Chapter Three: The Week of Healing
Hermione screamed.
The students and parents around her all started before turning in the direction she was looking. At once, everyone started running towards the prone figure. Hermione reached the shape first, the owl moving out of her way, still screeching.
The human on the ground was impossible to identify through all the blood. She could not tell if the human was male or female. Based on the body size she thought the human was around nine years of age.
The human was bent inwards in a warped fetal position, broken limbs making it impossible for the being to properly be in the defensive position. In the human's hand sat a small wooden book, a stark contrast to the sea of red that covered the human's form.
The adults around her were franticly muttering, unsure what to do for the boy in this foreign world that they found themselves in. She kept her eyes on the human's face as she was pushed out of the way by the distraught transfiguration professor.
"Someone get a healer!" her Deputy Headmistress screeched. "Straight down the alley right next to Madam Malkin's!"
Amanda Percuro came from a long line of healers. For centuries her family had been practicing the healing arts. At one time her grandmother had been the Head Healer at St. Mungo's. It was because of this that Amanda became a healer. The idea of being a healer had been engrained into her head by her family since she was old enough to understand their words. But despite this, Amanda did not work at St. Mungo's. The current Head Healer at St. Mungo's had once been her mother's betrothed, as per a marriage contract between the two families. But her mother had been unhappy, and had run off with Amanda's muggleborn father. The two had never wed as her father had died in a mysterious accident several months after the two had run off together. So she kept her mother's maiden name and worked hard through Healer's training. She had finished the course at the top of her class, and yet despite this, Armand, the Head Healer refused to look passed old grudges, or her half blood heritage.
The Percuro family had always been a wealthy one, and her grandfather, who was their Head of House, had gladly given her the money to start her own healing practice in Diagon Alley. It had been years since she opened and she had easily paid back her grandfather within the first year. Her busiest day by far was always the day of the muggleborn checkups. She had been a Gryffindor in her day, and her Head of House supported her decision to start her own practice. On the same day each year Minerva brought the young children, accompanied by their parents, into her office for a full checkup. Her staff consisted of muggleborn's and half bloods like her, who were kind to the new students and their parents, and could easily relate.
Checking the time on her watch Amanda started to become impatient. The students should have arrived by now, and she was eager to get started. Just as the thought touched her mind a woman with deep blue eyes and straight brown hair pushed the door open and ran into the room frantically looking around. When the woman's eyes landed on Amanda she called to her.
"We need a healer, possibly several over by the apothecary. There is a young child at the portkey arrival point who has been beaten bloody. He is unconscious and I fear he may not have long."
When Dr. Marlene Granger had been invited to her daughter's muggleborn orientation she had expected to enjoy a day filled with information and fun filled activities. She had not expected to be running as fast as she could towards the healer's office in order to save a young child's life. She was attracting attention in her muggle clothes, and many witches and wizards stopped to gawk at her, whether it was because of her clothes or her speed she was unsure. The sight of the young child was ingrained into her mind as she ran haphazardly towards her destination. The child had been clutching a small wooden book as if it would save their life. It had been the only thing that Marlene could see that stood out through all of the blood. The hand that had been holding the small book had seemed small and frail. She wondered how long the poor child had been mistreated. Images of the torture the child would have gone through to obtain to gain such harsh injuries flashed imaginatively through the dentists mind, causing her to cringe. Tears began to form in her eyes as she grew closer to her destination.
Marlene was pulled out of her thoughts as she spotted Madam Malkins. Next door sat a quaint store with a sign that read "Percuro's Practice for Muggle and Magical Maladies." Marlene thought the store sounded more like they caused them than cured them, yet she pushed her way into the store nonetheless.
She called out to the young female in the store requesting several healers by the Portkey Arrival Point before turning around and sprinting back towards the prone child without a backwards glance.
Pain. Every part of his body was in pain. It was a sharp stabbing pain that ran from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. Not a single part of his body was immune from the pain. He could faintly hear many people around him. Their voices held a frantic tone, although Harry could not make out any distinct words. His breathing, he noticed, was irregular, and his heartbeat was quicker than usual. He was scared, very scared. The voices were getting fainter and fainter before all he knew was silent blackness. The pain had sharply increased until it felt like thousands of red hot knives were being stabbed repeatedly into his forehead, and then, he knew no more.
Healer Amanda Percuro and her team were baffled by the results of their scans. Harry Potter? The young boy who was beaten bloody who was getting closer and closer to becoming The-Boy-Who-Died was their young saviour? Amanda couldn't fathom how any magical guardian of the boy could possibly think of attempting murder on their saviour. That was what this beating looked like after all. The internal injuries were as immense as the external ones, and it was a miracle that the boy was even alive. It took serious hate to inflict this much pain on a child, and Amanda seriously wondered how long the child had been suffering. She vowed that who ever did this would pay. Her magic flashed around her creating an unintentional promise bound by magic. They would pay.
"… losing him."
"His injuries are too…"
"Stabilize him…"
"…can't…"
Hermione's world was being turned upside down. She had heard the whispers of the healers. The child in front of her was Harry Potter. He was in several of her favourite books and he was portrayed as strong, and a hero. The child in front of her did not resemble either of these things. The healers had used Scrougify on the child to remove the blood, only to see a bruised child with limbs bent at impossible angles. Harry had raven hair just as they had described in all of her books. Hermione did not know if he had the startling emerald green eyes that the books claimed as he had yet to open them.
Tears streaked down Hermione's face as she looked at the young boy. She had grown up with loving parents who had rarely raised their voices at her, let alone a hand. The wizarding world's saviour on the other hand would be lucky to make it through the next hour, let alone the night. Her heart was breaking at seeing the pain reflected on Harry's face. She vowed that if he lived through the night she would do anything to ensure that he was never hurt like this again. She would be his friend and confidant if he would let her. The bright flash around her did not faze her as she continued to stare at Harry as the Healer's rushed around trying to stabilize the dying boy.
Minerva McGonagall was a proud witch. She prided herself in her house at Hogwarts at the role that she played for them. Like a proud lioness she territorially watched over her cubs, defending them from all that attacked. She felt caged, and useless as she watched the healers attempt to stabilize the child of two of her favourite cubs. The fact that they were grown adults when they died did not change the fact that they were her cubs. She felt like she had failed them. It was Minerva who allowed the headmaster to leave the young child on his relatives doorstep. She had very few doubts that it was one of his relatives that did this to him. After watching the family for an extended period of time, she had many doubts to Albus' plan. She had a bad feeling creep up on her the night that the sleeping child was placed on the porch of number four Privet Drive. She now knew that the feeling was founded.
Part of Minerva wanted to storm through the door of number four and take the Dursley's to task, but the little boy before her had to come first. She had to know that he was going to live before she left his side. She looked around her at the crowd that had gathered. Muggle and wizard faces alike showed both shock and anger at the child's state. Child abuse was simply not heard of in the wizarding world in regards to magical children. With the magical birth rates in Britain at an all time low, with most families only having one or two children, abuse was scarce, for fear of ending the bloodline. Abuse was evident with the children of purebloods who were born without magic, squibs, but a child with magic would never be treated like this.
She wanted nothing more than to see those brilliant green eyes that she knew resided behind the child's sunken lids. When the blood was removed a broken, malnourished child was revealed to her. She wanted to see the child flourish in her class, answering questions and completing tasks with the vigor that the young Lily Evans used to show her. She wanted to see his eyes sparkle with mischief like the young James Potter. But most of all she wanted to see his chest continue to rise and fall. She wanted to see him live.
Amanda had sent for the goblin healers as soon as she had found the dark matter pulsating in the magic that inhabited the boy's body. For one's magic did not just pulsate somewhere in their chest like the word "core" lead many to believe. A wizard's magic pulsated through every fiber of their being. Not a single cell from the tip of their toes to the hair on their head was devoid of magic. Magic is who they are. The dark "patch" as she kept mentally calling it, was concentrated on the boy's forehead. His scar to be exact.
