Chapter 12: Healing Harry
"Ennervate!"
Consciousness crashed in like an ocean tide, in a tidal wave of voices and pain and thought that were dragged away before he could understand anything.
"Ennervate!"
It was gentler this time, pulling him from the dark. Voices were drifting in and out, completely meaningless. He wanted to sleep; why wouldn't just they let him sleep?
"Harry." One voice had separated itself from the others, suddenly clear and bright in his mind. "Harry, you must heal yourself."
He only had the strength to grimace slightly.
"The Concidus curse was developed by Voldemort . . ."
The name sent a jolt of electricity through him, forcing Harry to open his eyes for the first time. Everything was blurry. But hadn't he been able to see before, even without his glasses? Why?
"He's not listening!"
Rough hands grabbed at his left hand and pressed his wand into it. "Harry, you have to do the spell or it won't work! It bleeds you until you're too weak to do it, but you have to, or you'll die!" Ron's voice cracked on the final word, and he fell silent as Harry slowly turned his head to look at him.
Ron's face was blurry, of course. But now the events of the night were filtering back into Harry's mind: he could remember falling unconscious at Grimmauld Place. What were they telling him to do? Didn't they understand that he needed to sleep? After tonight, after Lucius . . . he couldn't . . .
Harry's eyes closed and he gave in to the weakness swirling around him, dragging him down like a whirlpool. Darkness was closing in, and he welcomed it. Maybe Sirius would be there, in the dark . . . maybe his Mum and Dad, too.
Voices were arguing. Why won't they be still? Ron's grip on his hand tightened and he leaned closer.
"Did you hear that, mate? The spell is Salvos Ruttum; Resarcio Concidus. That's an easy one for you! You could do it in your sleep!" He laughed convulsively. "And it looks like you might have to." His voice pulled away again, and his grip slackened. "He won't wake up! He can't do it!"
Harry forced his eyes open, his heart aching at the panic in Ron's voice.
"I am afraid he is too weak."
"He must do it, Albus! Believe me when I say there is no other way."
"Harry," Harry tried to focus his eyes past Ron's shoulder, where Dumbledore's purple robes had appeared. His voice was kindly and caring. "As always, we must rely upon you to do what we cannot. We have healed of your injuries what we can." For the first time, Harry felt around inside his cocoon of pain and realized that it was only his arm causing him such distress, severe enough that tears had glazed his eyes ever since he had wakened. "But this you must do on your own. It is a complex spell, however Severus assures me that you are capable. It is vital you repeat the words exactly. Salvos Ruttum; Resarcio . . ."
The Headmaster's voice drifted away as a sudden chill caught Harry in its grip. He shuddered and closed his eyes, feeling the darkness reach for him.
Then there was a noise and someone else was beside him, hovering over his injured arm. It was Ginny, crying out, touching his cheek in a somewhat startling way. But just as he began to enjoy the warmth of her hand, it was gone and she had collapsed beside him. "Oh, Harry."
He wanted to open his eyes; he couldn't.
It seemed like everyone had grown still around him, so still that he could make out her words-so soft and muffled that he didn't know if she meant him to hear them or not.
"If you die . . . if you die, I will be scared every day for the rest of my life. Don't let him win, Harry. Please. Please . . ."
Her words-and the fragile, pleading tone of them-shocked him. A feeble surge of protectiveness burned in his chest. Anger stirred. Inside the death grasp Ron had on his hand, Harry tightened his grip on the wand.
"That's it, mate," cried Ron, helping to point the wand toward Harry's injured arm. "Yes! Now say the words. Salvos Ruttum; Resarcio . . .
"Concidus," Ginny insisted. "Concidus!"
"Right. Salvos Ruttum; Resarcio Concidus!"
Harry settled himself to the task, immediately feeling a pressure mounting behind his lips. The words formed in his mind, and he wrestled to speak them. Salvos Ruttum . . .
"C'mon mate! You can do it!"
But he couldn't. His heart was thudding in his ears, slowly, so slowly. Every breath was a struggle. And the words just wouldn't come. It was as if speaking them would rip something loose from him, something that wanted to stay hidden and close and private. It was then he realized that he was very near death.
"Harry, if I let you die, Hermione'll kill me," Ron said hoarsely. "And Mum, too! Please . . ."
Harry frowned harder and concentrated until the gray screen came up in his mind. It was the only thing he could think to do. But the words . . .
Ginny was near him again, and he could feel her gentle breath on his cheek. His thoughts scattered like a dandelion puff on the wind. The pressure was gone.
"Just say it, Harry," she whispered. "Salvos Ruttum; Resarcio Concidus."
He pulled his mind in to focus on the words, seeing them against the gray screen in his mind. They were wholly formed, strong and purposeful, even as he felt himself becoming less so by the second. Soon, it was almost as if the words were holding him together instead of the other way around.
But there they were. The wand was in his hand; the words were in his mind.
He opened his mouth slightly. The syllables fell silently into the void around him. "Salvos Ruttum; Resarcio Concidus."
"Did he say it?"
"I think-I think-no-"
A breathless silence pressed in on him. Had it-
A sudden jolt of energy enveloped his arm. The numbness faded into searing pain that raced down the incision. He arched away from the new, hot agony. Maybe it was healing him, but it was forcing him back into the darkness and it all faded until even the shriek of voices around him disappeared.
Sometime later, he dreamed.
Harry actually dreamed a lot, about strange places he'd never been, places where he was just normal and nobody knew who he was. Places where he was nobody. Of all these places, his favorite place to dream was a beach. Not a cold, dark beach like those in England, but a warm, tropical, white beach-the kind he used to imagine that Dumbledore visited.
On this beach was nothing special, nothing that made it fantastic. It was sandy and hot, but cooled by breezes that traveled through the thick foliage inland, bringing tropical kinds of smells. Harry would lie on the sand, stripped to his shorts but feeling no more self-conscious than a child, peacefulness oozing out of him as the sun baked his skin until it was oddly, but pleasantly tight-feeling. He was alone, but he didn't mind that.
His arm didn't hurt. His scar didn't hurt. And the most wonderful of the wonderful things about this place was that he felt . . . safe. For the first time in what seemed like years.
Sometimes, as he lay there, dark things would begin skittering at the edges of his sight, memories that caused him deep distress. His heart would constrict, his breath would come in gasps and suddenly the quiet waves would heave with an unseen wind. Pain would start to surface and his arm would throb in time to his heartbeat. Then the beach would dissolve and voices blurred into the gray reality around him.
"He's waking up."
"I'm afraid it's not time yet. Headmaster?"
"No need to ask twice, Poppy. I think I'm rather enjoying this." Harry recognized those voices as the pain started to revive him. But before he could speak, a large, gentle hand was laid on his forehead and a familiar voice whispered, "Procclumis."
And then there was the beach again. Harry fell back on the sand, allowing the tension and pain to disappear, welcoming the respite. The clouds had dissipated and the sun was brightening again. Far away, somewhere behind the horizon, there was still a storm. He could see it-a dark, roiling presence that was moments from being ignited, but somehow held in check. He didn't want it to come; he might not survive it.
He closed his eyes against the glaring of the sun and ignored the brooding storm. How long of a time he spent like this, he couldn't discern.