh breath. His heart throbs in his chest, his eyes itch with the tell-tale prickle of tears. His husband won’t die, he can’t— Harry doesn’t know how he’ll raise Tom otherwise.
Marius is what kept the family together. Harry would be too supicious of a 6 year old Tom otherwise, one who was still figuring out how to be alive and what to do with his manifesting magic. It had been hard enough separating Tom’s legilimency abilities from Snape, and if life continues on as chaotically as it had always been, then he thinks that it will be nigh impossible for him to raise him.
Guilt threatens to swallow him whole as he thinks this, but Harry has to be realistic about this. He loves Tom— with his whole heart— but he also isn’t sure that if he loses Marius— he isn’t sure he’ll be capable of raising a child. The thought of turning into someone as bitter as Petunia, as angry as Vernon, makes him want to hurl. He would just sentence Tom to the same prison and hell that he was raised in if that happened.
There are shouts from other Healers and nurses from further down the hall, making Harry glance up, but none of them approach the corridor he’s in. None of them approach Marius’ door, which he has been steadfastedly guarding since his admission.
Harry thought when he’d gone through the Veil, escaped his own time, he’d escaped all the envious and spiteful magicals who would cut off their own nose to spite their face— who would kill his husband despite knowing that he would kill them in retaliation. Perhaps it’s just that the Potter lock transfers dimensions or people just genuinely hated the Peverell name that much.
The spell has shot through the crowd so suddenly, vibrating and glowing with it’s might, flying through the air so swiftly that Harry barely even registered it’s existence. He only realized what had happened until blood arched through the air and Marius collapses, choking and gagging on his own blood.
Harry’s marriage bond pulsed with such a strong desperation that Harry froze in the moment. Fear followed soon after as he tried to heal the wound, even just a little bit, only to realize it was truly resistant to healing. Dorea had quickly grabbed Tom as Harry bundled Marius in his arms and apparated immediately to St. Mungos, shouting himself hoarse for a Healer to take his husband.
And even now—
“Papa?”
Harry spun around, wand immediately shooting into his hand as he catalogued the corridor for threats. Nobody was there.
“Papa?”
Tom’s voice took on a more fearful quality as wide blue eyes stared up at him. His messy curls flopped in his face— the one thing Marius’ lamented Tom inheriting after they blood-adopted him— and he curls up tighter underneath Harry’s jacket.
Harry swallows and tucks his wand away, striding over to his son and kneeling next to his chair. His knee presses into the hard, marble floor uncomfortably, but he ignores it in favor of running a hand through Tom’s hair. His son’s eyes flutter, he leans into the touch with a content hum, before he peaks his eyes back open.
“Is Pere awake yet?” he asks quietly, a frown tilting on his lips. “Why aren’t we allowed in his room?”
Harry’s voice dies in his throat when he opens his mouth, before he makes a soft, aggrieved noise. He sweeps Tom into his arms, pressing his face into his son’s hair, and kisses the top of his head. “Pere isn’t awake yet and we can’t go in because he’s still healing,” he answers just as quietly as he had been asked, standing up as Tom winds his arms around his neck to press his face into Harry’s shouler.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment until Harry feels wetness building up on his shirt. Tremors wrack Tom’s body, his nail dig into the back of his neck, and he can just barely hear muffled sobs.
Tom is crying, Harry thinks, holding his son tighter to his chest and watching as his own vision blurs. Shame floods him as he rocks his sweet child side from side, mixing with his guilt until Harry thinks he might be drowning. He really thought that he would be forced to give him up— as if Tom could ever be Voldemort.
Voldemort was cold, cruel, and manipulative as a child. He killed animals and harmed other children and delighted in the pain of others. Tom is a gentle, kind, and enthusiastic child. He cries over dead ladybirds because he thinks they should never die, loved to make friends and have playdates, and was one of the most empathetic children Harry has ever met.
Tom lifts his head and hiccoughs a sob, rubbing his puff eyes with his hand. “I want Pere, Papa,” he warbles, tears still sliding down his face. “I want— I want him to wake up so we can have hot cocoa and stories and— and—” More sobs escape him, no matter how valiently Tom tries to keep them in, and Harry presses a kiss to him temple.
He paces through the corridor of the hospital, letting his eyes rove over the bright white appearance with not even a speck of dirt visible. Healers and nurses bustle in the other corridors, not even paying a glance to him and Tom.
“I know, baby,” Harry tries to comfort, something that still isn’t his strong suit. “I know you do, and we just have to be patient. Pere is healing and once he’s better, we can visit him.”
That does not appease Tom in the slightest as tears only cascade faster and his bottom lip trembles. His cheeks and nose are bright red, his eyes puffy, and his his nose dripping. Harry brings the hem of his shirt up and wipes his face gently, something Marius would surely scold him for since he was a perfectly capable wizard with a perfectly unharmed wand and a good-for-something intellect.
However, Harry could just as easily so this and cast a cleaning spell on his shirt, so he could get away with it. Tom fusses, scrunching his face and making a nosie of displeasure, pushing Harry’s hand away weakly. It doesn’t deter Harry from wiping his face however, pressing a soft kiss to Tom’s chubby cheek.
Tom’s bottom lip wobbles again. “I’m scared, Papa,” he whispers.
So am I, baby, so am I.
“Don’t be,” he says instead. “Pere is going to be okay and we’ll be home before you know it. You don’t need to be scared.”
“Then why am I still scared?”
Tom really loved asking all the hard questions didn’t he?
Harry breathes in deeply, exhaling slowly. “Because it’s a situation that you’ve never been in before,” he says calmly, trying to think of what Marius would say. His husband was incredible at getting Tom to calm. “It’s unknown and unknown things can be scary. It’s only scary if you let it be scary.” Harry is really just the pinnacle of awkward comfort and poor communication skills. “Repeat after me, love— it’s only scary if I say so.”
At the words that leave his mouth, Harry winces, wondering what demon possessed him into saying that, but rolls with it anyway. He repeats himself as if it isn’t the most horrid thing that has left his mouth and Tom copies, looking wholly unconvinced at Harry’s words.
Which fair. Harry would be unconvinced if he was in Tom’s shoes because Harry probably looks like shit and he doesn’t know at all what he’s doing. Merlin, Marius is going to smack him over the head when he hears about this.
Tom lets his head fall back down to rest on Harry’s collarbone, falling silent again and closing his eyes.
Harry sighs. “It’ll be okay, baby,” he attempts to assure him. You would think his comforting skills would be better after being a parent for 2 years, but no. Harry is still as socially inept as he was 2 years ago, faced with Marius who was more than willing to challenge Harry for custody of the then 4 year old boy, despite being a squib. “It’ll be okay,” he repeats.
Tom doesn’t say anything and Harry just continues to hold him, trying to figure out how to best comfort his son without leaving the hospital. Paranoia rankles him, sets him on edge, at the thought of anybody gets through the door because he left his vulnerable husband alone.
Marius is far from weak, he’s a formidable wizard in his own right— he was formidable before Harry had gotten him the Black lordship with his knowledge of runes and potions— but he wasn’t formidable right now. Right now he is in a hospital room by himself, being monitored by various wards so complex that Harry isn’t allowed inside of the room for fear that he could accidentally shatter to ward keeping Marius’ vitals stable.
“Harry! Tom!”
Heels click rapidly against the floor and Harry spins around just in time to see Dorea march right up to him, her face creased with the slightly evidence of worry. Her black clothes are bold against her pale skin, and Harry can smell the metallic twang wafting from her.
He raises a brow and she merely gestures for Tom with a raised brow. Tom accepts the transfer with a soft mumble of “Auntie Rea” before he snuggles his face into her neck. Harry knows it’s not his imagination that has him seeing blood on the creases of Dorea’s fingernails as she winds her fingers through Tom’s hair.
She presses a soft kiss to his forehead and sighs softly. “Hello mon cherie,” she says sweetly, cooing some more French that Harry doesn’t understand to Tom. Tom responds with more French that Harry doesn’t understand, tracing a lazy finger over the lace on Dorea’s shoulder. There is a scar, well-hidden by the lace, underneath it that hadn’t been there prior to Marius’ attack.
Charlus comes striding down the corridor, holding something in his hands, and his brows are furrowed. He mumbles something about Dorea leaving him at the floo reception before turning toward Harry and clasping his shoulder. Hazel eyes drift over Harry and the man sighs. “I would ask how you are doing, but I suppose that your appearnce is enoguh of an answer,” he says, lips pressed into a thin grim line.
Harry laughs humorlessly. “They won’t let me into the room, Charlus,” he says as his cousin guides him away gently, directing him to the chair where Harry’s jacket is still laying.
“I can’t imagine what you are experiencing, Harry,” Charlus breathes, rubbing Harry’s shoulder comfortingly. “But we both know what the best Healers are on top of Marius’ care, and we all know that Marius won’t give up without a fight. You can feel your bond with him— he’s not going to leave you.”
Charlus opens the small paper bag that he was still holding and pulls out a pair of socks. Harry blinks before more tears prickle his eyes at recognizing the socks that Marius had painstackingly knitted for them when he’d first started taking up the craft.
Harry puts them over his hands and strokes the soft, fuzzy fabric over his cheeks. He can feel the familiar, warm feels of Marius’ magic washing over his cheek and sighs, feeling his muscles relax slightly. “Thank you,” he says, voice muffled but Charlus pats his back.
“Of course, anything to bring you some comfort,” he says sincerely, smiling at Harry before his eyes flicker over to Dorea and Tom. Dorea is still speaking to Tom, most likely telling him a story, and Harry relaxes even further at the sight. “You should get some rest, Harry. We’ll watch Tom and when the Healer comes back, you’ll be woken up, I promise.”
Harry rubs his hands together, staring at the fuzzy purple and green socks on his hands, before sighing. Exhaustion weighs heavy on him, he can feel it the longer his eyes stay open, but fear is still prominent within him. “What if somebody sneaks into his room?” he murmurs. “What if somebody actually manages to kill him?”
“They won’t,” Charlus says firmly. “Not with Dorea and I watching the door, and I promise you, Dorea will die first before somebody kills her brother. And they’ll join their associate in the Potter dungeons, where they will be executed for their crimes.”
That explains the blood on Dorea’s fingers and the new scar on her shoulder at least.
Harry nods. “Promise?”
“On my honor, cousin.”
“Okay,” Harry sighs, letting his eyes close. “Don’t forget to give Tom his socks. He’ll definitely want them,” he mumbles as he presses his hands to his chest, relaxing at the way his marriage bond pulses comfortingly in response to the feel of Marius’ magic.
“Of course.” Charlus’ voice registers faintly, as if through underwater.
Harry doesn’t answer and it doesn’t take long for him to be swept away into sleep, breathing to the feel of his husband’s magic.