Bones
faetokki
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter Series belongs to JKR, of course, I am merely a humble fan of her work.
Ha. Look who was too excited about getting another chapter done to wait a decent about of time to post it! Thank you for your kind words, favorites and follows. They give me the confidence to keep improving and continue writing. : )
Chapter 4
"You really should be back in bed," Richards tittered warily.
The Healer looked miserable; even his mustache seemed to droop, he was so visibly upset at the state of his patient. Dazed grey eyes darted around the state of the room, mouth open in a wide unattractive gape.
Yet, despite his desire to have his medical advice taken the Healer remained in his squat position on the love-seat.
The stripped pink monstrosity had been blown back against the wall where it had teetered unstable under the window. A moment later the Healer had been pushed back onto the thick cushions, landing with a loud winded, "Oof!"
Random light-weight objects fell around them. Carried by a gust of wind that had appeared as Harry's fingers sparked and his verdant eyes began to glow. All because of Richards strange choice of words.
"What did you say?" Harry nearly stuttered. He bit his lip, attempting to remain in control of his emotions.
But it was his eyes that betrayed him; wide and confused. He leaned heavily against a mirrored closet on the opposite side of the room. His legs were shaking from the force he'd used to leap from his bed, startled by the crazed stories that had spilled from the Healer's mouths like Ron's beloved slugs.
Harry attempted another silent accio but once again his wand did not fly into his waiting palm. It flexed anxiously, and Harry eyed the door as if a hoard of Death Eaters would be barreling through any second.
His gaze flicked back to the Healer who was now thumbing his own wand, hidden by the neon robes. One warning glare from Harry and the wizard hastened to clasp his hands tight, on their best behavior.
"Now I know you must be concerned Mr. Potter," Richards tried again, glancing around the room once more. He shifted in his seat, having not moved from it since giving Harry the news of his situation. "—And confused! Rightfully so! But rest assured, this will all be sorted out soon enough." He started to lower himself to the floor, observing Harry with a careful, incredulous expression.
A vase fell from a nearby dresser, sending the Healer scrambling back onto the chair.
Harry gave the startled man a bemused frown, ignoring the gerber daises that floated around them. They hovered gently, tousled by the now gentle wind that continued to swirl around Harry protectively. His fingers twitched and another spark of energy lightninged between the digits.
Richards flinched at the sight. The man twirled one end of his mustache nervously, as though Harry might singe the slick oiled hair.
Instead of possibly irritating the irate wizard further by moving, Richards opened his already too-loose mouth, rambling on and on about a strange universe in which Harry had been 'asleep' most of his life.
What rubbish!
"You've been in a coma for seven years, I'm afraid to say—years eleven to seventeen to be perfectly exact. I've looked after you with the lovely Ms. Selwyn all that time, I'll have you know. Now, now, don't look at me like that, Mr. Potter! I'm being frank with you because as a Wizard of Age, by law, you have the right to know the truth!" Richards eyes shown with a righteous light, one hand fisted to illustrate the integrity in his words.
If he wasn't utterly mental Harry might have liked him.
"Though you are obviously coherent enough... and better than ever."
That last part had been muttered but Harry strained to understand every word of crockery that spilled from the fast-moving lips, all senses on high alert.
"We couldn't very well keep you in one of the other Ward's. Those beds are for our short-term patients." Richards shook his head at a daisy resting on a clump of broken glass, engrossed by his own story-telling. "No, as soon as we had diagnosed your condition the other Floor Heads and I accurately decided that the Janus Thickey Ward would be the best fit for you. It is the Ward for all our terminal patients, after all and you've been right at home here, slumbering peacefully all this time…" he paused, once again eyeing at Harry with a look of wonderment. The green-eyed wizard shivered.
"Until now."
The Healer sounded entirely too pleased with what had to be the stupidest, most inaccurate biography of his life he had ever heard, Harry decided, shaking his head with disbelief.
There were so many things wrong with this man's version of his life:
First, Harry was twenty-four years old—not seventeen! Second, he was quite sure he'd been awake most of the time he'd been at Hogwarts, spending the good of his school years slaying ancient Basilisks and murderous dark lords. For fucks sake, he wouldn't have even defeated Voldemort, become an Auror straight afterwards, and become the ridiculous 'celebrity' he was now if he'd been in a coma all this time.
Yes, he'd heard hundreds of tales of his adventures but none had been as wrong and, if he was being honest insulting as this man's. Harry eyed him strangely, wondering what had possessed this seemingly sane wizard to believe a self-fabricated lie that took away all of who Harry, himself, was.
Whatever the reason, the Healer seemed to be overcoming whatever mind-blowing shock he'd been in the second Harry had released his magic into the warded room.
Another strange thing; everyone knew Harry Potter was proficient in wand-less magic. The Daily Prophet had made sure of that. He had to be, with all the lingering Death Eaters out for his blood. Anyone with a decent disarming jinx was a threat to him and his friends.
Harry resisted the urge to groan, pressing heavier against the mirror. There was obviously no arriving threat—his only other visitor the blonde girl. If he was lucky he'd be out of this room and tucked into a warm Weasley bed before sunset, maybe even with a tummy filled with piping onion soup. Harry eyed the other male in the room, watching doubtfully as he fidgeted, giving different parts of the disheveled room increasingly distraught expressions.
He sighed tiredly. Maybe he'd give the man some credit. Perhaps he was a real Healer and he'd just snapped. Perhaps, tending to the "Savior of Our World" had been too much pressure and the man had simply cracked. He felt terrible that that was a possible reality, but if anything Harry was a realistic man. People were looking at him differently now, had been for years. It had taken him just as many to get even close to used to the idea.
It was all going so well, Harry being merciful and giving people a good ol' fashioned benefit of the doubt when Richards spoke next:
"Your parents have been notified by Ms. Selwyn. They should be here any minute now," The Healer threw in cheerfully, as if he words should bring Harry comfort. Harry stiffened. All he heard was ruthless mockery.
Never-mind. Nope. The man was completely barmy. And he'd crossed a line.
"Where is my wand?" Harry asked tightly, he glared at 'Healer Richards' who had finally stood from his chair. The strange, unyielding presence came back to life, Harry's anger fueled magic choking the air and raising the hairs on the back of Fergus Richards vastly paling neck.
Harry tensed as the man finally pulled his wand from his robes, but he didn't fix it on Harry. Instead, cautious verdant eyes watched the Healer conjure something that reminded Harry of a startling corporeal patronus. It phased through the wall in a great spurt; passing through effortlessly like a ghost.
"Who did you call," Harry asked quietly, attention now split between the man and the door. Unbeknownst to himself Harry looked quite the picture. His crime scene of a hairstyle whipped around him devilishly, piercing, killing curse eyes blown wide with power. The effect was only slightly put-off as a feminine voice broke the stifling silence.
"Healer Richards did you need someth—Oh!"
The intern; Selwyn, burst through the door, only to stumble back by whiplash as Harry's cutting gaze focused entirely on herself. She clutched a new tray of potions in her trembling arms, one of which fell to the floor from the motion, spilling a thick banana-yellow sludge across the floor.
She gaped from the very upset Harry whose eyes had taken on a strange, glowing sheen, to her also gaping supervisor.
"W-What's going on?" Francine Selwyn squeaked. The young witch was frozen in place, her low blonde pony-tail threatening to come loose as another invisible gale teared through the room, the curtains shaking on their long thin rod. The woman nearly shrieked as the portrait of a beagle fell to the floor; the frame split into three pieces. "Who is doing this?" she asked loudly, eyes flitting around the room with terrified awe at the powerful use of wand-less magic.
"Harry." A name whispered with dread was all that escaped the Head Healer.
Selwyn squeaked again. There was another alarmed, high-pitch cry of "How?!", which was momentarily answered by a somehow higher, panicked hiss: "I don't know!"
Harry cursed. His fingers wriggling as sparks of raw magic readied itself there. New strategies forged rapid-dash in his mind—an escape plan. As Head Auror of his squadron Harry was at home with dangerous situations. Quick-thinking, and quick reflexes had saved his life and the life of his co-workers more than once.
Just as he'd planned to threaten Richards into spilling information on his current whereabouts and who exactly was keeping him in this ruse of a hospital the door to his room opened again.
It was a woman. Oddly dressed; her embroidered pearl blue robes open down the middle displaying a ankle-length burgundy nightdress and pink ballet-style slippers. Not a second later a man followed, huffing and puffing and looking as if he'd taken a morning jog from the Hogwarts quidditch pitch all the way to the Headmistresses' Office. The man's clothes were just as strange. He wore what appeared to be a button-down shirt and hastily thrown on suit jacket, the dressy upper half at odds with the fluffy gold boxers and red socks, the ankle of which was stitched with a fluttering snitch.
Not unlike a pair he owned himself, Harry noticed offhand.
The strange wind died down immediately as their faces entered Harry's line of vision. There was a long minute of stillness before Harry finally lost control on the adrenaline racing through his body and collapsed onto his knees, unfeeling the sharp glass that sliced easily through his pajama pants, sinking into his skin with gravitational ease.
The woman stared for moment, watching him as he did her. He wondered, somewhere far away, if his eyes were as a wide and lost as the woman's—as if they'd seen a ghost.
The red-headed woman inhaled a single strangled breath before she was upon him. Harry couldn't breath, his mind lingering somewhere in the room and somewhere not. He bathed in the warmth of her embrace, unable to utter a single word as she fell beside his frozen body, pulling his buzzing head to her heaving chest.
"Harry! My Harry, you're back. You came back to us," she was whispering, rocking their bodies with a strange reverence. Harry managed a choked sound of shock against her damp collarbone before falling silent once more.
"What the bloody hell is going on?" A deep male voice demanded. Harry peered up, his glasses fogged and smushed awkwardly on his face. He stared blankly at the man who could be his reflection. James Potter stood beside his… his mother, grasping her shaking shoulder in a show of support. Though his words were obviously not directed at him, his eyes remained locked on Harry.
Something deep and devout in Harry's heart told him nothing could tear that desperate, bloodshot hazel away.
Well, hopefully that answered some questions… though likely prompted many more. ; ) Please let me know what you think of the chapter, I do hope it came off well enough.
PS: I went over this chapter so many times, editing and changing different parts. I didn't realize how exhausting that could be and I'm sure there are many things I missed, goodness!
