Chapter 7: Diagnosis
The following morning, Neville crept up to Harry's room and knocked on the door softly, saying, "Harry? Are you there, mate?"
There was no reply, so Neville went to turn the doorknob, but found it locked. He pulled out his wand, tapped the doorknob once, and said, "Alohomora."
The door clicked open, and Neville went inside. He found Harry sitting in the middle of the room, facing the window. He was naked from the waist up, and seemed to be hunched over, his back stretched in arc so that each battle scar was visible in the muffled dawn light. There were fresh scratches along his arms and back, and his skin around these fresh wounds was pink with irritation. His hair was even more unkept than before, which was saying something, and his belongings were strewn across the room.
Neville, feeling slightly unnerved, turned to leave, but then –
"Don't go."
Neville spun on the spot, looking at Harry, who had turned his head to look at him, his face red and puffy. He said, "Harry, I think you need attention. Medical attention."
"What?" said Harry groggily. "No, Neville, I'm fine."
"No, Harry," said Neville. "No, you're not."
oOo
When Augusta Longbottom entered Harry's room, she was admittedly unprepared for the sight that met her eyes.
Neville had always grown up with enough food on the table, but Harry's body was evident of years of malnourishment. While he readily ate when given the opportunity, she could still distinctly see his ribs through his blotchy skin. There were scars all over him, some much more fresh than others. His hair was, as always, an untidy mop, which completed Harry's look of, well, insanity.
She turned her grandson and beckoned him closer, whispering in his ear, "I'm sorry, Neville, but I'm making a call to Miriam at St. Mungo's."
"You mean…"
"Yes, Neville," said Augusta gravely. "That's exactly what I mean."
oOo
No more than ten minutes later, Miriam Strout, Martha Meeker, and Augusta Longbottom were sitting in the library in the House on the Cliffs. The doors and windows were closed, and the drapes had been drawn, and the privacy wards had been set in place by the Healer and the psychologist.
Martha was clearly uncomfortable with Miriam and Augusta. Both were superiors of hers, Miriam having worked for years in Permanent Spell Damage at St. Mungos and Augusta… Well, Augusta Longbottom's reputation preceded her.
And in was Augusta who broke the silence between them, "How are Frank and Alice, Miriam?"
"Stable," said Miriam simply. "How is Harry Potter?"
"That's why you're here," said Augusta slowly. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
"What was his condition when you found him?"
Augusta lifted her wand and pressed it to her temple, extracting the memory. She held out her wand, and both Miriam and Martha touched their wands to the memory. They brought their wands to their temples and their expressions changed at once as they vividly relived the memory, Martha's become more puzzled and Miriam's more concerned.
Martha Meeker shifted slightly, and said, "I need to talk to him, Healer Strout. He is my patient first."
"No, Dr. Meeker, he is first and foremost a patient of St. Mungo's, and I must make sure that he is stable enough to talk to you," said Miriam shortly.
"He's never been admitted," said Augusta. "At least as far as I know."
"Yes, he has," said Miriam. "The Hogwarts hospital wing contracts out through St. Mungo's. Poppy Pomfrey is a St. Mungo's Healer, and all the records from Hogwarts are transferred to St. Mungo's in case of extended illness or injury. Additionally, any previous record of childhood injury will be recorded in his file, as St. Mungo's magically monitors all young witches and wizards from early life. That has always been standard procedure."
"Healer Strout," said Meeker. "Will he need to be admitted?"
"I don't think so. He looks emotionally and physically shaken, but I won't know until I see him," said Miriam. "I need to run his diagnostics, and I need to know if he is still functioning. Can I see him, Augusta?"
oOo
In the meantime, Neville had been sitting at the desk in Harry's room.
"What happened yesterday, Harry?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Where were you?"
"I went to meet with Martha, and then to meet with…" Harry trailed off.
"Meet with whom?"
Harry said nothing.
"I'm not going to get mad at you."
Harry sighed, and curled up, saying something inaudible.
"I didn't hear that," said Neville softly.
"THE MALFOYS!" shouted Harry. "I WENT TO MEET WITH THE SODDING MALFOYS, NEVILLE! AND… And…"
Neville sat, rather shocked. The Malfoys… well, if Harry trusted them…
He recovered from Harry's sudden outburst, and said, "And?"
Harry sighed, and looked away. "And they treated me like I was…. Like I was family. Like I was…. Home."
Neville was very surprised by this. Were the Malfoys really treating him so kindly, or were they doing it to get out of their war crimes?
Harry said, "And then I went to the Burrow, and I had dinner with the Weasleys. Things started out okay, but…"
"Yes?" said Neville, quieter still, afraid from another outburst.
And he was right, because Harry's voice rose uncontrollably again to a fever pitch, and he bellowed, "AND THEN GINNY WENT AND FUCKED EVERYTHING UP. SHE TOLD ME SHE WAS DISAPPOINTED IN ME AND THAT I WAS… I was…"
Neville, who was looking at his feet instead of at Harry, said, "You were?"
"She said that I wasn't there for her. AND I WASN'T. There was nothing I could do to defend myself."
This was something that Neville knew to be true, and could honestly say that he was not surprised to hear it had come from Ginny.
"Neville?"
"Yes?"
"Why is everything upside down? Why didn't every stop when I stopped Voldemort"
oOo
Miriam Strout gently knocked at the door of Harry's room. There were the sound of a few footsteps, and Neville answered it. She beamed at him and said, "Neville! How are you doing?"
Neville's grim look said it all, and she said, "Could I see him, then, Neville?"
Neville sighed, "If you must."
"I indeed must," said Miriam flatly, and Neville gave her a fleeting look of exasperation before stepping out of the way, allowing her to bustle into the room. The room itself was untidy, but not unclean, though that could not be said about the figure now on the bed.
When Miriam had last seen Harry Potter, he was, of course, clothed. He had been with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger at St. Mungo's, and they were visitors of Gilderoy Lockhart's. At the time, Miriam hadn't taken a good look at him, but she had seen him at least looking physically healthy and reasonably content.
This was not true of the Harry Potter she saw in front of him today. This Harry Potter was apparently deranged, with serious indications of having harmed himself, and it was clear that he had been malnourished.
The Potter file had always been most carefully monitored at St. Mungo's, for obvious reasons. Miriam, though one of the most respected Healers at St. Mungo's, had to call in a solid to a friend in the hospital's administration to get ahold of the file. When she had gotten ahold of it, she wondered in amazement how on earth Albus Dumbledore had not landed himself in Azkaban. Perhaps Dumbledore had turned a blind eye, or he had even truly been unaware, but the records of severe child abuse, including, but not limited to, malnourishment, physical abuse, and psychological abuse in Vernon and Petunia Dursleys' household were clearly stated in his extensive file.
Had it been a wizarding household, St. Mungo's would have intervened, but due to the Statute of Secrecy, they were unable to do anything. The law can sometimes be unfavorable to those it aims to protect, something Dumbledore had clearly failed to foresee when he had made the decisions around Potter's wellbeing, estate, and family. From as far as she could tell, there was no way that Harry would have had access to the systems in place for Muggles to report abuse, and, well, children at that age were so impressionable in the first place that he probably believed his aunt and uncle's declamations of his stature and felt powerless during that period of his life. Harry Potter slipped through the cracks of the inane bureaucracy of magical law, and he would never be able to recover from the years of abuse he was put through by his only living relatives.
This Harry Potter was evidence of his early life, a remnant of his childhood development. He had only had enough food to live, sometimes less, he only had enough space to breathe, and he only had the support of his own unique brand of magic. In fact, at the hands of the Dursleys, the only reason why Harry was still alive and moderate functioning was because he magic created protective barriers between he and his relatives, a safety-net of support. Nevertheless, he was too thin and too feeble to have been nourished properly, and after the year he had just had, it was more than reasonable to believe that the magical safety-nets, his unfortunate and utterly artificial coping mechanisms, were beginning to fail him.
Miriam quietly approached the bed, and Harry turned to look at her. He looked drained, physically and emotionally. Neverless he raised his wand in defense.
"Who are you?"
"Harry," said Miriam gently, holding up both hands so that he could see that she was unarmed. This was not the first time a patient had acted this way, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, "I am Miriam Strout, and I am a Healer from St. Mungo's Hospital of Magical Maladies and Injuries. I am here to help."
"Are you here to take me away?"
Miriam surveyed him and said, "No, Harry, I am not."
Harry visibly relaxed at her words, lowered his wand a fraction, and Miriam edged closer.
"Harry, if it's all right with you," Miriam said softly. "I need to perform a few diagnostic checks on you, just to see how you're doing. Will you let me do that?"
Harry blinked and slowly dropped his wand arm.
"Sure."
She brandished her wand, and began to trace it along the contours of his body. Some of his more fresh wounds healed instantly, leaving only what was permanent scarring.
He squirmed a little bit, and said, "That tickles."
"Good," said Martha. "It should tickle. That means there won't be scarring. When was the last time you ate, Harry?"
"Last night."
"Well," said Martha, "I think it would be best if you had something to eat. When was the last time you drank?"
"The same time."
"Then you need water, as well," said Martha. "And when was the last you slept?"
Harry didn't answer.
"Harry?" said Martha.
"Not since before going to the Aurors. Not really, anyways," said Harry softly. Martha surveyed him, giving him a softened look.
"Harry," said Martha. "There are potions to help you sleep."
"I don't like them."
"Why not?"
"I don't like depending on things," said Harry.
Martha stopped tracing her wand and looked Harry over. He was covered in war scars. Essence of dittany can only do so much. She said, "There we go; all better, physically."
"I don't feel any different," said Harry bitterly.
"And how do you feel?"
Harry sighed, and turned away from her. "I'm angry," he grumbled.
"What are you angry about?"
"That my bloody life is upside down. The people who were my friends are now my enemies and the people who were the enemies are my friends. Everyone still expects everything and more from me, and I feel like I'll never be good enough. It's so confusing and I don't understand any of it," said Harry hastily.
"I see," said Martha calmly.
She turned to leave, and but Harry said, "What's wrong with me, Healer?"
Miriam looked at him sadly. She thought for a moment, and then said, "Sometimes, Harry, being a Healer is very challenging. There is so much Healers can do to save people. We can heal the sick, strengthen the feeble, and save people from dying. But we cannot change the past. We cannot change what happened to you or anyone else, and we cannot change how the actions of others alter the course of your life. That is a power that usually you and only you are in control of, but, unfortunately, in your case, I think you haven't been in control for a long time. It pains me that I cannot do more for you in the short time we have spent together. The truth of the matter is that you have been so strong against everyone who hurt you, but you can't change how much they hurt you. You have been deeply affected by the war, and you might not be entirely aware of it all, and it's going to be a long time before you see the world as a good place."
He looked at her in silence, and for the first time since then had met, the look in his eyes transported her into the horrors of his childhood that she could only imagine, the horrors that were so well notated in his file: from being locked in the cupboard under the stairs for weeks on end to being beaten by his cousin and his uncle. These were the results of years of child abuse that sat vulnerable, scared, and lonesome before her. Something about the end of Voldemort had unhinged all of him, and his oldest, most repressed pains were coming to the surface in droves.
With one more long look at him, she said, "I'll send Neville back in. I would suggest that you get dressed and come down for breakfast."
oOo
Miriam Strout returned to the library, where she found Augusta and Martha discussing the legacy of Alice and Frank Longbottom. She politely said, "Augusta, I don't mean to impose, but I need to discuss some things with Martha in private."
Augusta got up without another words and left the room, and then Miriam immediately said, "Why have you held off on treating him, Martha? Why have you held off on the diagnosis?"
"I want to be sure."
"Are you sure? If you wait much longer, his may decline much more rapidly. I have half a mind to admit him to St. Mungo's directly, despite telling him I wouldn't."
"Miriam… He is my patient. Please let me treat him," said Martha stiffly.
"Healing him is going to be challenging, Martha. He is very close to being admitted to St. Mungo's, and frankly, if we wait any longer with a diagnosis, legally, I will have to admit him," said Miriam, "I am sure of his conditions, and so I will be submitting a report to you, diagnosing him. Once again, St. Mungo's will be picking up the pieces that the Ministry leaves behind. You may treat him, as he is your patient, but if you don't officially diagnose him soon, I will instead."
oOo
The rest of Harry's day, after getting dressed, eating some dry toast and gulping down some pumpkin juice, was blissfully wonderful, and he had no clue how he'd managed that. He spent the day helping Augusta and Neville go shopping in Dover for some groceries. The older woman seemed to be reluctant to let him out of her sight.
He even slept that night, and he dreamt of flying, and of strawberries, and of murals on walls, and of a faceless stranger who held his hand all the way through it all.
