Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

The Fragile

It began with a train ride.

It always had, and Harry believed it always would. There was not a time in his life he expected to be confronted with a lack of the yearly trip to Hogwarts. He tried to ignore the fact that this was his sixth trip as such, and what his rather stunted view of the future said about both his current mental state and projected outcome of the upcoming war. As he shifted slightly in his seat at the back of the train he realised, for once, he had much bigger problems than war.

This time, it couldn't be hidden.

One of Harry's greatest wishes, unsurprisingly, was that his summers would somehow turn into a bleak and distant nightmare, the events of which would be forgotten in the few short steps between platforms nine and ten at King's Cross, as if walking through the magical barrier could strip him of the Harry Potter who resided at number four, Privet Drive in favour of the Harry Potter, Gryffindor and so-called saviour of the wizarding world, though he was an elaborately constructed character that he knew in his heart of hearts did not actually exist.

This year, it wouldn't be happening.

Harry groaned quietly as he shifted again, the grinding pain in various parts of his body screaming in that way that told him in no uncertain terms he was hurt, and not in an easily fixed way. He knew beyond doubt that if he even managed to leave the train on his own two feet, his first destination would be the Infirmary, a thought that caused more panic than Voldemort had managed on the four occasions he could recall in blinding detail.

Wanting to hold off the inevitable discovery as long as he could, Harry pulled out his wand and checked the locking and privacy charms placed on his cabin's door, knowing after six years of living with a dorm-full of peers what they could and could not undo – especially after a summer's worth of leisure.

Unfortunately for Harry, he'd forgotten one thing.

Slytherins.

"Draco, I don't see why we had to leave a perfectly comfortable cabin to go traipsing about a moving train with no apparent purpose other than to—why's this one locked?"

No no no no no, Harry thought desperately. He would rather anyone, even Voldemort himself, walk in on him right now than the two people standing outside, currently unlocking his well-placed and quite advanced, or so he'd thought, charms. Pain from what felt like a dislocated shoulder doubled him over as he tried to jump up to hide himself, though where, he didn't know, just as the door slid open and two people spilled inside.

"Pansy, I told you, it's rather im—Potter?"

Unable to do much more than breathe through the current excruciating pain radiating from the left side of his body, Harry nodded, face still hidden from the two Slytherins. He scrutinized their shoes – so much nicer than his own, he noted absentmindedly – as he wracked his brain for an excuse, any excuse for his appearance.

"Merlin," a shocked-sounding voice uttered, "what the hell's happened to you?"

Harry finished standing, unsure what would come out of his mouth once he opened it, only to find that perhaps standing hadn't been such a good idea after all.

The shocked faces of Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson were the last things he registered before passing out cold.