A Hospitalic Romance

Harry glared across the circle of Death Eaters at his opponent. You Know Who. He Who Must Not Be Named. The Dark Lord.

Lord Voldemort.

Wrong.

Harry knew what spell he must use to defeat him. It couldn't be an offensive spell, because that would cause the phoenix feather to activate the priori incantatem. It also couldn't be an offensive spell, because they didn't work; that was proven seventeen years ago, that night in Godric's Hollow. If he used an offensive spell, then Voldemort would just get over it and come back again. And again. And again.

Harry used, therefore, a different spell. A spell as light as "Avada Kedavra" was dark. A spell as pure as Necromancy was perverted. And a spell as powerful as Harry could possibly make it.

It was simplicity itself, really. Voldemort was raised from the dead, a spirit, or a ghost of sorts, who hadn't moved on. Therefore, an exorcism spell, cast by a virgin who had been wronged by that spirit, was what was needed. Harry very much qualified.

He raised his wand. Four parts to the spell: the establishing of Purity, a call for Justice, the setting up to Release... and the name. The name of subject to be released.

Three people had died when this spell rebounded on them, because they had given the wrong name. Harry didn't intend to make the same mistake.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle!"

The story was all over the papers for months-not that Harry was aware of it. "Boy Who Lived Conquers Dark Lord a Second Time!" ran the headlines.

"Harry Potter in Coma after Defeating the Dark Lord" ran the bylines.

Essentially, what happened was this: Harry Potter, in his Seventh Year at Hogwarts, defeated Lord Voldemort with the exorcism spell, exactly as he intended. Unfortunately, he did this in the middle of all the Death Eaters. Although none of the Killing Curses cast actually killed him, all of them did a substantial amount of damage.

Harry was immediately moved into the Intensive Care unit of St. Mungo's, where he received, if one were honest, far more than his share of the concern, not to mention a small army of flowers and chocolates. After three days, he was judged to be stable, merely unresponsive, and was moved into the Private Wing, where there were many (rather rich) people who were too important to just put into a room with anybody.

When six months later the Daily Prophet published an article on how he might be moved back because he had indicated that he would hate to be out of it for forever and wake up to find himself penniless, thousands of people sent money to keep him where he was.

A year after that, the Daily Prophet said that he had been physically healed months ago, and that if he were going to wake up shouldn't he have done it by now? They received thousands more letters telling them what a horrible thing that was to say, and never to say anything else like that again.

The chocolates were, by now, long since stale, and the flowers had wilted into a potpourri that was actually rather pleasant. (Ron Weasley, now working in the "Non-hostile" department of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, got permission to package this blend, reproduce it, and sell it. He made three thousand galleons in the first month of publishing.) The cards were bundled up, and put into a closet somewhere for Harry to read when he woke up. Of all the good wishes sent to Harry Potter that first week, only those from his friends and family remained. Of all the presents, the only one that had not gone bad was the toilet seat.

And this is where our story begins.