This is the second part of my story, I hope it's okay. This might seem a bit boring, but it is done to show a little bit more scope into Harry's abilities and power.
There was only a pristine body lying on a white bed. A witch stood over the still form. Either Madam Pomfrey to most, or Poppy to the rest. Hands, smooth yet old and experienced, rubbed the wand in her hand. The rough texture spun slightly under her thumb, twirled side to side, side to side, around again. It chafed her hands only slightly. The demure brown was graying from the constant twisting and turning, a dirty ink rubbing off onto the otherwise perfect stick of wood.
It was a nervous habit she picked up years prior. She hadn't done it in so long, she had forgotten about it. It came and went. Her prodiginal medical ability proved to be far superior to any illness or ache or pain possible within the halls of Hogwarts. Her teacher, a man Dumbledor reminded her of greatly, nurtured her growth into the master practitioner she currently was. She had nothing to be worried about.
…Except this.
It was something she had never encountered before. The tranquility of monotony was broken under the stress of the situation. Her graying hair hung haphazardly over her shoulders as she prepared to rush back over to her notes. It was scary to see somebody react the way this boy was, and not be able to do anything about it.
Her helplessness was certainly warranted. Harry Potter's magic was rebelling. There was no other word to describe it; it seemed to lash out at everything, and was methodically killing him one piece at a time. Poppy was forced to watch his eggshell face crack and heal in an endless cycle. His black hair grayed and fell out, and then came back. Skin would blister. Blood would flow. Everything would heal, and skin would blister again.
Healing draughts cured what didn't disappear right away- long gashes that looked more like sword wounds and ethereal burns searing themselves into the cycle. Pain relievers had been administered hourly since the boy's arrival. Double dosages. Skelegrow fixed fractured bones quickly enough. Blood replenishers were crucial. Dreamless sleep, corosiscene, burn salve, stitches, sutures, green potions, red potions, black potions, plaid potions, cinnamon-smelling ones, gross-smelling ones, more dreamless sleep, everything else.
There seemed to be nothing more she could do. The boy's magic healed him as much as it destroyed him. It helped and hated him. She could do nothing more than watch, administer potions, and wait. She did what she had done the past five hours: watch, administer potions, and wait.
Oh, the time was dreadfully slow.
It was closing in on midnight, and she had nothing else to do, so she took a seat and leaned back. Notes floated through her mind. Possibilities transitioned from one form to another. A whirlwind of disconnected thoughts thrashed about. She took comfort in the twirling of her wand. Side to side, side to side, around again…
The crunching of sheets startled her awake. It was not the cracking of skin, nor the heavy moaning of pain, nor the sunlight shining painfully over her eyelids. The surrealism of such a possibility that she, Madam Pomfrey, falling asleep on the job was painfully embarrassing. It was also irresponsible and dangerous.
The healer ran over to the boy, legs feeling numb and fuzzy, to check his condition. A sense of vertigo hit her, blurring the world slightly, blacking it out, coming back, making her stumble. She almost fell. She nearly did.
When she finished the diagnostics and initial preparatory examination, she rushed over to her medical journal, picked up an ink quill, and with a dripping dab, began to write. No visible scar tissue… no sign of infection… no sign of previous lacerations… no external injuries whatsoever… the list went on. The boy, unconscious on the bed, had absolutely no visible sign of illness. She went back to run internal procedures. More notes. Magic strengthened… no disease, nor plague… comatose state from exhaustion?... Bodily functions pristine… nothing wrong… nothing wrong… nothing wrong…
Nothing wrong.
Nothing wrong.
…There are no visible signs of illness. There is no internal problem. There are no external problems. Every single diagnostic turned out negative. The body is functioning properly. There is absolutely nothing wrong. Wait.
Madam Pomfrey ran back over the boy with her wand. She kneeded the wood nervously. One way. Another. The green glow followed every movement. Swoosh. Swoosh. A glide, and another. It rested above a single place for a negligible amount of time, then glided over to another. The eyes, the throat, the chest. Then, her eyes glared down at her readings. Nothing.
She roved along the spots again. Still nothing. Again. There! No. It was gone. She pushed her control to the limit, trying to find that single elusive piece of something. That one abnormality that plagued this child. Again. Her wand levitated over the chest and moved to the side, then down, and to the other side. The power reached and churned to the woman's will. A cacophony of light greens, emeralds, forests, and blue-greens sparkled from the exertion she shot through the focus.
"-Ahh!"
It was a short screech, cut off by the necessity of composure. With weary hands, she twisted the hand that had grabbed hers off and lay it back on the bed. In her relentless approach to the case, she had pinched one of the boy's pressure points with her magic. It caused his arm to react. It hurt. It burned.
It was what she was looking for.
She made a cursory examination of the new blackened skin on her arm. The black was slowly spreading over her skin, deforming the hand print into something else. The green of her wand slowed the spread marginally, but in that instance, she was able to get a reading of what it was. Death.
The cells were dying rapidly, increasing exponentially with every second. It was similar to the curse Tom Riddle had brewed many years ago. One would drink it, and then the skin would inevitably die until the body was exposed to the elements and die. Only, this wasn't a potion curse. This was a curse on a much deadlier level.
Magic to decay was thought to be impossible until the recent Decromenti spell was made, and even that wasn't to this extent. To produce such a powerful reaction through touch and while indisposed was unheard of.
She rushed to the medical cabinet. Hands moved swiftly, tearing the glass doors open. Fingers plucked the iodine out, pilfered from a muggle hospital, and dumped it on the cascading blackness. Another snatch into the glass case brought out a tardicatismo draught to slow the spread of the rot. It worked underefficiently. Her next snatch was for curara to lessen the throbbing, and then sejuntismo dust to isolate the occurrence. The spell corrigere revitalized the skin, somewhat. The spread of the death was stunted. A bandage and time would cure the last of the blemish.
As soon as her hand was wrapped loosely and slung so not to move or break skin, she strode back to the infirmary. She stepped through the isolation wards with nary a shiver. The watery feeling of the touch through which the wards identify a person washed over her and disappeared. Her feet gave a tap, tap, tapping on the cobblestone floor as she carried herself towards the single occupied room in the isolation wards.
The door swung open lamely, creaking slightly. Madam Pomfrey's feet carried her the last few steps before she looked up. She gasped. The unexpected sight of the upright body, sadness streaking the face and anger lashing the body, prompted her to step back. Harry Potter stared at her, seated at the foot of the bed, and spoke.
"Madam Pomfrey… please… don't come any closer…"
And the bed promptly turned to dust, along with the floor and the wards, and Harry Potter was gone.
Was it good? I hope so. This will be the average size of a normal chapter, so this is what you can expect. If any of my other stories are anything to go by, the chapters will only get longer.
Review, so I know what to think about my writing capabilities.
Benedark.
