Chapter Fifty-Nine

Breathe In. Breathe Out.

Poppy:

Potter sucks in a sharp breath. And another. And another.

'Potter,' she says, her voice quiet and slow and calm.

'I know,' he gasps, his chest heaving, his too-wide eyes fixed on the woman in front of him. 'I—'

Bellatrix Lestrange smiles, and Potter flinches, staggering back two steps and doubling over as he gasps for breath.

'I can't,' he gasps. 'I don't…I can't…'

'Yes you can,' says Poppy.

Her legs twitch with the urge to move over to him, her hands clenching against the temptation to administer a calming drought or to take his vitals. She takes a long, slow, even breathe and reminds herself again that he needs this.

Potter looks up, his chest heaving, mouth slightly parted as he gasps for breath; and stares bug eyed at Lestrange. He gulps and straightens up (still hyperventilating) and raises his wand. His hand trembles and he curses.

Poppy doesn't berate him.

'Ri…Riddikulus!' he falters over the word, and the spell bounces uselessly off the skirt Bellatrix Lestrange's robes.

She raises one eyebrow at him and he shudders, half turning away from her. His breath comes faster and Poppy purses her lips. She steps forward.

'No,' says Harry, his breath wheezing. 'I can…I can do it. I can…'

He swallows, but his breathing is too rapid, and he sways precariously.

'Alright,' says Poppy, banishing the boggart with a flick of her wand. 'That's enough.'

'But…but I…'

She steps in front of Potter, drawing his gaze. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated behind his glasses. Fear is etched into his face, and she knows from the way his eyes shift in and out of focus that flashbacks plague his mind.

'Remember your coping strategies,' she says softly.

Her fingers itch to reach out to him, to press a hand to his forehead and rub his back until he's calm. Yet she knows that the very reason for her urge is the same reason that he will not allow it. He has been raised to dislike the touch of others, to shy away from comfort that his classmates would so readily long for.

'Close your eyes,' she reminds him. 'Focus on your wand, the texture and how it feels; now, count your breaths.'

His eyes fixate on the spot where Bellatrix had stood a moment longer before, finally, he closes his eyes. She sees his fingers shift around his wand as his mouth moves inaudibly, mouthing the numbers as he counts out his breathes.

Slowly, his breathing comes under control and the trembling in his hands eases. He takes a deep breathe in. 'I am stronger than my trials,' he whispers on the exhale and opens his eyes. He blinks several times and refocuses on Poppy. 'Again,' he says.

She purses her lips. 'We've been at this for an hour. Perhaps it's time for a break?'

'No,' he says, and straightens. 'Not yet. I can do it.'

Though his colouring has begun to return to normal since the fire, he is still too pale and too thin. His face is drawn and there are dark shadows beneath his eyes (though Poppy gives him dreamless sleep at least once a week).

He looks at her, his face set in stubbornness—though a faint pleading glints in his eye.

'One more,' she says, 'and then that's it. Alright?'

He nods once, giving her a grim yet determined smile. 'Alright,' he agrees.

She moves out of the way and, glancing back to make sure he's ready, she releases the boggart from the cupboard.

For the twelfth (or was it the thirteenth?) time that afternoon, Bellatrix Lestrange steps from the Hospital Wing storage cupboard. Her hair is as wild as it ever were, tangling around a face that (despite her years in Azkaban) has not seemed to age at all since Poppy last saw her in her last year of school.

Her dark eyes gleam with excitement and madness, her manic smile turning her face from a beauty to someone dark and twisted. She steps forward, her eyes fixated on Potter, her wand raising.

He flinches. 'I am stronger than my trials,' he mutters under his breath. 'I am stronger…'

He swallows and raises his wand and, this time, his hand doesn't tremble. 'Riddikulus!'

Bellatrix staggers backwards, but her appearance does not change. Potter winces. He readjusts his stance, closing his eyes for a moment and counting inaudibly. When he opens his eyes, he looks steadier—if a little paler—and raises his wand again.

'Riddikulus!'

This time the spell fizzles out before it even reaches her. Potter takes a deep breath, his chest expanding as he stares at Bellatrix, his arm falling back to his side. There's s sheen of sweat across his face that has Poppy pursing her lips again, but she doesn't say anything.

He shakes his head and tilts his head back, squeezing his eyes shut.

'I can't do it,' he says, his voice low and defeated. 'I can't…I can't think of anything even…even remotely funny. She's just…she still…I can't.'

'Alright,' says Poppy.

She flicks her wand and sends the Boggart scampering back into the cupboard.

Potter pants, sucking in sharp but full lungfuls of air, and runs a hand through his hair. He turns and trudges toward his usual bed (bypassing two others on the way) and sits down heavily, his shoulders sagging. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and lets his head fall forward.

Poppy watches him, her foot tapping lightly as she decides what to do. 'You did well,' she ventures, keeping her voice from being too enthusiastic.

He snorts and glances up at her, one eyebrow raised.

She offers him a wan smile. 'You stayed in control of your breathing,' she says. 'At least for that last one.'

He chuckles an out of breath laugh. 'You call this in control?'

'Being out of breath is not the same as hyperventilating,' she says briskly, and flicks her wand toward his chart.

In an instant the chart is at her side, a quill poised at attention over the page as she casts several diagnostic charms at once.

'You didn't panic, you just ran out of energy,' she says.

His expression doesn't shift.

'Alright,' she concedes, 'You didn't only panic. And you recovered better.'

'I still can't banish her, though,' he says and swipes a hand over his face, leaning back on the bed.

'Give it time, Potter,' she admonishes. 'At the very least more than two days.'

His expression turns sheepish and he looks away. 'Yeah, I guess,' he says and picks at the bedspread.

He watches the diagnostic spells light up around him, various colours highlighting different parts of his body. His hands, the lighting streak scars along his arms, his stomach and his head. For a moment, the only sound is the scratching of the quill, furiously scribbling the results of Poppy's spells.

Potter chews on the inside of his mouth, frowning over at the chart from beneath his lashes.

'If you want to know, just ask,' she says.

He glances toward her, flushing. 'That's not…' his gaze drops back down to the ground. 'I'm not getting better, am I?'

Her teeth clench, and Poppy has to keep from sighing yet again. 'As I said, Potter,' she says briskly. 'Give it more than a few days. Now, I believe you have a dorm to return to?'

He rolls his eyes, glancing off to the side and muttering under his breathe, every bit the petulant teenager. 'Can't I have a few more days?'

She takes the chart out of mid-air. 'And what happened to your big plan of returning for Mr Weasley's birthday? Or have you decided that's not as important as wallowing in self-pity?'

He sputters, staring at her through disbelieving eyes. 'Gees,' he says, shooting a glare that is half-hearted at best. 'Just punch me while I'm down, why don't you?'

She levels him with her sternest, no-nonsense glare. 'Quite frankly, if I have to put up with one more day of your moping, I may very well punch you,' she says, and then offers him a quick smile.

His grin is small and bittersweet (tinged with an underlining, immovable pain), but it is, nonetheless, a smile and his eyes light with brief amusement. 'You know, I don't think you're meant to talk to students like that,' he quips.

'You forget, I am not a teacher.'

'Or patients,' he adds.

She stalks toward the door, her smart black shoes clacking against the floor. 'Well,' she says as she walks, 'if you are unsatisfied with your care you may register a complaint, but for now—,' she pushes open the door, '—get out. Merlin knows I need a break.' And a drink, though she doesn't say that part out loud.

He chuckles. The laugh is brief, but he pushes up from the bed, his posture a little less discouraged. 'Alright, alright,' he mutters. 'I'll go.'

She stops him, just before he leaves. 'You can always come back,' she says.

'I know,' he says, and shrugs, ducking his head. 'But you're right. I have to go back. At least for Ron's birthday. I'd be a pretty shit friend to miss that. Especially after, after every thing he's done for me.'

She pats him on the shoulder. 'I'll see you in the morning.'

He nods, slipping out the door. 'Maybe I'll bring you some cake,' he says. 'If there's any left.'

'There better be,' she says, feigning outrage. 'Or you may just loose your place as my favourite patient.'

Surprise flashes across his face and he laughs. 'Well, uh, I guess I better make sure I save you some cake then.'


A/N: It took me so long to write this that I managed to completely forget that I'd used Poppy last chapter as well, so, I apologise. You get her two chapters in a row. Also, sorry for such a short chapter. I'm hoping that next chapter is not only longer, but lighter too but it's proving a little difficult to get into the right headspace considering Harry's mood atm. He is being difficult, and I apologise for the wait as I try to wrangle him into co-operating.