A/N: All previous warnings still, and will continue, to apply. Not for children or the faint of heart, or anyone sexually conservative. You've been warned.
Thanks as always to my amazing Beta, Hrymeigh, for going back and editing everything I've already posted before digging into new content.
Sorry, I got sidetracked by work and forgot to upload this month's chapter, but here it is! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed thus far- almost made the goal of posting early, but then it was weeks late 'cause we didn't get it and I spaced it. But here you go! :)
Enjoy!
Chap. 16: Post-Traumatic Stress
Lilith's strong, slim arm supported Harry as he staggered up the last few of the rotating stairs and through the heavy oak door of Dumbledore's office fifteen minutes later. It had taken a great deal of assurance from his remaining friends, each fighting to deal with their shared loss, pain, injury and terror in their own way, for him to be convinced to leave them with the school's Mediwitch and follow Dumbledore's request to meet in the Headmaster's office.
His own emotions felt numb, either blocked or buried under some great weight, his body sluggish and exhausted due to, as Madame Pomfrey had described it, adrenaline withdrawal.
With a bandage around his left arm to cover a wound he hadn't noticed receiving, and an ointment-coated plaster affixed with a sticking charm to his left cheek for a slice from a bit of flying debris, plus dozens of smaller injuries, Harry carefully made his way over to one of three soft, cushioned armchairs before Dumbledore's desk and all-but fell into the middle one.
Lilith carefully positioned herself, one hand still on the hole in her own stomach, on the edge of the chair, and began running a soft hand through his hair.
Slowly, Harry's eyes drifted closed, but he still felt, exhausted as he was, that sleep was a long way off yet.
He had noticed dimly that the office itself was fully repaired, each of the objects damaged in the brief scuffle when Fudge had tried to arrest Dumbledore back in its place, the shelves intact. Even Fawkes' perch was back in its customary location, though the Phoenix itself was not present as far as Harry could tell. Only the quiet whirring and low puffing of the spindly instruments on the little table near the door made any noise as they sat. Harry's mind refused to quiet, replaying every moment of time from the instant he realized the exam paper he'd been given was a Portkey, until the argument with his friends, lead by Hermione, about whether he should stay and make sure the surviving members were safe, or if he should come to the office as the Headmaster had requested.
What could he have done differently?
How had he reacted? Well, poorly? Should he have acted, at each crossroads, at all? Too, he watched again and again as four members of Dumbledore's Army, his friends, two of them his lovers, were blown to pieces or killed by the random shrapnel of the same blast. Watched the Death Eaters, all four of them, fall forever to his own retaliatory barrage.
This was not like Professor Quirinus Quirrell in his first year, nor the Basilisk and Tom Riddle's memory in his second.
He had dealt death at his hands before, but this was inarguably different. Those times, both of them, he had been fighting to save his own life. Quirrell, in particular, had died due to... whatever that had really been.
Riddle, he'd meant to destroy the shade, or whatever it was, by stabbing the book with the Basilisk's own fang. Yet, it had been a shade, or something, not a real person. Even a book.
The Basilisk, for all that it had, to the best of Harry's knowledge, only been following the instructions of its cruel master, had been a horrid monster all on its own; one that even Hagrid would hesitate to call beautiful (though Harry knew it had possessed a certain serpentine grace before its death).
But this... those Death Eaters had been killed because he had wanted to kill them. True, he had what some would call justifiable cause.
His friends, after all, had been murdered just moments before, and he had no doubt that given the chance, the rest of his friends would have been killed, or worse, too.
Harry did not notice the tears running down his cheeks soaking into his shirt, but the Succubus did.
There was little she could do, however, and she felt no personal remorse for the five lives she'd taken. None of their hearts had been pure, to say the least. Each of them, in their own ways, had been cruel, mean, petty, or outright twisted, evil wizards and witches. Anathema, in other words, to her Master, and everything he stood for.
She felt no remorse at all in ending them, and likely never would.
This is the situation that Albus Dumbledore saw when he stepped from his Floo some twenty minutes later, though the Succubus was not visible to him. His keen eyes did notice the depression on the soft arm of the chair and the way Harry's hair continually moved, but chalked it up to one of his less injured friends underneath a certain very special cloak.
"My apologies for being late, Harry," he said, waving a wand to brush the soot from his robes, before stepping around the desk. "It seems that Cornelius was a bit more intractable than I thought, and took a little more convincing. I think you will find however that in the coming days the stance of the Ministry and the Daily Prophet will have changed a great deal regarding the two of us, if nothing else has come of this night's events."
"Four of my friends are dead," Harry said quietly, voice shaking, "I think plenty has changed already, thanks."
"I am aware," Dumbledore said, folding his hands together on the desk, looking down, "I... it is not easy to lose a student, or anyone so young. Each of the nine times it has happened on my watch has been the stuff of nightmares for me. That four of those times have happened in one night is... I will not sleep pleasantly for several months, I expect."
Harry looked up, eyes blankly staring in Dumbledore's direction, but he said nothing, seeming almost unaware of what he was looking at.
The old wizard took a deep, slow breath, letting it out quietly, "Though, things could have been worse, I suppose."
Harry's face immediately took on an expression somewhere between utter confusion and the deepest of rages, though it softened when Dumbledore continued explaining, "We did not lose more. Your remaining friends that went- without and in fact against the express permission of Minerva, I should clarify- to save you are, more or less, unharmed. That Mr. Goldstein, Mr. Smith, Miss Chang and Miss Spinnet are gone is a tragedy, yes. But I must remain grateful that we did not lose more. And, of course, that you were brought back to us safely."
Harry nodded woodenly, again saying nothing.
"Harry," Dumbledore asked after several minutes of quiet contemplation, "Do you know why they took you this evening, and why to that location?"
He nodded, even while Lilith slipped the orb holding the Prophecy into his hand, "For this."
He let it fall, rolling across Dumbledore's desk, the glass on wood the only sound until it fell from the far side into the wrinkled hand. "Just so. I take it you did not hear the Prophecy contained in the orb, then?"
Harry shook his head.
"Would you like to?"
This time, when he looked up, Dumbledore was unsurprised to see a look of iron-hard determination on the boy's face.
"Very well. Before I show you, allow me a moment to explain a few points. Firstly, as you may have surmised by the plate describing this particular orb, the Prophecy in question was made by Sybill Trelawney to myself, and is in fact the reason I chose to hire her as a Divination Professor, despite her apparent lack of ability in the subject."
Again, Harry said nothing, merely listened as Dumbledore started twisting the lambent sphere in his fingers, eyes fixed downward on it. "It was made to me in a room above the Hog's Head, the very pub that my brother Aberforth runs and in which your 'D.A.' was organized earlier this year. It concerns, obviously, two individuals: Yourself, and the being we have come to know as Lord Voldemort."
"I figured," Harry said, voice even and tightly controlled. Dumbledore, though, could see what Lilith could feel: Harry was slipping, his control vanishing moment by moment.
So he pressed on, deciding it best to skip several points of lesser import for the moment, "But it was overheard in part by a Death Eater, and it was that part which caused Voldemort to target your family. Let us watch now, and I will explain further.
To Harry's surprise, though, Dumbledore did nothing with the orb except set it quietly on his desk atop a thick stack of papers. It rolled perhaps an inch, then fell still again, while the Headmaster brought his own wand-tip to his head and withdrew it, pulling away a thick strand of faintly-shimmering silver.
Something he had seen before, even earlier that year, though those had been from Snape: a memory. "My Pensieve, if you would, Harry. I believe you know where it is kept."
Surprised by the request, Harry jumped up from the chair, narrowly avoiding dislodging Lilith, and walked, purpose giving him energy once more, to the cabinet on the side of the room opposite the Sorting Hat, and opened it to withdraw the stone basin, bringing it carefully to the desk.
After the Headmaster had placed the strand of thought into the bowl, he swirled it around a few times, then touched a combination of runes that circled the outer rim. A moment later, out of the silvery liquid, the ghost-like form of Sybill Trelawney rose from the bowl.
Harry listened in growing horror as the prophecy was related in the same terrible, fearsome voice he'd heard her speak in two years previously.
When it was finished, the image sank, formlessly, back into the bowl. "There you have it, Harry. The reason Voldemort sought out you and your parents was because he knew that you, and you alone, had the best chance to vanquish him."
"There... weren't any others?"
Dumbledore shook his head, "I'm afraid not. You know, I am sure, that your roommate and friend, Neville Longbottom, was born a day before you. He, too, could have been the one named in the prophecy, but for one thing: Voldemort chose you. He marked you, not Neville, thus ensuring that you were indeed the one destined to destroy him, if anyone can."
Harry nodded. His own interpretation had led him to the same conclusion. "No- no others, though?"
"I'm afraid not," Dumbledore shook his head, "Many searches have been done by myself and others. No other magical child was born near the end of July anywhere within Great Britain, or even Europe. There had been sixteen in that last week, world-wide, and none of the parents came close to meeting the criteria of having defied Voldemort three times."
Harry was silent, letting that information sink in. It was vague, yes, but oddly specific in how well it defined one person- him- without naming him.
"Neville is scarred, too, though," Harry eventually said, "Emotionally, I guess."
"I would agree," Dumbledore responded after a moment, "Yet no more or less than yourself, if in different ways. It was you alone who had the physical mark however. It is worth mentioning that in doing so, in marking you 'as his equal', Voldemort transferred, I believe, some powers to you. Your ability with Parseltongue, for example, could be attributed to Voldemort."
"Like I wanted it," Harry said bitterly, "Hasn't done me a lot of good."
"Be that as it may, Harry," the Headmaster continued, as calmly as ever, "It is like any other ability- it is how we use it that makes it more or less effective. Apparition is not useful for much if you choose to appear inside a volcano's magma chamber, after all, but is most useful as a method of transportation for those able to do so easily. I can conceive of ways in which the ability to talk to snakes would be useful to you, if you wish to use it in that fashion. Still, I believe we've wandered far from the topic I wished to discuss.
"The Prophecy fragment that Voldemort has knowledge of, I believe, excludes the lines about him marking you as his equal, and you having power the Dark Lord knows not. Do you have any idea what power or powers that might be?"
Harry shook his head, answering dully, "No- I'm not more powerful than him, and I don't know any magic he doesn't. Even the- memory, or whatever it was, of Riddle in my second year... he was just sixteen or seventeen, and knew a lot more than I did."
"Perhaps," Dumbledore conceded, "But he does not know everything. There are several lessons you have learned, and learned well, that I believe Voldemort never could learn."
"Like what?" Harry asked scornfully.
"Like the ability to love," Dumbledore said softly. "That same power that makes you grieve for your lost friends, to kill to protect others so they are not lost... that power is something Voldemort will never understand."
"Fat lot of good it does!" Harry suddenly found himself yelling, "Love didn't save Cho, or Alicia, or Zach, or Anthony!"
"No," Dumbledore replied, remaining calm even while Harry watched one hand start to drift toward his wand, "it did not. But that power did save you as a child. I believe it was Lily's sacrifice for you, combined with some magic I am unaware of, that protected you from Voldemort's killing curse when you were a baby. That power of love does help to save lives. When you fought and killed this evening, you saved more lives. You taught your friends to fight knowing that at some point, they might have to fight to protect those they love, did you not?"
Harry did not answer, only continued to glare at Dumbledore. In his mind, though, Lilith's voice echoed, He is right, Master. Love is a powerful thing indeed, and far more subtle than I think anyone realizes at your age... or mine, or his.
"Regardless, Harry, I believe that, beginning next term, you should have private lessons with me on occasion. I was mistaken, I think, in keeping the Prophecy from you for so long, and I think you will agree."
"I remember," Harry scowled, "I asked you in my first year. You didn't say, you told me to ask when I was older."
"And you have done so, after a fashion," Dumbledore said with a sad smile, "so I have told you. Understand, Harry, the only reason I did not tell you then was that you were eleven. Were you ready, then, to hear that your life must end in death, or truly begin with the death of another? Even now, you wrestle with the idea."
Hating to admit it, even to himself, Harry nodded, "Yeah, maybe. But still- in the years since? Why didn't you tell me then? If I'd known in my third year, Sirius would... Pettigrew wouldn't have escaped, and Voldemort couldn't even have come back!"
"Perhaps," Dumbledore conceded, "Though I find that endlessly tracking 'what ifs' back through time is an exercise in futility, both because it is often too late to change the outcome, and because we simply cannot predict the outcome of any change with certainty. Regardless, I have come to realize that, in my desire to protect you and give you something relating to a normal childhood, I have done you a great disservice. You are a far more mature and good person than I had given you credit for, and for that, I apologize."
"Sure," Harry snorted, "I don't feel like it right now."
Dumbledore actually smiled faintly, though he wiped a gathering tear from one eye, "Perhaps you simply realize, as I do, that having an emotional meltdown would not be of use, would not bring back your friends, and would not help to hasten the downfall of Lord Voldemort."
Lilith settled once more against Harry, both silent as Dumbledore watched him. Eventually, though, the wizened figure asked, "Harry, I will not ask you to relive what happened this evening, but is there anything you wish to tell me? Anything you think I should know?"
For several minutes, Harry was silent, then he began speaking, "Bellatrix and Rudolphus both used the Cruciatus Curse on me, and on Professor Tofty. I'm... pretty sure he's dead."
Dumbledore nodded, "It was confirmed, unfortunately. He will be missed, he was a personal friend of mine, as well."
"Sorry- I'm sorry for your loss," Harry forced out, though he felt, somehow, that having witnessed the man's death through torture at the hands of a madwoman like Bellatrix Lestrange might have entitled him to some sympathy, instead.
"Thank you, Harry," Dumbledore said solemnly, "Anything else?"
He nodded, describing the rest of the events in fair detail despite what Dumbledore had said about reliving the evening once more.
Saying it all aloud was both a bit cathartic, as well as one of the hardest things he'd ever done.
In particular, Harry had choked at describing how Cho had died with a look of sad longing in her eyes, as if she knew she was about to die, a moment before the wood had pierced the back of her head.
He forced himself to continue though, only glossing over how the Death Eaters that Lilith had killed were felled, implying that it was done in the heat of battle, and he couldn't quite recall.
When he finished though, Dumbledore was looking at him with concern. "And, at the end, when Voldemort attempted to possess you, as we both believe he has been doing with Nagini? How were you able to throw him out of your mind?"
For a moment, Harry warred with himself, wanting to answer, yet...
"Headmaster, I don't- I don't think I want to tell you that."
Dumbledore looked up from the Pensieve with surprise, "And why is that, Harry?"
The teenager shrugged, looking away toward the fire for a moment. "I... you have your secrets, and I have mine."
"I see," the Headmaster replied, "Well, then might I ask what I can do to gain your trust in this regard?"
Harry scowled back in his direction, "Well, for one, you can stop treating me like I'm your enemy. You say I'm important, that the Prophecy means I'm the only one that can defeat him. Fine, that's alright, I want to be the one to bring him down. But if it has to be me, then why aren't telling me everything?"
Dumbledore sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly, "Harry... not all secrets are mine to tell. I have told you all I can without telling secrets belonging to others. I have been given trust- surely you understand that I don't wish to break that trust?"
"I understand perfectly fine, Headmaster," Harry said, then threw the same words back, "And I have been trusted with the secrets of others, too. I can't tell you how."
"Very well, Harry," Dumbledore said softly, his shoulders still down and forward, giving the aged Headmaster an almost defeated look., "I suppose what is important is that it was effective. You can, I assume, duplicate the feat if Voldemort is reckless enough to try the same thing at a later date?"
"Probably," Harry shrugged, "It- it hurt, but it wasn't hard."
Then, thinking toward his companion, Was- was it? Pushing him out?
The reply was quick and easy, Not at all. His bond with you is definitely there, but mine is more immediate- even with its link being right there on your forehead, mine is inside your heart and mind itself. He won't be able to get in again either, unless I let him.
"I suppose that is for the best, then," Dumbledore agreed, "Though I do wish there were some way in which I could gain- or regain- your trust without violating promises that I have made to others. Is there anything else you wish to tell me, then?"
"I don't think so," Harry said, "But I'd like- I'd like to attend their funerals, if- if the families will let me."
"Of your friends? Of course," Dumbledore said solemnly, "I will forward all information to you and arrange for a detail of Order members- I think just two- for your protection, if you don't mind."
For a moment, Harry thought of refusing the Order members, but decided, in the end, that the olive branch being offered- even if it was just the 'if you don't mind', since he was sure there would be protection anyway- was acceptable. "Alright. Um... I should get to bed."
"Just so. If you have trouble sleeping, I'm sure Madame Pomfrey can supply with a-"
Harry patted one pocket of his robes, though it was empty, as he stood.
"Good night, Harry. Again, let me repeat, I am sorry for what has happened. If I could have prevented any of it, I would have."
"I know, Professor. Good night."
Then he stepped out, back onto the staircase that now spun downward.
While he waited for it to carry him, Harry tapped his own head with his wand to cast the disillusionment charm, and made his way not to Gryffindor Tower, but to the hospital wing.
He had some friends to visit there, for once. But all he could think about on the long walk was that he would much rather be in the hospital wing, no matter how much he hated it there, than to see his friends there in his stead.
A glance at the clock near the door as he stepped into the quiet hospital wing told Harry it was after midnight. They had, as far as he could tell, been waiting in the Atrium for the initial first-aid and questioning by the Aurors for a couple of hours, far longer than the actual incident had taken. Hadn't the Portkey activated at around... was it really only four o'clock, that same afternoon?
Harry sighed as he glanced down the long chamber. Twenty-three students, his friends, had gone to save him.
Nineteen had come back. They had, he expected, been gathered up by the Aurors, along with the remains of Professor Tofty and... the other four.
Those they had lost.
Harry moved quietly so as not to disturb anyone down the long row of beds, marking each face, making sure each was breathing, as he went.
Justin. Quiet and calm, he had been the first to make room when Harry had asked for a place to sit and study weeks earlier. One of the first five, and the first Hufflepuff, to sign the Dumbledore's Army contract. He had a bottle of Skele-gro by his bedside, and was sleeping peacefully, but pale.
Next to him, Ernie MacMillan, who looked relatively uninjured aside from a few scrapes, but who slept with a grimace of pain adorning his face despite the empty dosage-glass of Draught of Dreamless Sleep still clutched in one slack hand. Ernie, Harry knew, had been right after Justin in signing the paper, and the very first non-Gryffindor to openly declare their support of Harry and Dumbledore. He had also been Zacharias Smith's best friend, and the two had been close for some reason Harry could not fathom given Zach's general ill nature toward him. Yet... he had died to save Harry, and Harry could no longer find it in himself to care about the small slights of the other boy.
Luna Lovegood. Harry did not know what to think of the often-spacey fourth-year girl, and she had seemed to wander into the first meeting of the D.A. at the Hog's Head almost by accident. But she had studied as hard as anyone in the group, and had been ahead of almost everyone in mastering the exceptionally difficult Patronus Charm. Endlessly cheery, if a bit odd, she alone seemed to have come through the night without an injury, though she cuddled up in her bed with, of all things, a stuffed lobster, a faint smile stretching her thin lips.
Angelina Johnson, dark hand stretched across the gap to clasp Katie Bell's even while both slept, minor injuries on both. By far worse, to Harry, were the tears that still leaked from both sets of eyes. The Flying Foxes of Gryffindor had, since before Harry had come to Hogwarts, been some of the closest-knit friends he knew of. Now, their own trio was left with two.
What would it be like, he was forced to wonder, if Ron or Hermione were taken?
How could they not hate him, even if, logically, he knew it wasn't his fault?
Harry moved on, past Terry Boot, Padma and Parvati Patil, their hands, too, clutched together as they huddled against each other, beds scooted next to each other. Past Susan and Hannah, their beds close but not touching, the latter with a massive bandage around her head, though thankfully she slept peacefully- it had been a bloody mess when he'd last seen her in the Atrium.
Michael Corner, awake but reading by a single candle, who only gave Harry a firm nod, saying nothing, but also, thankfully, without judgment in his eyes as Harry passed, returning the gesture.
Colin Creevey, his brother sitting by his bedside, head on his arms, fast asleep as well, with Colin's slightly larger hand on Dennis' head.
Dean, holding out a hand for Ginny Wesley, who had turned away, both quite asleep.
Ron... staunch as ever when it counted, had done quite well, all things considered. Hehad only three large wounds that needed treatment, one from a piercing hex and two others from the shrapnel of explosive impacts or missed spells, both on the left side of his face. He, too, had moved his bed closer to Hermione's, and the two lay together, foreheads touching along with both her hands clutched in his larger ones.
"Madam Pomfrey wouldn't approve," a quiet voice sniffed from the next, last occupied bed.
Harry smiled sadly, continuing past his friends, "I know, but they're... close. I wouldn't keep them apart."
"Even though you love her?"
Harry stopped mid-step as he moved toward Lavender Brown's bed, then started again with another glance back, "Because I love her, and him. Not like- well, you know what I mean. I want them to be happy."
"You're a good bloke, Harry," the pretty blonde said, clearly fighting back a sniffle and rubbing her nose in the moonlight coming from the window.
There was only one more bed in the room, which Harry moved to sit on, but changed his mind, instead taking the bedside chair next to Hermione's roommate. He shrugged, watching the girl cry for a moment as she stared wistfully at his best friends. "I'm not sure that's the case, sometimes."
She shook her head, wiping her eyes again, and said quietly, "No, you are. Hermione... she's amazing, we all know she is. She deserves someone like Ron. You- you deserve someone like her. It's sad. I mean, I'm..."
Harry swallowed. What was she trying to imply?
"I fancy- Ron. I have for a couple years, really," Lavender confessed quietly, "But seeing them, there, like this... they deserve each other. Me... I don't know. I suppose I'll find someone that can put up with me, eventually."
Half-consciously, but wanting nothing more in that moment to help, if he could- he'd done quite enough harm that day- Harry tentatively reached out an arm to put it on Lavender's shoulder. "I think you're fine the way you are. You shouldn't change for other people. Only change if you want to."
She sniffed, "But I don't. I know I can be whiny, and I'm probably needy, and I'm into fashion, and gossip, and I know you don't like Divination, which I do, and you don't like any of those things. So what are you going to do about it? It's not like I can just go out with you, instead."
Harry was a bit affronted, but knew the girl hadn't meant it quite the way it sounded. Instead, he parsed exactly what the girl was saying- and what she was not saying. "You don't just fancy Ron, right?"
Slowly, not looking away from his friends, she shook her head.
He sighed. This is really getting overly complicated... "I don't fancy you," he said quietly, causing the girl to hiccup and take another deep breath, but that was the only response. "I do think you're very pretty. But I've... Lavender, I'm not someone worth a lot of attention right now. It isn't that I'm not interested in witches- I am- I just... I am not the 'good bloke' people think I am."
"Yet you're here, trying to make me feel better about having to give up on fancying your best friend. Even after I sort-of admitted that I- that I fancy you, too."
Shaking his head slowly, Harry protested, "That doesn't have much to do with it. I'm sorry, but... look at it from my point of view. There's a madman out there with a small army who wants me dead. There's apparently a fucking prophecy about us, too, so it has to happen one way or the other."
Harry didn't know why, of all people, it was Lavender Brown he was spilling these secrets to, but he had to tell someone. Her gasp of fear, even horror, at what he was saying only made the words come out faster, with even less of a filter. "I didn't grow up in a good home. My relatives hated me. Gave me scraps, called me 'boy' and 'freak' more than my own name, handed me only cast-off clothes and never a single toy. I didn't have friends, because my fat oaf of a cousin drove them all away. I didn't know what friends were like until... Ron, and Hermione. I didn't know I could have more people I called friends until this year, with the D.A.
"I... learned there's more to life than death. More than studying and learning, more than just screwing around, having fun. Other people have lives, and wants, and dreams. I lost my virginity this year, and have been with a bunch of witches now. I like it, but it kind of feels like it's taking over my life. Then this- tonight- happens, and... I lost four friends. I just got three of those friends, and I couldn't really call Alicia a friend outside of Quidditch until this year, so I kind of just got her as a friend, too. And... everyone could have died. I just... I don't think I'm worth it. I probably wasn't worth risking your lives before I became a- a murderer."
The pretty witch sat in silence, watching him speak now, as he laid out his heart, confessing almost everything he'd been up to the last few weeks to probably the least-safe person in the castle to do so with.
Then Lavender surprised him by sitting up in her bed, reaching out with her hands, and pulling him bodily- or at least trying to- up into the bed. He resisted at first. "No, I- I'm not trying-"
But she overrode him, whispering, "Harry, come into the bed. Quietly, or I'll scream for Pomfrey. Please."
In horror at how willing she was to blackmail him, Harry complied, laying down stiff and wooden beside her. Lavender, though, did not do anything more than put her arm beneath his neck and head, then curl against him with her other hand on his chest. "Go to sleep,Harry," she whispered, "And know that people do think you are worth it. Ron and Hermione do. Parvati does. I do. Everyone in this wing thinks you're worth it. None of us have any regrets."
She said nothing else, but when Madam Pomfrey came to check on her patients at three in the morning, she did nothing to separate any of them, not even the patient she'd gained during the night without her knowledge.
A/N2: Review, folks! New chapters posted monthly (roughly around the 5th), but I will post early when I hit 15 reviews per chapter!
For those who might be interested, I now have a Pat(r)eon (and thanks, FFnet, for being obnoxious as always with outside links. And by thanks I mean I kind of hate you for it).
Here's the link: www . Pa(t)(r)(e)(o)(N)/KajaWilder? Fbclid =IwAR08dUlNir3Aa0fggM_KW4fjYLNSWV88wTw6soznajhd8tqwhgIzyAxWpbM
Delete all spaces and the useless parenthesis as usual, and it should work just fine.
Glossary: