Hyy!

I'm Fi-na-lly on holidays, and gosh it's good. So, this new chapter was a bit harder to write, but we're getting there! Thanks everyone for the kudos and comments, it really cheer my day!

FanManga28: First, thanks for the review! There will be couples in this story, but I don't want to reveal them (Yes I have finally decided who will be with who) because it's plot related. I have indeed feet in water, it's terrible^^ Paris never boded well with ... any weather really x)

I'm french indeed! I prefer to write in English for fanfiction because it's easier to be read and to keep close to the original work! I mean, the names, the puns and the atmosphere are far easier to transcribe in the author's language. I'm not sure it's a shame that there isn't much fics in french, because I think the idea of fics is to share with the more people possible, and French isn't quite a common language^^

As always, thanks to my beta, adlertypewriter
I hope ya'll will enjoy this chapter!
o/
~LadyBraken

Chapter 8: Hospital

After having profusely apologized to the auror for the mess he had done on his shoes, Harry was lead to the American Wizarding Hospital. It quite reminded him of St. Mungos, but less clean and a bit more barbaric. Well, of course, healing had evolved a lot in the meantime, but really, Harry found he had the same uneasiness here that he had in Numengard's hospital wing.

Well, at least there wasn't any actual tools in sight for the moment. The idea of those sharp surgeon tools of copper… things made him shudder.

His nervousness must have shown on his face because the Auror that was holding his right arm - to impede his movement or to steady him he didn't know - shot him a curious look.

He was led - dragged really, he didn't have the strength to walk anymore- into a small room, only occupied by a small bed with white sheets, a bed table, and two chairs - for visitors, probably. Luckily, the place was well-lit by the early rays of the sun, and warm. It was so different from the still lingering cold of Nurmengard that Harry almost felt at ease.

The feeling of near comfort came from the Auror that was keeping him at wand point and the immediate threat of doctors.

Not daring to rest, Harry only sat on the white bed for a few moments before a healer entered the room.

The healer fell into the room, followed by two nurses who immediately began to prepare… whatever they would need.

Harry stared at them placidly, fatigue falling on him all in one swoop. Without really paying attention to what the healer said to the Auror, he dropped adjacent to the wall at the end of the bed.

His eyelids were very, very heavy… He was so tired, and the pool of sunlight on the bed made him warm… comfortable, really. Moving from here would be a felony act against whatever god was in charge of good and comfy stuff…

He must have fallen asleep, because the next time he opened his eyes, the room was far lighter, and he wasn't in his prisoner-patient uniform. Which, upon thought, was slightly disturbing. Harry tried not to dwell on that, and only check that all of the hallows were in hands-reach. The doctors had indeed folded his cape on the chair next to him, his wand was on the bed table and his ring still at his finger.

With a little sigh of relief, Harry let himself fall back on the soft mattress.

He shouldn't have fallen asleep.

"I'm sorry for the wait, sir, but we're overwhelmed with the Dragonpox pandemic. Half of the city is in quarantine!" He said, casting a few diagnostics spells. "Officer, I think your presence isn't required here. Please, wait outside of the room."

The Auror sneered, but still professionally silent, obeyed. Once the door clicked closed, the Healer looked at the result of his spells.

The resulting frown was very much like Poppy's.

"Ok, Mister…?"

"Harry." Answered the young man, praying that the doc would just let it go.

Well, he didn't have that much luck.

The healer rose an eyebrow. "Don't you have a last name?" he asked incredulously.

"None that would be safe to say out loud, I'm afraid, Sir."

The healer sent him a no-nonsense look that strongly reminded Harry of McGonagall on her bad days and clicked his tongue. "We need to know your full name in order to check the medical records of your family, detect recessive illness and register you in the hospital's files-"

Somehow, Harry suspected that the last reason was the real one…

"Potter." He blurted

The healer looked up, half surprised, half annoyed, and wrote his name on the file. Harry sighed. He was already tired, and a painful tremor was growing in his belly.

Unfortunately, he knew the lasting effects of a Cruciatus far too much.

"Very well, Mr. Potter. Do you know what day it is?"

"I'd say ...the 1st of November?"

"Indeed, Mr. Potter. Now, during your sleep, we treated as many wounds as we could. However, I need to know which curses were used on you to check for more damages that may have escaped our notice."

Harry frowned a moment. The diagnostics spells must have been really under-developed at that time not to be able to get all the magical traces of his body. It occurred to him that, even without the help of the Hallows, he would surely be considered a magical genius at this time - by his knowledge only. He sure should be careful about that.

"A Cutting curse, on the back. It was wordless, so I'm not sure if there wasn't a darker touch to it - but I doubt it. The biggest damage was the blood loss and the concussion that must have happened when I fell. Other than that, a Cruciatus … Oh, and I've been exposed to a Dementor in the last forty-eight hours." He said.

This time, the healer looked at him in shock. Harry's tone was professional - almost clinical. It was the tone of someone that had clearly passed too much time in hospital or had seen too many people in the hospital. Something like that.

"Are you familiar with our procedure, Mr. Potter?"

Harry shrugged. "'Been there, done that. Life, y'know?"

The healer looked like he certainly didn't know, but didn't answer right away.

Well, it wasn't like Harry could explain all of his story now, could he?

Harry wasn't trying to sleep. He just wanted to close his eyes and ignore the twitches in his left hand, and the throbbing pain against his ribs.

At least his nerves hadn't been irremediably touched. A few potions to regenerate the destroyed tissues, and in a few months, he wouldn't have any more physical damage.

And it was a relief. Finding himself unable to walk normally earlier had panicked him for a while. No matter what he could do, the image of the drooling Longbottoms giving a small paper to their son in St. Mungo's was carved in his memory. The idea the Grindelwald had wanted to do that to him, well…

It didn't bode well for his peace of mind.

It wasn't that it was Grindelwald, really. It was that unlike Tom, Bellatrix or even Barty, the man was sane. He hadn't spent years in Azkaban, he wasn't under the influence of a sociopath, he wasn't born under Amortentia… No, he had done this with a perfect idea of the morals implications of the spell, of how wrong it was.

And he had done it all the same.

It was disheartening really. In Harry's mind, it was like all he had done had only been in one big war, never stopping. How could it? The madness seem to keep on and on no matter what.

No. He couldn't let himself fall into that. Or everything would be in vain.

Hope was his only weapon, after all.

Harry took a deep breath to try to ease the pain. Hope. Go back to England. Find Dumbledore, find baby tom. And Abelforth. Good old Abelforth, he would help too. In a few years, he might even meet baby McGonagall. And give her the strange look she had given him in another life, laughing alone to himself the irony of all of that. Oh god, and Slughorn! He was still alive too! Harry had never liked him but hey, when in Rome and all that.

And now, with a faint smile, Harry was trying to imagine all the people he could meet. His grandfather, surely- if his calculations were right, he had been in Riddle's year.

Said Riddle who was probably causing havoc at the orphanage - Merlin, he really needed to go back to England as soon as possible. Before the Muggles start to starve him. Before they broke his hands before they call him the Devil. Before they suffocate him, forcing him to grow gnarled and crooked to win a drop of the sun. Before he killed the rabbit, before he tortured children, before he learned far too soon what the world was like. Before he loses all chance to trust - if not to love.

Tom was sick, and he needed help. Or he would make the world as sick as he was.

Harry's train of thought stopped as a piercing pain shot back in his guts. Yeah, maybe being able to walk straight before doing anything else.

Get yourself together, Harry!

The harsh voice in his head sounded suspiciously like his old potion master, and he hoped he wasn't haunted by Snape. Of all things, that would be hell. But Snape had never called him 'Harry', only Potter, and said with as much distaste as possible.

Damn the man, no matter how unborn he was now.

"Mr. Graves."

The President Picquery was standing in front of his bed, her arms crossed in front of her chest. She was wearing a casual white shirt, a black jacket and high-waisted pants - decidedly masculine and utterly muggle. Her platinum blonde hair was wrapped in a deep blue turban, beautifully contrasting with her tan skin- two sculpted curls framing her face, as always, a picture of eloquence and modernity.

"Mrs. President." Graves saluted with a slight bow of the head.

The president fumbled in her pocket and took out a long cigarette. She put it in her mouth, pursed her lips and snapped her fingers at its extremity. A small flame appeared and in a sizzle, the end ignited and became only a red dot.

The healer that had introduced her in the room fidgeted. The President took a deep whiff.

"Ma-madam, we're in a hospital, you can't-"

Picquery shut him up with a dark glare, and blew a long cloud of grey smoke, her cigarette graciously held between two of her finger. She held the man's eyes while doing so, seemingly bored to death.

"Oh- hum- I… I'll… yes -"

The little man hurried out of the room under President Picquery's glare - Graves was very happy that it wasn't directed towards him. His happiness only lasted a few seconds til the woman turned towards him. Her face softened somewhat - but with her, one was never really sure.

"You're back," she said.

"I am, Madam."

Graves gulped at the witch's heavy gaze on him. He suddenly felt like a little boy again. He hated when she was doing that- even if it was bringing him a bit of comfort.

It was like home.

Picquery sighed. "The healers said that you would be able to get out in a few days - but with assistance."

"I know, Madame."

"You will not be able to return to the field."

A pause. Graves rose his eyes to meet Picquery's. "I -" He took a shaky breath and tightened his jaw, " I know, Madame."

She nodded in acknowledgment and took another whiff. The prickly smell of tobacco irritated Grave's nose, but he didn't even flinch.

"As you asked, Goldstein is going to replace you; you may have a word to say on the new cases."

That made Graves smile - well, more a small quirk of the lips, but it was there nonetheless, and Picquery had seen it.

"Now, the Aurors are going to ask you how you escaped." She said, her voice still even.

"You want to control what will be in the files." He retorted softly.

She didn't need to answer.

Graves knew how these things worked. He had done it for years- except that he usually was at the other side of the rope. He had been there before Picquery. He had supported her during her campaign - the first woman president of the M.A.C.U.S.A, the first indigenous descendent in the high administration. He had guaranteed her the support of the aurors, of the old guard.

He knew how quick things could degenerate - how every little thing could help Grindelwald. He knew there were a dozen of moles in the ministry- at the very least - and even more rats ready to help to sink the boat.

He took his left hand in his right one to hide the tremor that was agitating it.

No, he wouldn't return to the field, he thought bitterly.

"How long did I disappear?" He asked. He was proud that his voice didn't even shake a little.

"A month."

A month.

A whole fucking month.

"Well, at least it was a bit shorter this time." At least, this time you noticed wasn't said.

She crushed her cigarette and sat slowly at the end of the bed, her attention solely fixed on him. The locked gaze a moment through the languid mist of grey smoke. She let her hand slide on the white sheets until it reached Graves. She waited for permission, and after an imperceptible nod of the wizard, she took his hand in her's.

Her hand was soft and supple, comforting, with only the recognizable callousness made by years of using a wand.

He closed his eyes, letting his old friend comfort him, even for a moment.

"Indeed," she whispered, and he heard the apology she had never really said when they had found him, dirty and battered, in a dark corner of the ministry.

"Once… Once they captured me- and before you ask, no, I don't know who it was-, it was a long time before we arrived to Gr- to him. About one or two weeks I'd say, but I can't be sure. I was mostly dosed."

Merlin, he still had the lingering taste of Dreamless Sleep on his tongue.

Picquery didn't press him to continue.

"They… they took me to Him. He wanted to know where was Flamel. I didn't say a thing, I swear!"

His outburst only made her purse her lips, and squeeze his hand. Internally, he cringed at his own lack of control. He hated it, but his nerves were thin and he couldn't help himself.

It was so pathetic.

"Then, one day, this- this boy appeared."

"The one that arrived with you." She said more than asked.

He nodded. "A strange fellow. I don't know how he entered in the cells - nor where he came from. He told me he was going to get all of us out of here during Saiman, and then, just disappeared. He barely told me his name…"

He turned his head, unable to bear the pity he could see in Picquery's eyes. Being saved by a boy.

"He said he had a kid in the hospital wing…"

Outside, the sun was high. He could see the long shadows of the buildings on the walls and covering the busy streets. It was a beautiful day. Graves had never noted before how much the very sun was a blessing.

"Two days before Saiman, they got us out of our cells. Rogue dementors were attacking, and they forced us to sit outside to make a diversion…"

His palms were sweaty and he tried to pull them out of her hands self-consciously, but she only held him with a stronger grip, her gaze unwavering.

"I thought I was going to die."

And maybe, it would have been for the best. Captured twice by the same man, what a pity. What a shame. Maybe, it would have been easier - to stop the pain. To be safe, for once.

"You didn't."

"I didn't. He arrived, alone, from the fortress. It was indescribable." He looked back at her. "So much power…" he whispered with- she couldn't determine if it was awe or fear in his mind - but truly, he couldn't either. Her back tensed and she squared her shoulders.

"He cut our chains. I think he wanted us to run, but he didn't really talk much. There were hundreds and hundreds of dementors coming for us, you see? He made them all run off like some fucking frightened kids."

He closed his eyes and let his head rest on the wall. "The kid fainted. But then, Gr- He came. Got out of his fortress all alone and carried the boy inside himself."

"This is quite…"

"Out of character? I know. But he did it - I saw it myself. Didn't even look at us - if his generals hadn't followed him, I could have run away for all he cared. At Saiman, I thought the boy had lied-that... He had sent him to taunt me… but no. Harry came. He opened all the doors and got us out. We passed by the hospital wing but the- the kid was already dead."

"The kid?"

"The one he had talked about earlier. Harry said that he may have been an obscurial…"

His gaze was lost now - staring at the wall somewhere behind her shoulder. She noticed even more how tired he looked, how his usually neat face was already showing the shadow of a beard.

"When we arrived in the hall, all the intelligentsia… they were asleep -or dead for all I know. Damn, 'Phina, I think the boy poisoned them all!"

She let the name slip pass. She couldn't really ask him to bother with things such as manners in his state. He could use her old nickname all he wanted if only he could just stop having this shadow in his eyes. He was putting on a brave face - but Grindelwald was known for his devastating Cruciatus and twisted imagination.

Numb, Graves described to her the rush to the gates, the fight with Grindelwald, the portkey. When it was over, he was exhausted. They both were.

"So this… Harry. Do you think he is with Grindelwald?"

Picquery was standing, back turned towards Graves, who had let himself go against the pillows, sitting more comfortably. He looked weak, and Merlin, he felt weak.

Turned as she was, she couldn't see him flinch at the name.

"I don't know. I… I think he's a seer, Madame."

He was proud to have regained a bit of self control. His voice almost had the same polite coolness he usually had at work.

She turned her head and raised a perfectly trimmed eyebrow.

"When we got out of the sells, he told me to be careful of Krum. To keep an eye on her."

"Krum, as the Bulgarian Head Auror?"

He mutely nodded. "She died barely an hour later. I think… I think he knew it was going to happen. I think that's why Grindelwald wanted him close."

"I see."

Graves observed silently the road stretching out from the building. He was very aware of all the implications of such a power. Of how much the boy was going to be considered as a weapon - to be used or destroyed, who knew?

He ignored the pang in his stomach at the thought. Ruling a country was rarely moral. Winning a war, even less.

Picquery finally turned towards him. "There is a certain young Auror that was dying to see you, Graves," she said. Her face didn't move an inch, but he could hear a smile in her voice.

She opened the door and let in a very obviously overwhelmed Tina Goldstein. She was clutching her little blue hat in shaking hands and her eyes were shining with unshed tears. Her hair was a bit longer than the last time he had seen her, but she really hadn't changed a bit.

"Mr. Graves…" She whispered.

Picquery gave him a indulgent smile and silently went out of the room.

"Mr. Graves… I-I…"

Percival smiled at his protégé. He knew perfectly well what was passing in that little head of hers. He smiled, his first real smile since he had escaped, and opened his arms. She hesitated only a second before throwing herself in his embrace, holding onto him for dear life.

"Hush, child, hush. I'm ok, now." He tried not to wince at the contact -it wouldn't do to worry her more than she already was.

"I-" She straightened up and looked for something in his eyes. "I thought this time he- he had killed you and- and-"

He smiled again - indulgently. After all, it was Tina Goldstein who had the determination to look for him the first time - even after his case was closed. It was her who had finally found him in the ministry - her who had single handedly dragged him to the hospital. Her who had taken upon herself to explain to him everything that had happened, that had given him the latest files - knowing pretty well that his work was his life and he needed it.

"And I'm alive, Miss Goldstein. Come on, you know that they would need much more than that to kill me."

They both knew that he was bluffing, but didn't act on it. There was no need to remind themselves how close Graves had passed from actually dying.

He winced as her grip grew stronger. "Oh, mhm, sorry," she said, looking away again. It was a bad habit of hers - but he couldn't blame her. It was in her temper, that was all. At first, he had thought her weak. She was a woman - frail and hesitating, shy to a fault.

Then, he had seen her fight and learnt that he was an idiot. And then, he had seen how protective she was of her sister, very obviously harassed by Abernathy, and he had learned that his idiocy may have had greater consequences than what he first thought.

And now, she would be head Auror. A deep feeling of warm pride spread in his stomach, covering the guilt and the bitterness- melancholy that his time was passed and that he had to leave the place to the younger, brighter, ones.

Yes, that girl would go far.

"What are you doing, young man? Get back in your bed!"

Harry turned his head abruptly from where he was contemplating New York. It was a really beautiful city - if you liked all the activity and the chaos. And it had been a long time since Harry could relax, if only a little.

"I'm just looking at the window, M'am. I couldn't do it from my bed."

She crossed her arms in front of her chest and strummed the ground with her feet. "Alright, alright, I'm going to bed."

No matter what he said, five minutes later, after the nurse was out of the room, he took all of his belongings - he knew perfectly well that the Aurors would want to examine them at some point and it was out of the question, and was quietly trying and escape.

Well, not an escape, per se, more like an escapade. He was just too restless to sit in his bed - and despite the obvious tremor induced by the nerve damage, he felt physically quite well. He buried down the little voice that was screaming bullshit, and continued to walk along the corridors.

He'd check up on Graves too, if he found his room.

Harry was worried. After receiving the end of Grindelwald's Cruciatus, he only could imagine what Graves had been through. Actually, he had a very good idea of what Graves had been through.

As discreet as a shadow, well, technically, as discreet as death, he wandered across the hospital, observing how everything was done here. It was strange, the difference with Numengard. He almost missed the quiet order of Nicolov's Hospital Wing.

Here, it was some sort of joyous chaos that was cheering him up and giving him a headache. When he was sure he was far enough from his room, he got out of his cape and stretched. Yes, he really needed a little walk, he decided.

"I'm here to see Mister Graves."

Harry turned to where the voice came from. A woman was standing in front of the counter, talking to an employee. She had a long blue cloak hand squeezed her own hands as if not knowing what to do with them.

"Are you family?" The employee asked suspiciously.

"College. I'm the new-"

"Madame the President!" Interrupted the employee, eyes as wide as a galleon.

Harry turned toward the place the employee was so shamelessly staring at to find himself next to an imposing and eloquent woman. She was taller than him by at least two head, and was holding herself as if she owned the place - which apparently wasn't so far from the truth. The turban on her head looked like a crown, and gosh Harry didn't want to anger that very regal woman.

Some strange long-buried sense of self-preservation or something. The four very-impressive Aurors around her clearly didn't help.

"Goldstein, I remember telling you to wait before making a visit." She said sternly, but one could find some sort of fondness in her voice.

The woman named Goldstein blushed and lowered her head in apparent shame. "I- I know, Madame, but-"

The President - and gosh Harry couldn't believe that he was in front of the fucking president of the fucking United- States (and that she looked so much more capable than any minister of magic he had ever seen in his first lifetime), held up a hand to cut off Goldstein's rumbling.

"I needed to talk to you about your post anyway. I will talk first to Graves, you can see him afterwards." she said.

Goldstein held up her head and smiled brightly. "Thank you, Madame President."

Harry walked to a pillar and hid again under his cloak. He had apparently found his ticket to Graves's room.

And Gosh he was going to sneak up on the President.

He may have giggled a bit.