Meg opened her eyes. The lights in the ward had been dimmed while the patients slept. She looked towards the window, wondering what time it was; the light filtering into the room from outside appeared cold and gray, as if at the early stages of dawn.
The girl heard the door open and the rustling of robes as someone entered the room. By the accompanying sound of wheels clicking across the linoleum, she guessed it was the female Healer (Miriam, by name) with the cart of medical gear.
Meg didn't move until the witch leaned over her and tapped her shoulder gently. She looked up; the Healer gave her a kind smile.
"Sorry to disturb you," Miriam murmured. "It's time to change your bandages."
Meg sat up slowly; Miriam pulled the sheet down to the end of the bed.
"We'll start with your head," the Healer said. Meg sat very still as the woman reached out and slowly unwrapped the bandages. The air in the ward felt strangely cool against Meg's scalp; a draft from the direction of the window made the wounds on her head sting.
"Evanesco!" Miriam muttered, vanishing the soiled bandages. She then took a bottle from the cart and started to spread a foul-smelling green salve on the side of Meg's face and on her scalp. It burned where it touched.
Something didn't feel right. Meg thought her head felt too light. It might have been simply the absence of bandages, but as Miriam's fingers played over the back of Meg's skull, she suddenly realized with a jolt that it was not.
"My hair," she gasped in shock.
Miriam paused. "Er…" She looked Meg in the face, as though trying to read her expression. The girl stared up at her, eyes wide. "I'm sorry, Meg," the Healer said at last. "We had to shave your head. The hair would have clotted in the wounds, you see, and…well, it wouldn't have been very hygienic, to say the least."
Meg fought an impulse to reach up and touch her naked scalp; it was already stinging enough as it was. "Can…can I have a mirror?" she asked weakly instead.
Miriam didn't carry mirrors on her cart; though it was against her better judgment, she conjured one, a small round hand mirror, and handed it to the young witch.
Meg held it up and stared at her reflection. Her face was pallid and looked strangely misshapen without her hair surrounding it. Her forehead stretched upwards and, rather than terminating in her hairline as it should, kept going straight to the top of her crown; the sight of the bare skin where hair should be felt alien and unnatural. Even worse, if that were possible, was the gaping wound on her left cheek, smeared with green salve and seeping a dark brown fluid. She supposed she was lucky—the beast's claws had just barely missed her left eye—but still, the thought didn't make the gash look any better. There were marks on her scalp as well, some worse than others. The left side of her head looked as though it had been gnawed—which, it occurred to her, it probably had.
She stared at her reflection, wondering if any of her friends would recognize her if they saw her like this. A humorless giggle burst from her throat as tears began to trickle down her face.
"Oh," Miriam said softly, sitting beside Meg on the bed and wrapping an arm around the girl's shoulders. "You needn't cry. It'll grow back, you know. Here," she took the mirror from Meg's hand and canceled the spell, then took a piece of gauze and dried the girl's face. "No more of that, now. You know unpleasant thoughts interfere with healing? You heal much faster when you're happy."
"I think I'm going to be sick," Meg grunted, clutching her stomach. Miriam wisely summoned a bucket and placed it on the girl's lap.
"There's a potion for nausea on the cart, if you want it," the Healer offered.
Meg shook her head. "I'll be okay in a moment."
Miriam went ahead and replaced the bandages on Meg's head and face while the girl sat staring into the bucket, willing her stomach to settle. She took long, slow breaths through her mouth; the foul odor of the green ointment wasn't helping matters.
"Can you lie down on your front?" Miriam asked after a bit. "I need to change the bandages on your back as well."
Her stomach seemed to be behaving itself a bit better now, so Meg rolled over and pressed her face into the pillow. Miriam untied the girl's hospital gown and then carefully removed the bandages that covered her from her shoulder blades all the way down to the small of her back. "You were lying facedown when your parents found you," the Healer informed her, spreading more of the green ointment on the lacerations that covered Meg's back. "It was probably fortunate you fell forwards, since it saved your chest and face—for the most part, anyway—from receiving much damage. Your back got the worst of it." She paused, shaking her head and tutting at the terrible wounds crisscrossing Meg's spine. "He really tore into you."
"Who's 'he'?" Meg asked, lifting her face from the pillow.
For a moment, Miriam didn't answer. When she finally spoke again, her voice seemed to tremble with suppressed emotion.
"'He' is Fenrir Greyback," the Healer told the young witch, "quite possibly the most savage werewolf alive today." She paused again, and then said quietly, "He's also a Death Eater."
Meg felt a chill crawl up her spine. For a moment, she couldn't speak. Her mouth worked silently, and then finally, she asked, "Why me?"
"Why anyone?" Miriam replied dismissively. "I suppose you were simply convenient at the time. Greyback prefers children over any other victims, and you must have been young enough to be appealing."
The two of them lapsed into silence for a bit. Meg's brain was whirling, confused and frightened thoughts weaving in and out of her consciousness.
"There you are," Miriam said finally, fastening the last bandage. Meg rolled onto her side and curled herself into a protective ball. Miriam pulled the sheet up and tucked it around her, patting the girl's shoulder comfortingly. "I expect your parents will be in to see you later," the Healer said. Meg merely nodded, contracting into an even smaller ball. Miriam patted her shoulder again and left, taking the cart with her.
Meg closed her eyes. She felt pale and flimsy. How long had she been here? She spent so much time sleeping now that it was hard to keep track of how much time had passed. She knew it had been at least a day since Smethwyck had come to speak to her. Perhaps it had been longer than that. She couldn't really remember.
She must have dosed off then, because the next thing she knew, her mother was leaning over her to plant a kiss on her forehead.
"Good morning, Sweetie," Mrs. Marchbanks murmured, petting Meg's forehead lovingly. Meg looked up at her mother and managed a weak smile. The woman wasn't crying now, though she looked very pale and strained. Her husband stood just behind her, holding a bundle that seemed to be breathing.
"How are you feeling today?" Mrs. Marchbanks asked as her daughter unfolded herself and sat up slowly.
"About the same," Meg replied, cringing as the movement pulled at the wounds on her back. Her mother sat on the edge of the bed and put a comforting hand on Meg's knee.
"We brought you a visitor," Mr. Marchbanks spoke up, carefully placing his bundle in Meg's lap.
"Henry!" Meg exclaimed as the crup poked his head out of the blanket that covered him. Henry lifted his nose to sniff Meg carefully before touching his tongue to her chin. Meg planted a kiss on the top of his head and then scratched him behind the ears, just the way he liked it.
"We thought seeing a friend might cheer you up," Meg's mother said, managing a smile at her daughter's obvious delight.
Meg was inspecting the crup carefully. Inside the blanket, his body was wrapped in bandages, as was his right front leg.
"What happened to him?" Meg demanded, distressed at the sight.
"He's been a brave little boy," Mr. Marchbanks explained, "He tried to take on the beast that attacked you single-pawed. The witch from the Magical Menagerie in Diagon Alley says he should be fine." He paused, as though unsure whether he should continue, before saying, "Werewolves are usually only dangerous to humans."
Meg's stomach seemed to turn over at the sound of the word "werewolves." She tried to hide her discomfort by nuzzling Henry, but her parents saw.
"Meg," her father said, placing a hand on her shoulder, "you have to get used to hearing it. You'll be hearing much worse before long."
"But, Darling," Mrs. Marchbanks said, leaning forward, "whatever happens, don't forget that we love you."
Meg didn't say anything. She wished her parents didn't feel it necessary to talk about it. She didn't want to talk about it.
"Meg," her father said, sitting beside her and putting an arm around her shoulders, carefully so as not to hurt her. "The school governors contacted us last night."
Meg looked up in surprise. School didn't start for another month. "What for?" she asked, perplexed.
Her parents exchanged worried glances. "They heard about the attack," Mr. Marchbanks continued slowly, "It was reported in the Prophet…"
"Mum?" Meg interrupted. Her mother was crying again.
"Meg," Mrs. Marchbanks spoke tearfully, "They don't want you to go back to school."
Meg stared. She was sure she couldn't have heard correctly. "What do you mean?" she questioned, looking from one parent to the other. "I have to go to school."
"Meg," her father spoke in a defeated tone, "Other parents won't want their children exposed to a werewolf."
Again, her stomach seemed to roll over. "But I…" Meg started, but then stopped, confused. She had been about to protest, "But I'm not a werewolf!"
"The governors have voted," her father continued in the same flat voice. "They all agreed; sending you back to Hogwarts would be an unnecessary risk."
"But I have to go back!" Meg exclaimed. An inexplicable fear was rising in her chest. "I…how…" There were so many things she felt she had to say that they seemed to become tangled in her throat for a moment. "I won't be able to do magic if I don't go to school!" she finally burst out. "That…I…they won't snap my wand, will they?"
"You haven't been expelled," Mr. Marchbanks said, smiling in spite of himself. "You can keep your wand, Meg."
"But…but what's the use if I can't do magic?" Meg protested.
"Darling, calm down," Mrs. Marchbanks said, reaching for her daughter's hand. Meg, however, was practically beside herself.
"I have to go to school! I haven't even taken my O.W.L.s, yet! I won't be able to get a job, or anything!"
"Sshh," her father shushed her, folding his arms around her as she began sobbing. "You're getting too excited. Just relax for a moment." Meg hiccoughed convulsively, pressing her face against her father's chest. She felt her mother rubbing the back of her neck soothingly. "Don't worry," Mr. Marchbanks continued, "We'll figure something out. It's not the end of the world."
Meg wanted to believe him, and in a way, his words were comforting. She knew her parents wanted her to get through this just as much as she wanted it herself, and she believed they would do everything they could to help her. Yet, something told her that nothing would be simple any more. There was a tiny part of her deep inside that felt certain that her problems were only just beginning.