In the last chapter: Harry and Umbridge argue over the changed curriculum. Umbridge gives Harry detention. In detention, Umbridge makes Harry use the Bloodquill. Harry has Death steal the Bloodquills from Umbridge.
Harry squinted down at the smooth stone floors beneath him as he walked, glaring at nothing every time he passed a window that brought in blinding pillars of morning light and caused a sharp stab of pain to flare up in his brain. He hadn't caught more than a few brief moments of sleep the entire night before. Either because of the tireless anger that he had to keep dismantling in the hopes of finally settling down for the night, or in the stretches of silence that Harry stared up at the darkened canopy above his bed and tried to think of the best solution to deal with Umbridge.
He couldn't just run into this mess blindly and hope that his efforts would prove fruitful. His anger and impulsiveness had already reared its dangerous head when he had Death confiscate the bloodquills. Harry didn't regret his actions, not when he knew what was at stake if he allowed her to keep them, but he did wish he had thought it through before-hand. Were Umbridge to discover Harry had taken her quills, he knew that her fury would hold no bounds.
It was in earliest reaches of the morning, while the sky outside the castle was still a lethargic and muted deep blue, that Harry sat up in bed and grabbed his school bag from the floor next to his nightstand. He pulled out all the quills he could spare and with a bit of transfiguration, he had an impeccable replicated set of quills that one wouldn't be able to differentiate from the bloodquills until they went to use them. He then had Death replace the bloodquills before Umbridge would notice their absence.
It wouldn't take much for her to discover that her quills no longer carved into flesh as it was supposed to, but either she would think they were broken or someone had tampered with them. It would help—even minutely—to abate her suspicions. Suspecting tampering was a lot better than plain theft, and the presence of the quills meant that there was a chance that they were just broken.
It was only a temporary measure and did little in the way of actually deposing Umbridge, which meant that even after replacing the quills, sleep was a fleeting creature for Harry.
Harry sighed and tensed as he neared the Great Hall, already hearing the loud buzzing of conversation and the jostling of plates and silverware. He was headed for the entrance to the main hall when his path was abruptly blocked by four third-year students he recognized from his own house.
"Can I help you?" Harry inquired politely, aware that he had been given the title of Prefect and no matter how irritable and sleep-deprived he felt, he had responsibilities he could not shirk. The third-years looked to each other, as if silently urging someone to take the lead. Just as Harry felt his patience begin to fray with another painful thrum of his head, a wiry boy finally spoke up.
"We just . . . we heard from a fourth-year that—that you helped out a few people a when Gilderoy taught here. We heard you helped them study since Lockhart was a bit of a sod. And we just wanted to know if you could, maybe, you know, do the same for us?" He ended with a meek shrug of his shoulders after having stumbled over his words and refused to fully look Harry in the eye.
Harry was surprised—though, on second thought he probably shouldn't be. Umbridge had made it clear to the entire school that they would only be learning 'risk-free' spells and wouldn't even be able to cast them. Theory of spells was such a small part of actually learning them. It was quite plausible that those worried about both their exams and just their learning in general, would be looking into alternative routes to getting what they needed.
"I am already very busy this year. . ." Harry sighed, he had begun to seriously consider quitting Quidditch before the season began. He hadn't been allowed to take part his fourth year due to the Triwizard Tournament, but if he were being candid: he hadn't missed it. To add on top of that his duties as a Prefect, his worries with Umbridge, his own studies, and then possibly the studies of others? It was already turning far more chaotic than he had been hoping for with his fifth year.
Their beaming faces dimmed in unison and Harry groaned internally.
"But. . . I will see what I can do. Just give me a bit of time to sort out my affairs." And with that, he gave a polite nod and entered the bustling Great Hall.
Harry had hoped to be left alone with his ruminations, but it seemed that every few minutes he was approached by students of varying subtlety, asking for help as well. Harry could only promise to look into it and quickly wave them off before anyone from the staff table took too keen a notice of all of his visitors.
Over the course of his meal—which he only managed to pick at—it became apparent just the magnitude of students who were desperate to actually gain a decent education (especially in how to defend themselves). Even if Harry dropped everything, he would not be able to teach half the school DADA. Besides, if he even tried he would surely be discovered by Umbridge. And if he tried to do it in smaller groups, it would take an abhorrent amount of time just to teach and practice one spell. Nothing would get done!
But, Harry couldn't just ignore them either. There were probably a few who would do fine studying on their own, but the majority needed the aid of a teacher. The thing was . . . Harry wasn't a teacher, he felt it in his bones, if there was one thing he knew he could cross off the list of potential careers, 'teacher' was one of them. Even from long before Hogwarts, Harry had always been someone who did best learning on his own, he was rather pants at trying to relay what he knew to someone else.
Something flashed in Harry's field of vision, pulling his attention away from his thoughts and making him look up to see the glint of a Prefect's badge in the morning light as Padma Patil walked by. The cogs were already turning in his head even before he stood up from seat and sought out the Head Boy. Harry had a meeting to call.
Harry sighed in relief when he saw the last of the prefects turn the corner, arriving just a minute after the scheduled meeting time. Harry offered them a pleasant smile and opened the door to the room of requirement for them. It was just after classes had let out for the day and nobody would be expected for at least another hour.
With one last glance down the length of the hall, Harry stepped through the door as well and pulled it closed behind him. There was a soft murmur of conversation flittering about the room as the Prefects turned to each other and tried to figure out why the impromptu meeting had been called. However, when Harry walked in, the noise withered in the still air and all eyes turned on him. The Head Boy and Girl may have been the ones to officially call the meeting and tell them when and where to go, but they had little doubts of who really assembled them.
"I would like to first thank you all for coming here on such short notice." Harry began, mentally organizing what he had to say even as he spoke. "This meeting is to address a certain . . . obstacle that has recently come up. As I'm sure you know, the curriculum that Umbridge has presented us with this year is severely lacking. It may simply be an overreaction to our turbulent education in the past, or it might even be the action of the Ministry attempting to produce less dangerous—but also more vulnerable—witches and wizards. Either way, I think it is quite clear that this type of theoretical education simply won't work." Harry stated firmly but with diplomacy.
He could tell by the silent head-nods that the other prefects agreed with him, but he was not rallying soldiers, he needed everyone to approach this with a cool head and not end up making the situation worse by landing themselves in detention with the vile woman.
"That is why I think it is best that we begin as system of 'study groups.' For first through fourth-years, they should be put into groups with their year and house-mates to study. Later this evening, I will be contacting our former DADA professor, Remus Lupin in order to get information from him. Such as syllabi, text-book lists, and lesson plan's he may still have from his time teaching. The study groups can follow that set lesson plan and then each week a Prefect from their house can check their progress, practice casting and deflecting the spells, and answer any questions they may have. Otherwise, I think the groups should rely on each other and be fairly independent in their learning.
"They can, of course, join a study group from other houses, but it might be easier to work within that same house as they can meet in their common rooms and don't have to find a public place to meet. As for fifth through seventh-years, study groups are a good idea, but I understand some will prefer independent study. I think as long as we all meet once or twice a week to discuss the material and to help others when they need it we will be fine.
"We should try to encourage students to go to each other and help one another as much as possible. Also, I want you all to go to everyone in your houses and ask that, if they still have any of their DADA text books from previous years, that they please donate or temporarily borrow them to us so that not everyone has to buy all new text books as there are those who can't afford it on their own sickle." Harry finished and took a deep breath while scanning the thoughtful faces around him to be sure there wasn't already kickback before they had even started. When he spoke again, it was in a more soothing and reproachful tone.
"I understand that this will go above and beyond what you have agreed to as Prefects." There was a slight tension in the air as he spoke, in the space of his pause, there was only the sound of breathing and the barest shifting of weight.
"You didn't sign up for being tutors to your class mates and I know it might be a bit daunting at first. . . But it must be done. I don't know if Umbridge has been given clearance to change the curriculum this much or if the altered lesson plan will show up on the exams—but this is more important than that. The Wizarding World is dangerous, it's full of the unexpected and spectacular and that is what makes it so wonderful to be a part of. But because of that, we need to counterbalance it with being able to properly protect ourselves from when things get out of hand. I'm not saying that the moment you leave these walls you will be attacked by Death Eaters, but what if an argument gets out of hand? Or you're just taking a walk through the woods and come across an acromantula? Or a bogart? Or any number of creatures and situations that would require you to protect yourself?"
Harry looked around, being sure to meet the eyes of those who hadn't cast their gazes to the stone floor beneath them.
"And what of the first years who just entered Hogwarts? We might be fine considering we've already been here for five-six-seven years, but those first years are coming in without having ever done proper magic and this is that start of their education. So yes, it is a bit of extra work, but we're certainly not doing it alone. If everyone participates, we will have six prefects for one house to delegate the work and it really shouldn't be much of a hassle once we get things moving." The nods and mutterings of agreement were a bit firmer, a bit surer this time around and it made Harry feel confident that this was the correct route of action.
"Now, there are just a few more things I need to discuss and then you will be free to ask questions, make suggestions, or be on your way if you are busy. To start, all study groups and matters regarding said study groups need to be kept private. I'm sure you all understand why Umbridge must not find out about them. She has been unyielding in the curriculum and do not doubt that she will shut this all down if she catches on to this. You must make that clear to all of the students as well, no one should talk about these groups in the halls, the library, or even the Great Hall. Outside of the privacy of the common rooms, these groups don't exist."Harry emphasized.
He hesitated before discussing his last matter of business. It was one of the most important points of this meeting as a whole.
"Lastly . . . I will need you to reach out to each and every student in your house—I'm sure you will hold a house-meeting after this in your common rooms to discuss what we have went over, but I need you to make sure that you spread this information to every student without fail. They are not, under any circumstances, to get detention with Dolores Umbridge." His statement caused several students to frown in confusion and look around to see if someone else knew why this was deemed so important. Everyone knew Harry had served detention with Umbridge the night before.
Harry caught movement in the corner of his eye and watched as Draco broke through the ring of people, taking a step towards him with a concerned light in his grey eyes. Harry held up a hand to stop one of his closest friends. He had not yet told anyone about what had happened, but not because he was trying to hide anything or cover it up, he had just needed to sort through his thoughts himself before he allowed those closest to him to fret. Draco reluctantly held back, but he didn't step away, standing as a pillar of silent support to Harry's left.
"As I'm sure you have all heard, I acted rather . . . unbecoming during my first lesson with Umbridge and it led to me receiving a detention with her. It would seem that Umbridge is an avid supporter of corporal punishment." Harry paused as the room filled with a frantic buzzing of questions and incredulous statements surrounding a professor of Hogwarts being allowed to physically punish a minor. Eventually, Harry cut through the noise and drew attention back to him.
"I do not believe she is acting on behalf of the Ministry in this regard, but we must proceed with caution. I will be actively working to get her removed from her post as a professor here at Hogwarts. However, as we all know these things do not happen overnight, unfortunately. So, for now I need you to tell everyone in your house to avoid detention at all costs. If, for some reason, they find themselves with a detention anyways they should either go to you or go straight to another professor—preferably their Head of House—and request that they take over their detention instead. Students should not be alone with her, and they should never go to her office unaccompanied. If you or someone else sees anything, or if anything happens, they should reach out to both their Head of House and write a letter to their parents.
"Umbridge may not have the permission of the Ministry, but she is wielding their authority and when this becomes public, there will be a lot of people—powerful people—who wish to cover up this mistake. The more public support and well-informed parents are, the easier and quicker it'll be to remove her. Always keep an eye out for any unusual behavior from her. She thinks that she is untouchable with the Ministry at her back, but nobody is invulnerable." Harry heard the low, rasping chuckle from the space behind his right shoulder and chose to ignore his companion's amusement at his proclamation.
When he finished speaking, several Prefects approached him with questions about the study groups, a few others expressed their concern for Harry after his admission of his detention with Umbridge, and fewer still had offered a few suggestions to improve the efficiency of the study groups. Though, they were soon shooed away by a particular tall blonde who had a few words for Harry.
"Anthony is going to burn this castle to the ground when he hears." Draco offered unhelpfully when he stepped up to his side, watching with Harry as the other older students continued to talk to each other and trade ideas. Harry released a put-upon sigh.
"Perhaps, but there are more important things than vindication." At least Harry hoped so. Anthony was not one quick to anger, but like Harry, he was very protective of those closest to him. He'd never seen Anthony truly enraged, but he hoped for all of their sakes that it was not a blinding anger and he didn't do anything irreparable.
"Then the greatest luck to you, Harry, in making him see that." Harry could hear the amused smirk in his words without having to turn and look. After a moment, Draco spoke up again, tone more serious than before. "I don't know exactly what you have planned, but you should know that my father with not sit idle in this matter. He and Fudge may be in each other's pockets, but a Malfoy would never endanger his heir. And a respectable pureblood would not endanger children." Harry turned to study his friend's profile.
"If I remember correctly, your father once slipped a . . . questionable dark object into the cauldron of a work enemy's child, for the express reason to cause mayhem." Harry retorted good-naturedly. Draco chuffed.
"I never said my father was a respectable pureblood." Draco turned his nose up haughtily, though the quivering at the edges of his mouth as he fought a grin gave him away. Harry laughed and bumped his shoulder against Draco's.
"Well, tell the not-so-respectable-pureblood that I'd gladly accept his help, considering how much pull he has in the Ministry."
Once everyone else eventually filtered out of the room of requirement, Harry and Draco walked leisurely through the halls. Chatting about less consequential matters and sharing a laugh or two, before having to go their separate ways in order to organize a house meeting as soon as possible. Harry felt that the crushing weight he had woken up with that morning had been significantly lessened by the numerous hands now helping him to bear it.
Harry greedily inhaled the refreshing night air, the cold humidity felt dewy on his skin. It was relatively calm up in the high reaches of the Astronomy tower. The wind wasn't deafening, as it usually was. The cool air felt like a balm on his tired mind. He had already repeated to his own house everything he had to say, endured a long 'talking-to' from Anthony about not going to him immediately after his detention and telling him about what happened, and had long since written and sent out his letters to Remus and Tom.
He had considered keeping the truth from Tom, since he knew that the other man had enough to sort out on his own, but that wasn't the relationship they had developed over these past few months. They didn't lie and hide things from each other in hopes of not burdening the other. If anything, Tom was the one-person Harry could tell absolutely anything to and trust that the other would both understand and be able to offer advice.
In so many ways, Tom was his equal. And Harry didn't need to protect him from his problems.
And so, Harry told Tom everything, but also clarified that he wasn't in need of interference. At the moment, Harry had things under control.
Harry sighed and leaned forwards against the railing, gazing out into the night without really seeing anything. He had long since fulfilled his duties as a Prefect, patrolling the halls before going to bed. However, he had lain in his warm coverings for nearly two hours before restlessness coaxed him from the dorms. Which brought him all the way up here, dressed in only his night clothes and a dressing robe as he basked in the still night. He was secure in the knowledge that the following day was Saturday and he could sleep in during the morning. So, for now, he reveled in the ethereal sliver of a moon hung high in the sky and the trickle of wind that flutter up his sleeves and danced across his skin.
His mind was empty, but his heart was a wild creature he had no hopes of taming. It was all he could do to keep it contained within the ivory cage of his ribs, for he knew that if he released it, it would drag him halfway across England in search of what it had already claimed as its own.
A subtle change in the wind, a soft brush of warmth in the constant stream of cool, caught Harry's attention just before a voice spoke up from the depths of the shadows behind him.
"Harry. . ."
Harry whirled around, the breathless name already falling from his lips before he even took in the man at his back.
"Tom."
And there he stood, cloaked in night and a wild concern in his dark blue eyes. Harry was rushing forward before he could stop himself, and it was only when engulfed in the blazing embrace of his sweet Tom that he finally felt like his head was above frigid waters once more and he could breathe. Tom's arm pressed tightly against his back to devour the space between them while his other hand reverently cradled the back of his head. It sounded like the air was knocked from Tom's lungs and Harry could feel the slight drop in his broad shoulders.
"My little bird, it seems that you left merely a week ago and already you are getting caught up in all sorts of trouble." His low soothing baritone filled Harry's mind like a sigh. Harry's hand tightened around the fabric of Tom's cloak where it hand been clutching at his front, before his fingers were suddenly unwound from the material and Harry looked up as Tom brought the hand up in order to look at it with a crease between his brows as he inspected the smooth stretch of skin. Bleached bone white in the moonlight, but without a single scratch.
When he seemed sure that Harry's hand was completely healed from the bloodquill and otherwise unharmed, Tom released a relieved breath and seemed to react without even realizing it. Harry's breath caught in the closing cavern of his throat as warm, soft lips pressed gently against the back of his hand and he felt the release of a heated breath against his skin. The wild creature in his chest was howling at the moon in his eyes and thrumming through his veins. Harry turned his hand over and pressed it to Tom's cheek, a small sweep of his thumb over the delicate skin under Tom's eye as he guided his face back up to meet Harry's gaze.
Harry's lips bloomed into a small, honest smile and the large hand that had been holding his before now carefully took his wrist, as if he didn't want Harry to remove his hand. Harry's mouth went dry and couldn't stop his traitorous eyes from flicking down to the velvety soft pink lips he wished to taste, and back up to the enrapturing gaze made him feel as though he was caught in the eerily calm eye of a raging storm.
"I'm a lot stronger than I look." He had meant for it to come out bold and teasing, but the words floated on a whisper from his lips, refusing to permeate the charged air between them. Tom smiled in return.
"Your feathers may be made of steel, dear raven, but even steel can bend." Tom taunted playfully, voice just as hushed as Harry's. Harry's lips pulled back in a beaming grin. He gave one last swipe of his thumb across the smooth skin under hand before pulling away and stepped back, motioning for them to move over to the railing.
"Why are you here?" Harry asked lightly, the glowing joy in his tone making it clear that he was glad Tom came, just curious as to what the other risked getting caught by sneaking into Hogwarts in the middle of the night for. Before he answered, Tom unclasped his cloak and draped it over Harry's smaller and thinner shoulders, surprising the younger man as Tom re-clasped the cloak. Tom cleared his throat—almost seeming, dare he say, nervous—and cast his gaze out into the night while Harry stared wide-eyed at his profile, before answering.
"After I read your letter, I knew I had to make sure myself that you were alright. I know that you don't want me to step in yet, but I needed to be certain you weren't hurt or in pain. I would have never been able to focus on anything else if I had to wait until winter holiday to see you again." Tom then looked back at Harry, who was still shamelessly staring at the other.
"I have never met anyone like you, Harry. You're extraordinary, but more importantly—you are inexplicably important to me. I- . . . I don't really know how to define it," A crease appeared between his straight brows once more as he stared down at him, "I've never had anyone I've cared about this much. You are the closest friend I have ever had." Even as he said it, the frown between his brows deepened, as if the words didn't seem quite right once said aloud.
To Harry, it was actually quite endearing in that moment to watch Tom struggle so much to understand himself and his emotions. Harry felt assured in his words and what he saw before him that Tom reciprocated all that Harry had come to discover he felt for Tom. Tom just wasn't quite ready yet. And that was just fine, Harry thought with a small smile on his lips as he reached out and intertwined their fingers, seeking the warmth and contact of the other. It was alright if Tom needed time, Harry wouldn't force a revelation on him. Harry had all the time in the world, after all. Tom would come to him with what he felt when the time was right, and Harry would cherish every moment leading up to that.
He and Tom stayed in the astronomy tower long into the night, talking about anything that came to mind, discussing what Harry planned to do about Umbridge, or what Tom would or wouldn't do about the still-active Death Eaters, or even the fact that Terry Boot snored like a damned thunder storm and Harry was tempted to skelo-tape his mouth shut. Eventually, Harry reluctantly gave into Tom's urging for him to go to bed and Tom walked him all the way up to the door to the Ravenclaw common room. Tom left him with a warm embrace and the promise of a letter waiting for him when he awoke.
Harry practically glided back through the common room towards his dorm, still wrapped in Tom's fine cloak that smelt of something heated and nearly intoxicating. Something delicious that made Harry's mouth water as he burred his nose into the soft collar in the privacy of the darkened common room. He had been tempted to sleep with the fabric pressed to his nose, but he worried he would pass in his sleep due to heart-palpitations.
The next morning, as expected, Harry woke up late, the dorm empty and the blazing light of the late morning streaming through the windows. If Harry awoke with a smile on his face as well, he was sure to clamp his plush lips between his teeth before anyone saw or he did something ridiculous—like laugh.
It was Saturday, though, and Harry had business to take care of.
Since he was in no rush, Harry took his time showering in the empty bathroom and dressing in the vacated dorm room. He was dressed in a comfortable rich dark blue sweater, and soft grey slacks for the day. He grabbed his school bag before he left, his glossy black curls left to their devices as he didn't bother to make them a bit more presentable with some rearranging. Harry left the dorms with a certain glimmer in his piercing pale green eyes and a confident squaring of his shoulders.
On his way to his destination, Harry made a slight detour to the kitchens to grab a light breakfast to eat on his way to the infirmary.
He was just vanishing the orange peel and the juices from his fingers when he came upon the infirmary doors and entered to find Madam Pomphrey restocking a few potions on the back shelves that were there for emergency use—the more dangerous or expensive potions undoubtedly locked away in her office at the back of the room. She turned at the sound of his approaching steps.
"Mr. Potter? Is something the matter, how can I help you?" She inquired, clearly surprised by Harry's presence, since he almost never found himself in her care—not nearly as often as the other students, at least.
"I'm fine, Madam Pomphrey, I assure you. I just wanted to discuss some rather . . . worrying matters with you. Might we speak in private?" He asked calmly, hoping that the lack of urgency in his voice kept the older mediwitch from panicking.
"Yes—Yes of course, Mr. Potter, follow me." Pomphrey turned and led Harry towards her office at the back of the room on the right-hand side, with private and quarantine rooms on the left, and storage in the center. The inside of Pomphrey's office was cozier and more cluttered than most of the professors' offices—Dumbledore excluded. With shelves of reference texts, potions, medical supplies and equipment—both magical and muggle—and walls full of various diagrams and charts. The room was an odd cross between a regular doctor's office and a comfortable sitting room, with couches in the center of the room full of miss-matched pillows and a multitude of rugs covering the hard wood floors.
Off to the side of the room, before one reached the sitting area, was a large wooden desk with a couple of chairs in front of it. More of an 'office area' section of the room, rather than the whole thing being the office. It made sense though, as the only mediwitch employed by Hogwarts, Pomphrey spent nearly every moment of the school year stationed in the infirmary to always be on call and available. It was likely that the door at the other end of the room led to her personal quarters, as well.
Pomphrey told him to sit down in one of the seats next to the desk before taking the seat across from him.
"Now, what was it you wished to discuss with me, Mr. Potter." She prompted warmly. Harry took a moment to straighten his thoughts before he spoke.
"I recently came into the unfortunate knowledge that our newest professor here at Hogwarts is already abusing the power that has been given to her." Harry began, all the while watching the older woman's expression as he spoke. He didn't know if Umbridge had used the bloodquill before him, but if she had, his best bet would be finding out through the first person who would see an injured student in this school. Though, the immediate confusion and then concern displayed on the witch's face gave Harry hope that he was, in fact, the first—and only—student to receive such punishment. After a pause, Harry continued carefully.
"Madam Pomphrey, have you ever heard of a 'Bloodquill?'" The way the rosy glow to her round cheeks blanched away, Harry had his answer.
"Heavens no!" She gushed under her breath, not to deny that she knew of them, but in utter dread at what Harry was implying.
"I'm afraid," Harry began as he pulled his school bag into his lap and gently slipped out a piece of parchment he had been wise enough to save after his detention, "That Dolores Umbridge has gotten her hands on something she shouldn't have." And with that, Harry set before the startled witch the parchment that was filled from top to bottom with the same demeaning line 'I will know my place' in a morbid rusted brown. Pomphrey pressed a small, but experienced hand to cover her mouth in horror as she took in the sight before her. The parchment still imbued with cloying, putrid dark magic from the quill. Harry gave the mediwitch a few moments to process before speaking.
"I have already removed and destroyed the bloodquills she had in her possession. I am telling and showing you this because I know that she is not above physically harming and torturing the students that find themselves alone with her. I have already spoken with the other Prefects and all of the students have been warned against getting detention or being alone with her. However, I cannot have eyes everywhere and there may be incidents I cannot prevent. I am already working with several people outside to get her removed, but as I'm sure you understand, these things are never so quick and simple—especially someone so highly ranked in the Ministry as she.
"If something else happens, the first person the student will see might be you. All that I am asking is that you keep what I have said in mind and document every injury that comes through with the possibility in mind that it might be called in for evidence. I'm not asking you to exaggerate or omit anything, just that nothing gets dismissed or ruled out as accidental until we know for sure. I don't want anyone else getting hurt, but I have a feeling that won't always be under my control." Harry finished, taking the offending parchment back and carefully sliding it back into his bag.
"Of course, I will. I take my job very seriously and am oath bound to document every time a student enters those doors for treatment." She stated firmly with a slight nod towards the large infirmary beyond the office. Now that she seemed to had composed herself a bit from the earlier shock, she appeared much more the stern and unrelenting mediwitch Harry had heard about from his peers who had the honor of being under her care at one point or another.
"May I ask, Mr. Potter, were you the one who wrote that?" She asked tentatively, gesturing towards his bag. For a moment, Harry considered lying and saying it was another student, but then he knew she would ask to see them to treat their wounds—since it was obvious that they hadn't been treated by her.
"Yes, it was me. I believe that since this is the first you are hearing about it, that was the first and only time she had used the quills on a student. Thankfully." Something in his words piqued her interest, as she then leaned in a bit closer and asked,
"Mr. Potter, did you heal your own wounds?"
Harry unconsciously glanced down at the back of his left hand—the very same one that Tom had tenderly kissed the night before—a private thrill run up the length of his spine and Harry had to immediately wave away the sudden less-than-appropriate thoughts threatening to steal his attention and instead answered the question still hanging in the air.
"They did heal, yes." Harry said ambiguously, though the intrigue lingering in Pomphrey's gaze didn't dissipate.
Before she could probe him for more information, however, there was a sharp ringing of an unseen bell somewhere in the room and the sound of heavy footsteps entering the infirmary. The bell was likely a warded alarm system to alert Pomphrey when someone entered. The mediwitch was up and out of the office faster than a woman of her age should be able to. Harry set his bag on the floor and quickly followed Pomphrey out into the infirmary.
The scene unfolding before Harry was chaotic and bloody. At least four students—all boys appearing to be a year or two younger than Harry—were being helped in by Hagrid and two frazzled-looking Hufflepuff girls, while Pomphrey quickly got the injured students into empty beds.
"What happened?" Pomphrey demanded sharply over the moans and broken cries of the boys she was coaxing into laying down on the cots. Without much hesitation, Harry pushed up the sleeves of his sweater and stepped in to carefully assist the last boy onto a cot of his own. Hagrid frantically wrung his hands together and stuttered out an explanation.
"Th-Them boys be m-muckin' round too much by . . . uh . . . b-by the Whompin' Willow!"
Harry exhaled harshly through his teeth as he took in the injuries of the last boy, just from what he could see, the boy must have been bludgeoned by one of the wicked knots of the willow. With a broken leg, arm—and from the sounds of his breathing, several ribs—the bloke was lucky to be alive. Harry pulled out his wand and cast a diagnostic spell to be sure.
Harry hesitated for a moment and glanced behind him at Pomphrey, who was removing a jagged shard of wood from another boy's side and quickly repairing internal damage before she could close the wound. Harry knew he shouldn't be doing this—he wasn't a licensed healer and he certainly didn't know as much about healing as Pomphrey. But, it would be a while until the only mediwitch at the school would get to the boy before him, and the with the way his breathing was getting shorter and shorter, Harry was worried he may have punctured a lung.
Gnawing harshly on his bottom lip, Harry glanced at the other three in the room, but they were all solely focused on the gory mess Pomphrey was tending to, nobody was paying attention to Harry. With his mind made up and a mix of adrenaline and determination coursing through his veins, Harry turned back to the boy beside him and sliced open his shirt with a quick spell so he could get a better look. Already, Harry could see the red and purple flush of discoloration under the skin over his ribs and down his side.
His mind going a million miles a minute, Harry tried to quickly think of a solution. Harry knew a few simple healing spells, but he wasn't trained in this stuff, he would have to think of a better way. As he desperately combed his mind, peeling through layers and layers of cataloged knowledge for something to help the boy. After a moment, the answer finally came—just not from where he had expected.
Harry spent nearly an entire year scouring every corner of the vast and veritable art of Necromancy, looking for the best way to resurrect Tom's body. One of the many components that went into that was restoration. Mainly, that branch had to do with taking the remains of the dead and then restoring it to a previous state to be used in many other different types of rituals. A way of using a fresh corpse for a ritual without having to kill someone. It wasn't intended to be used on a living person, but if Harry didn't act quickly, then he wouldn't have to use it on someone still breathing.
With one last glance behind him to be sure everyone else was occupied, Harry turned back to the unconscious boy and carefully splayed both hands over the boys' ribs and wasted no time in silently mouthing the words he had read only once as a gentle pulse of magic moved from his hands into the broken body underneath him. Harry only needed to repeat the incantation twice before he felt the ribs snap back into place with a low pop and the boy sucked in a full, unimpeded breath. Not punctured, then, just weighed down.
With a little shake of his hands to expel the excess energy and magic, Harry grabbed his wand from where he had tucked it into his back pocket and moved down to the boy's leg, thankful that at least he knew this spell. Harry healed both his broken leg and arm before moving onto the next boy. The other still had bruises and cuts, but none of those were dire and with the boy already unconscious they could wait until afterward.
The next boy was not in such bad shape as the first, but he had a concussion—something he would leave to Pomphrey, as he didn't know how to fix that—and a large gash on his upper arm that had probably happened at the same time as his head wound. The gash on his arm was bleeding steadily, a gory, fleshy mess that would turn the stomach of those unaccustomed to blood and carrion.
"Vulnera Sanentur." Harry hovered the tip of his wand over the gash after a quick antiseptic spell taught to first years in a short first aid course all students got. He watched the ravaged skin knit seamlessly back together until it was just a faint pink line under quickly drying blood and grime.
Harry straightened back up and was about to move onto the next student when he caught Pomphrey watching him thoughtfully as she tended to the last student, whose arm was bent at an odd angle and a heavily bruising stomach spoke of unseen internal damage. However, with the light touch of her wand, the splotchy red and purple marks faded away and the slight bloating of the boy's stomach receded until it was gone and Pomphrey helped the boy drink a potion to make him sleep so that his body could recuperate. The worst of his injuries might be healed, but the shock of the event and the initial shock to his body would take its toll.
For the moment, Harry ignored her penetrating glances and instead followed her example and assisted the other one into drinking a sleeping potion as well. Pomphrey rounded the bed to stand beside Harry as the boy dropped off into a dreamless sleep and she casted a full diagnostic spell, humming every once in a while—when she found something interesting—but otherwise seemed satisfied, seeing as she only healed a few minor cuts and bruises, as well as the minor concussion, and didn't redo any of the work Harry had already done.
Harry felt inexplicably nervous.
She moved onto the last boy without commenting and cast another diagnostic spell. This one she spent a little more time analyzing, particularly, his ribs.
"The bruising here suggests he has several broken ribs." She pointed out the same bruises Harry had looked at, before turning to look at him. "And yet his ribs aren't even so much as distressed, as would happen with any sort of healing spell that wasn't of very high caliber." She stated pointedly with a slight lift of her eyebrow.
"It would seem so." Was all Harry said. Which, for some reason, made the older witch smile before she turned to the other people still taking up needless space in her infirmary.
"Thank you for your help, had you not gotten these lads up here as quickly as you did, I'm afraid it would have been a very somber dinner this evening. If you would like, I can offer you a calming draught before you go to sooth the nerves, but unless you are injured yourselves, it would be best that you went on your way." Her tone was amicable, but her words were firm, her authority undeniable.
Hagrid took the draught, but the other two girls kindly refused and soon it was just him, Pomphrey, and four unconscious boys. Under the instruction of the mediwitch, Harry helped clean the newly admitted patients of dried blood and dirt with a well-placed Tergeo, which he promptly used on his own dirty hands when he was done. Then he pulled the white sheets and thin blankets up over their forms since most of them had their clothes cut away in places to aid in healing them. Once they were covered from neck to toes in the sheets, Pomphrey cast a helpful spell on each that stripped and redressed them in clean, light blue pajamas.
"Come now, dear. I think a bit of tea to sooth our own nerves is much needed." Pomphrey herded him back towards the office, all the way to the plush couch deeper into the room before moving about in order to make them each a cup. She could have just called for a house elf to do it, but Harry figured Pomphrey was a woman who preferred to do things herself.
A few minutes later, a steaming cup was placed on the low table before him, along with several different sweeteners and creams to add to his liking. Pomphrey sat across from him and added only a bit of sugar to her tea before taking a small sip. Harry hesitated a moment before giving in and spooning in enough honey into his tea to make the woman's lips twitch in a smile she tried to hide behind the rim of her cup. Harry added a bit of milk and took a drink of his sweet and creamy drink, feeling the warmth slide down his throat and pool in his stomach pleasantly.
For a while, they just sat in silence and seemed lost in thought until Pomphrey eventually broke the silence.
"You know . . . you would make a hell of a healer." The statement was musing, but also said with conviction. Harry was taken completely off guard, nearly swallowing his own tongue, causing him to set down his drink before he dropped it in his own lap as he coughed.
"Pardon?!" He couldn't help the shrill note to his voice, his throat feeling tight as he fought down a coughing fit. Pomphrey looked far too amused, but nothing about the way she spoke suggested she wasn't completely serious about what she said.
"A healer, I think you would make a rather incredible one." She set down her own cup and her smile faded into an expression of open sincerity. "Healers are 'cut from a different cloth,' as they say. It takes intelligence, intuition, patience, a steel stomach, and bit of something extra to become a healer and to succeed in the field. I've heard from staff meetings that you're top of your year, ahead of curriculum, and have the potential to go into any career you want. From what I just saw, you're level-headed, you aren't squeamish, you don't let your emotions control you, and you seem to have a certain knack for this." Pomphrey seemed to be assessing him even as she spoke.
"I'll be honest with you, Mr. Potter. You have a brilliant mind and could probably make a name for yourself far beyond the fame tacked onto your past, you could go far in politics or start your own corporate empire if you so wished. However, I saw you out there. Healing those students, facing a problem you'd never encountered before and having your success living and breathing before you . . . you thrived."
Harry soaked in her words and thought back to those moments, absorbed completely in the task before him, the desperation of someone's life in his hands and the need to save them. Harry's heart had been pounding like a drum in his chest and just reflecting on it sent something quivering through his veins. He had never even considered being a healer. But it wasn't just the mending of bones and sealing up cuts, it was also using his magic—using magic that had been deemed so dangerous that it had been outlawed and eradicated—in order to heal someone that had set his blood ablaze.
"This is only your fifth year, you still have a long while until you need to decide on a career path. Though, I ask that you give it some thought and if you're even a little curious, I could always use an extra set of hands down here in the infirmary. I honestly don't know why Albus doesn't hire a team of healers with how often students are rushed in here within an inch of their life. If nothing else, you could keep an old woman company every once in a while, over a cup of tea." She offered with a warm smile, which Harry returned.
"I would like that, thank you."
Harry and Pomphrey continued to sit and talk for a while, and Harry found that greatly enjoyed the woman's company. There was a fire about her that was infectious, and the more she opened up to him, the more Harry got to see the wondrous depths of her unrelenting and disarmingly dry humor.
By the time Harry left, he was on a first-name basis with the mediwitch, and had promised to return the next day around the same time to assist Poppy in taking inventory of the potions they had on hand so that she could put in an order with Snape for the ones she was low on.
Afterward, Harry grabbed a late lunch. He then sought out his Head of House to finally quit the Quidditch team, feeling that this new opportunity before him was one he would take full advantage of. After being asked several times over by Flittwick to reconsider, Harry went back to the dorms, read the letter from Tom that had come in the post and eagerly wrote his reply with news of his encounter with the Hogwarts mediwitch.
That night, Harry caved in and fell asleep with one hand clutched around the locket he never removed from his person, and the other tangled up in the soft material of a cloak that smelled of a home he yearned to embrace. They filled his dreams with whispers of summer rain and the gentle grip of large strong hands, pulling him closer.
