Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world belong to J. K. Rowling.
Chapter 3:
It was the first of November, and a winter chill was already in the air. Harry and Ron were making their way to dinner. Ron was still growing fast, and seemed constantly hungry. Harry, too, was growing, and was looking forward to the meal. Other students were milling around, but for a moment, Harry was out on his own, his back exposed. A green light shot through the air, people screamed, and Harry was down.
For a moment, he could be seen feebly struggling to raise himself from the floor. But the attempts at movement were already diminishing, and quite quickly, he lay as if dead.
A second year Gryffindor, with curiously blank eyes, was worming his way through the crowd, toward Harry. He had his wand raised, apparently prepared to finish the job. Neville, who had been not far behind Ron and Harry, raised his own wand, and Euan Abercrombie also went down, stunned.
Professor Dumbledore appeared out of nowhere in the way he had, the students quickly parting for him as he gave one glance toward Euan, and went straight to Harry. Harry was sprawled apparently lifeless, face down, a portion of one colourless cheek in view. His attacker was also unconscious, disarmed, and Neville, Dean and Seamus were all standing guard over him.
"It was a Death Curse, sir," Neville said, his voice shaking, scarcely believing the disaster that had so suddenly overcome them. "I saw it. Euan did it."
Professor Dumbledore was on his knees next to Harry, feeling for the pulse in his neck. "He's not dead," he said, not nearly as calmly as usual, for he loved this boy.
Professor Snape arrived then, his face set. Dumbledore kept his fingers on Harry's pulse, which was becoming more and more faint. Ron was on his knees too, beside Harry, white-faced. Snape conjured a stretcher, and set a student hurrying to fetch Madam Pomfrey. Professor McGonnagal arrived, her hand over her mouth in horror. Hermione was still in the library, yet to learn that the day had changed.
Madam Pomfrey arrived, and in her competent manner, took charge. Carefully and gently, she turned Harry on his back, then opened his robes and pushed aside his shirt, to lay a hand firmly over the heart. The students were hushed, as they waited.
Finally, she said quietly, "His heartbeat is stabilising. We'll take him to the hospital wing," and Harry was gently lifted onto the waiting stretcher, taken to the hospital, and put to bed. As little as possible was done to disturb him. With such a precarious flicker of life remaining, he was not even put in pyjamas that day, only his outer robe and shoes removed. Wizard medicine is a lot less invasive than muggle medicine, and there was nothing to do but wait. No-one survives a Death Curse - except that Harry had, when he had been just a baby. Could he possibly survive a second time? Euan was only a child of twelve, in his second year at Hogwarts. Maybe he was just not capable yet of the power required to make a Death Curse.
Professor Snape took charge of Euan, until Professors McGonnagal and Dumbledore were willing to leave Harry. Euan Abercrombie was just a second year, but he was a Gryffindor, with considerable magical talent, and had obviously had contact with a dark wizard, who had put him under the Imperius curse, and trained him to do the difficult Death Curse, that few adult wizards were able or willing to master.
The days passed. Harry lay unmoving, unconscious. Two Mediwizards arrived from London, but told Dumbledore they could do nothing that wasn't already being done. Madam Pomfrey was given extra help, but didn't trust anyone else to look after Harry as she did. She always seemed to be there, always available.
Hedwig, Harry's owl, found him in the hospital the day after the attack, and from then on, spent most of her time perched on the head of his bed, watching over him. Madam Pomfrey had been inclined to shoo her away, but Dumbledore said she was to stay. There were other students occasionally spending time in the hospital, and they were apt to stare curiously at the still figure in the bed next to the Nurses' Station. They were not allowed near.
It was a fortnight before Harry finally opened his eyes, and even then, more weeks would go by before he could do more than feebly swallow some soup or potion, and drift straight back to sleep. At this time, when his grip on life was still so frail, Hedwig proved her worth, waking the nurse when Harry began to moan and fret in his sleep, apparently in the grip of a nightmare. It was important that he not be agitated, and Madam Pomfrey gently stroked his forehead and spoke softly to him until he opened his eyes and became calm.
Slowly, slowly, he became stronger. He scarcely spoke, but when Hedwig returned from a hunting trip, she would nudge him until he noticed her, and stroke her back. Gradually, he became aware of what had happened, more from half heard scraps of conversation than from anyone actually telling him. Ron, Hermione and Ginny were frequent visitors, although they were only ever allowed to stay a very few minutes. Professor Dumbledore came often, too.
Shortly before Christmas, Mrs. Weasley came, kissed him, and stayed for a half hour, holding his hand. He roused himself for her, returning a feeble squeeze to the hand that tenderly held his. "Happy Christmas," she said, but regretted it as Harry looked at her, confusion on his face.
"Christmas?" he whispered. Tears stood in Mrs. Weasley's eyes, as she leaned over him to embrace the thin body.
But after that, he grew stronger more quickly. Christmas came, and the visits from his friends ceased for a few days, until he missed them, and asked Madam Pomfrey where they were. This sign of returning life was greeted by the nurse with pleasure, but Harry, with a growing alertness, was dismayed to find how much time had passed. Boxing Day, he asked to be sat up in bed, and tried to sit up a little longer each day. Christmas holidays ended, and Ron and Hermione were allowed to visit. Harry was finding that he finally had the energy to talk, and to ask questions. He could scarcely comprehend that he had been ill for so long. It seemed to him that he had lost so much time.
The next time Dumbledore came, he asked him what had happened to Euan. Dumbledore explained carefully, ensuring that Harry was not left with any misinformation. Euan had been found to be acting under the Imperius curse, and so was unpunished. He was long since back at school, although he was unhappy, Dumbledore thought. His fellow students had not forgiven him, and Euan himself, was acting as if he had done something terribly wrong.
Harry listened, remembering the feel of having an Imperius curse laid on. He had experienced it in class, where he had learned to resist it, and again, a couple of years before, when Voldemort had attempted it on him. Harry had been the only one in his class who could resist the curse, and he could not blame Euan for being its victim. But he was already feeling the familiar fatigue, and Madam Pomfrey came to settle him back into bed.
The day after, Harry did something he hadn't done for some time - shut his eyes, concentrated, and looked into Voldemort's world. His question was soon answered, as he saw in his mind's eye, but quite clearly, Pettigrew standing with a bottle of potion, waiting for Voldemort to take it from him. Voldemort was sick, too. Somehow, he was not surprised.
His rate of recovery improved, and soon he was able to negotiate his shaky way to the bathroom and back, to take a shower by himself, and to make his way to the chair next to the window, to look yearningly at the outside world that he had begun to miss quite painfully. Hedwig still spent a lot of time with him, and was company, but now he was impatient to be back in the life of the school, and working as hard as he could toward his own recovery. Another couple of weeks, and he felt, if he were allowed some extra consideration, he could rejoin classes.
At the end of January, three long months after he was hit by the curse, he was back in his familiar dormitory, and back at classes. He was still thin and weak, still tired easily, but he was ecstatic to be back with his friends. The teachers had orders to treat him with as much consideration as possible, and he was actually forbidden by Dumbledore to attempt any homework. But he was making it to nearly every class, and getting stronger daily. He was still taking the strengthening potion supplied by Madam Pomfrey, a dose night and morning, a ritual to which he was now well accustomed.
He heard the rumours that Voldemort had been very ill, something he knew to be true. And there was another interesting development - Voldemort was no longer offering a reward for his death. In fact, now Voldemort quite definitely wanted Harry left alive. Although thoroughly relieved to have the likelihood of assassination attempts reduced, Harry wondered. Had Voldemort concluded that Harry's health had a direct effect on his own? A strange phenomenon that Harry, at this stage, only suspected.
It was a wonderful thing for Harry to go out into the grounds without fear of attack. He would breathe in the fresh air as if it was food for the soul. He yearned for sunshine, but there's not much sunshine to be had in the wintry days of February. When a rare sunny day appeared, he routinely headed for the outside, convinced within himself that sunshine would help him regain his fitness quicker than anything else. He refused to worry about his schoolwork - he was already just too far behind, and in any case, he was doing the best he could.
He was taking pleasure in each new milestone achieved - stairs negotiated without having to stop and rest, a little energy at the end of the day to walk in the grounds with friends, being able to watch a whole Quidditch match without getting exhausted. It didn't bother him that Ginny was playing Seeker again instead of himself. He had been too sick for such things to mean much, and this was already the second match he had missed.
But around the middle of March, his improvement slowed, then ceased. Although still taking the special potion sent for him from London, he started to lose ground again. He'd been so pleased with his growing strength that he was quite reluctant to admit, even to himself, that he was no longer getting better. He started to develop strategies to make life easier for himself, and to disguise from others, and maybe from himself, just how poorly he was doing.
Ill and weak, his magic started to function differently, and his wand became unnecessary. At first it was simple things. Doors would open for him, lights would go on and off as required, the fire would flare up into a warmer glow, but he soon found he could perform more complex magic, too. He could summon an item from the other side of the room, or likewise banish it to a specific spot, without any need of incantations. He still used a wand, but usually only for conjuring. And he invariably used a wand when other people were present.
He put a charm on his school bag, so that it was no longer too heavy for him to carry. And, most interestingly, when the classroom just seemed too far away, he found what he termed 'shortcuts,' behind tapestries, and around corners, that would take him to the desired classroom almost instantly. Strangely, no-one else seemed to be able to use, or even see the shortcuts. But he was going around in a constant haze of exhaustion by this time, and chose not to think about what was really happening.
Peeves pestered him once, but Harry felt a surge of irritation, and Peeves was hurled to the far end of the corridor and kept right away from him thereafter.
Instinctively, he hid these new abilities, and without ever especially thinking about it, concealed, as best he could, how sick he really was. Dumbledore had given orders that he was not to be bothered with homework, and the teachers were being very lenient. His schoolwork was patchy. While he never had the slightest trouble achieving the desired results with any spell or charm, he was paying little attention to prescribed wand movements, or the wording and enunciation of incantations. In fact, his practical work was effortlessly brilliant - if one was interested only in results.
Things were very quiet outside the school, and it was known that Voldemort was very seriously ill again, after a short lived recovery. He was causing no trouble for anyone, so his illness was widely felt to be an excellent thing.
After the fight with Voldemort, the other students had an immense respect for Harry Potter, and although not a prefect, he would have been able to impose instant order, any time, if he so chose. He hardly ever did. There was an exception. Bullying always made him angry. One day, heading toward a class, Harry came across three large boys tormenting a smaller one. He rated the boys severely, but the effort cost him, and as they were dismissed and the corridor emptied, he sank to the floor, his back against the wall, and his head hanging.
After a few minutes, he hauled himself to his feet again, and took a short cut to Professor Snape's classroom. The rest of the class had already arrived, and Professor Snape looked at him, sneering, "Late again, Potter. You're getting worse and worse."
Harry said nothing, his head was buzzing, and then his knees buckled and he collapsed in a faint. Snape strode toward him, and lifted his head and shoulders. Harry was white, and Snape, holding him, could feel how thin and frail he had become. Snape was utterly shocked. Like the students, he had become used to Harry's gaunt frame drifting along the corridors, and hadn't realised that he was becoming worse instead of better. For the second time that year, he gently lifted him, placed him on a stretcher, and escorted him to the hospital wing.
"The boy just collapsed," he explained to Madam Pomfrey. "My God, he's just skin and bone! I thought he was supposed to be under your care!"
Madam Pomfrey snapped defensively, "He was doing fine last time I saw him. Surely he should have been brought to me before now, if he was going backwards!"
Ron and Hermione were still at the classroom, not having been allowed to accompany Harry to the hospital. Ron picked up Harry's school bag, startled that it weighed almost nothing, an indication to him that Harry was far sicker than he had admitted. Grimly, he handed it to Hermione. How long had Harry been this bad? And why had they not noticed?
Harry soon recovered from his faint, but was kept in hospital for the next few days. He was seen again by the healers he'd seen before, but they said little, and prescribed no new treatment. Most students would have been sent home, but Harry had no real home to go to, and Dumbledore well knew that the Dursleys only kept him on sufferance. So he stayed at school, living in Gryffindor Tower, the place that he had looked upon as home since his first arrival at Hogwarts.
Madam Pomfrey told him very firmly that he had to resume taking his potion, his admission that he had not been doing so, being blamed for his still being so sick. He did resume taking the potion for a few days, but his conviction that it was useless grew, and he soon stopped. The nurse kept a much closer watch on him this time, but could do nothing but observe as he became continually weaker. He was already taking the best medicine available - the potion that was being sent from London was especially made for him.
The weeks went by, and Harry began missing more and more classes. The other students developed the habit of looking after him as best they could, bringing food for him when he did not make it to meals, and waiting on him whenever a need was observed. The house-elves made sure that the common room was always kept warm, and that trays of food were brought to him. By this time, he was spending much of his time in an inconspicuous corner of the common room, resting in the high-backed easy chair he had adapted to suit his comfort. But when he was alone in the common room, he moved his chair to the fire, as he always felt cold. By this time, there was a tacit expectation among the teachers and staff that Harry was going to die.
One day, Gryffindor students returned to the common room to find him with his eyes closed, in his chair close to the fire. He was so pale and thin, and his breathing so faint, that several students were sure that he was dead. But he stirred and woke, embarrassed and confused to find that the other Gryffindors were hushed and sober, sitting and doing their work in inconvenient locations well away from him, no-one contesting his right to hug the fire. He quickly, but rather shakily, rose to his feet, and used his wand to move his chair against the wall to his usual place.
Quietly, edgewise, Euan Abercrombie approached him, tearful. "Harry, I'm so sorry I put the curse on," he quavered.
This was about the fifth time Euan had said the same thing to Harry over the past several weeks, and Harry gave his routine reply; "Don't be silly, Euan. Hardly anyone can resist an Imperius curse. It's not your fault that I'm sick"
"Harry, if you die..." started Euan.
Harry interrupted, "Dying doesn't change things. It's not your fault," and he asked Euan to get him a glass of water, mostly in order to get rid of him.
Ron and Hermione, who had heard the exchange, looked very upset, but Harry was already tired again, and had closed his eyes. Hermione suddenly rose and left, and Ron, concealing his distress, took up a Potions text, and tried to study.
The unexpected arrival of Professor Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey, with Hermione trailing behind, next disturbed the quiet common room. Professor Dumbledore acknowledged the respectful greetings of the students, and approached Harry, who started to get up. But Dumbledore told him to stay seated, and asked him how he was.
Harry, a faint flush again in his cheeks, said that he was all right - obviously totally untrue. Dumbledore was looking at him assessingly, and then turned to Ron, and requested him to help Harry upstairs to the dormitory, where Madam Pomfrey was to take a look at him.
In the dormitory, Ron at the door to ensure privacy, Madam Pomfrey helped Harry undress to the waist, and gave him a thorough checkover. Dumbledore, and even Ron, who slept in the next bed, were shocked at the extreme emaciation of Harry's body. Dumbledore asked him where the curse had hit him.
"In the back," Harry answered, and Madam Pomfrey asked him to stand, and gently ran her fingers down Harry's spine until he flinched, and she pointed out to Dumbledore the slightly reddened swelling over the mark of the curse.
"Well, Headmaster, I think it's obvious that Harry needs to be under my care, or even go to St. Mungo's."
But Harry looked at Dumbledore, and said: "Please, sir, I would like to stay here a little longer. I promise I'll come to the hospital wing when I need to."
The headmaster queried gently, "Harry, how long do you think it will be before it's time for you to go to the hospital wing - months? Weeks?"
Harry was staring at the window, and said vaguely, "Not very long."
Dumbledore reached out, touching the thin shoulder. Harry gave a quick glance up at him, "I don't want to be a nuisance or upset the others."
"Do what you want, Harry. And don't worry about the others. Gryffindors are chosen for their courage, remember?"
Madam Pomfrey was looking at the bottle of potion still on the bedside table, and suddenly asked, "Harry, have you been taking your potion?"
Harry, sitting on the side of the bed, looking down tiredly, said, "It does no good," and after a pause, "For a while, I think it was making me worse."
Madam Pomfrey started to scold him, but Dumbledore, raising a hand to stop her, was looking thoughtfully at the bottle of potion.
"Poppy, Harry has already been seen by the best healers, and they could do nothing. He can stay here if he pleases. And I think I might just take this potion for analysis. Maybe we can do better."
He turned to Ron, and suggested he help Harry prepare for bed. This was nothing new for Ron, as both he and Neville, and occasionally Dean and Seamus, had become accustomed to helping Harry when needed, as it increasingly was. Professor Dumbledore strode off, and, although Harry did not know this for some time, took the bottled potion straight to Professor Snape, asking him to analyse it as quickly as possible.
Snape straightaway started doing tests on the potion, coming to certain conclusions very quickly. Grimly, he returned to Dumbledore's office. "It was useless," he said, "Just a brew of nasty tasting water!"
And although Harry was not told for a time, Dumbledore concluded that Harry had been deliberately kept ill, and even possibly, remembering what Harry had said about the potion making him worse, poisoned. The reason was obvious - it would have been done with a view to making Voldemort ill, too, and therefore harmless. And this had to have been done with the connivance of the Ministry of Magic, or, at least, of certain people within the Ministry .
Harry was given a new strengthening potion, quickly prepared by Professor Snape, who also started to prepare a more involved, but very strong, healing and strengthening potion, but this one would take three full days to be ready.
Very slowly, Harry started to improve, gaining strength almost imperceptibly at first. The milestones he had so happily attained before, had to be fought for all over again. At first, he had no faith in his improvement - after all, this had happened before. So Dumbledore told him what he had concluded, and he started to hope. Dumbledore asked him to be discreet, as making accusations against the Ministry would be unwise. Even Madam Pomfrey was not told.
No-one was brought to book over the sabotage of his recovery. If some of the potion had been poison, the sample of potion that had been available for analysis was merely useless, and could simply have been a bad batch. Therefore, there was no proof.
He did not return to lessons straightaway. His first ventures from the comfort of the Gryffindor Tower were outside the castle, into the grounds. He found he craved, not only the fresh air, but the sight of the sky and the trees and the mountains.
One Thursday afternoon, not many days after his first venture outside, he was at the Quidditch pitch, where he had been watching Ron and Ginny practice. They were finished now, and walking, slowly for Harry's sake, back to the castle. Impulsively, Harry asked Ginny whether he might borrow her broom.
Ginny said, "Of course," although doubtfully, as it was perfectly obvious that Harry was still very ill. But Harry mounted the broomstick, feeling a surge of happiness and strength at its familiarity. He soared into the air, doing a couple of quick turns that had him dizzy, so that he quickly became more cautious. Nevertheless, he zoomed around the Quidditch pitch twice before returning to the ground. He was grinning broadly as he dismounted, even though he swayed with weakness. Triumphantly, he announced to Ron and Ginny, "You know, I think I'm going to get better!"
Ginny hugged him and cried, while Ron stared at him, and suddenly turned away, muttering something indistinguishable. And while Harry, still easily fatigued, was escorted back to the castle by Ginny, Ron hid himself behind a bush to cry. For so long now, he had been sure that his closest friend was going to die. Harry was already very tired, and scarcely noticing that Ron was no longer with him, retired to bed early, and was sound asleep while the good news spread.
That night, there was a joyful, but rather hushed party in the Gryffindor common room - "Harry's going to live!" Even Professors McGonnagal and Dumbledore put in an appearance, both of them, at intervals, appearing suspiciously moist about the eyes. Harry, oblivious, slept soundly upstairs in his bed.
There were only weeks left now before the exams. These exams were less formal than the vitally important NEWTs, with a panel of special examiners, which would be next year. But even though the exams would be marked by their own class teachers, no-one took them lightly.
Harry had finally made it back to lessons, but he knew how much work he had missed. He had no hope of passing anything that had a theory component, whatever brilliant magic he could work. He went to see Professor McGonnagal. "What am I going to do about exams?" he asked her. "You know I've got no hope of passing."
Professor McGonnagal was able to reassure him. "I've been talking to Professor Dumbledore. He says you should do the exams, which will give your teachers an idea of your strengths and weaknesses, but you will not receive an assessment, and you will be passed onto seventh year as normal."
Harry was grateful. Not only would he be saved from the humiliation of failing grades, but he would be allowed to progress with his friends to seventh year. He had assumed he would be made to repeat sixth year, but his teachers knew him to be a brilliant wizard, and powerful enough to influence Voldemort through mental power alone. It would have seemed quite incongruous to make him repeat a year, when far lesser students would be going on.
He found the customary end of year feast to be quite tiring, which he had expected, knowing his own limitations very well by this time. But he hadn't wanted to miss it, even though he slipped away early, and missed the presentation of the house cup. Gryffindor won, largely for their rescue of Dean and Ginny, early in the year. There were whispers from other houses, especially Slytherin, that a large number of points should have been deducted from Gryffindor, on account of Euan Abercrombie's near murder of Harry Potter. But no-one ever takes much notice of sore losers.
Gryffindor had also won the Quidditch cup, as Ginny was a very good Seeker, and other changes to positions had left them with an excellent team, even without Harry.
***chapter end***
