hey guys! i wanted to do an exprienment, i wanted to amke a story with AI to know how esay or hard it is. it was actually much more diffiult than i imagned.. i have used HOURS and DAYS to do this, to make the history like i wanted it to turn out. it was so hard to find the perfect story and yeah.. but i think it turned out okay and i am really exited to share it with you! im really not a fan to make my stories with AI but it was a cool expiriense!
i hope you like it!
please review!
( i do not own harry potter)
Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall were quietly observing a Muggle-born boy named Michael Murphy, who would soon be attending Hogwarts. He had several health problems, and McGonagall had brought Pomfrey along to discuss a potential health plan with his parents. Before they spoke to the family, they wanted to observe the boy in his natural environment.
Under a *Notice-Me-Not* charm, the two witches stood near a playground close to Privet Drive, watching as Michael played. He seemed to be having a great time, laughing and running around, until a group of older boys approached him.
"Heyyy! Look who's here," one of the boys jeered.
"Yoooo, it's Michael, the medical freak," another one sneered.
Michael's smile faded, fear washing over his face, though it seemed as if he was used to this kind of treatment.
"Hey, guys, can we not do this today? I'm not really in the mood," Michael said, trying to diffuse the situation.
But his attempt didn't work. The boys grabbed him, shoving him around. One of the biggest boys punched him in the face, and Michael screamed in pain.
Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall were about to step in when another voice interrupted.
"Hey, Diddydums, beating up another 10-year-old, are we?" the voice said, sarcastically.
The biggest boy, Dudley, turned around, glaring. "This one deserved it," he muttered.
"Yeah? Did he say you look like a pig that's learned to walk on its hind legs? 'Cause that's not cheek, Dud. That's the truth."
At the sound of the voice, both Pomfrey and McGonagall recognized the speaker—Harry Potter. He had just finished his second year at Hogwarts and was back home for the summer.
Dudley, red-faced and furious, dropped Michael to the ground, who scrambled away.
"Watch it, Potter, or you'll regret it," Dudley growled.
"Why's that?" Harry asked, folding his arms.
"We'll beat you up like we always do," Dudley sneered.
"Fair enough," Harry replied casually.
One of the other boys chimed in, "How's it going, Potter? Dudley's been telling us you've been sent to St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. Is that right?"
"Yeah, it's quite the place," Harry said with mock seriousness.
"You getting beat up there, too? Or does your uncle handle that for them?" another boy laughed.
"Very funny," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "By the way, Dud, how do you think Aunt Petunia will react when she hears you've been picking on a poor, innocent boy?"
"She won't believe a word of it," Dudley scoffed. "Besides, who'd listen to a freak like you?"
The group of boys started advancing on Harry now. Suddenly, two of them grabbed him from behind, slamming him against a wall, while Dudley delivered a hard kick to Harry's stomach. Harry gasped in pain, clutching his midsection as Dudley continued kicking him.
Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall were frozen in shock, watching the brutal scene unfold before them.
Finally, Dudley seemed satisfied and let Harry drop to the ground with a thud. He stood over him, smirking. "Wait till I tell my dad about this, freak. You won't be able to walk once he's done with you."
The gang walked off, laughing, while Michael, who had been hiding behind a bench, cautiously approached Harry.
"Hey, are you okay?" Michael asked, concerned.
Harry, still clutching his stomach, winced but forced a smile. "Yeah, I'll be fine," he said through gritted teeth, slowly getting to his feet.
"What about you? You okay?" Harry asked, looking Michael up and down.
"Yeah, just a bit shaken," Michael replied, rubbing his arm. "Thanks for standing up for me."
"Don't mention it. Those guys are a real pain, aren't they?" Harry muttered.
"Do you know them?" Michael asked, eyes wide with curiosity.
"Yeah, I went to school with them. The big one—Dudley—he's my cousin," Harry admitted, rubbing his sore ribs.
"What did he mean about his dad beating you up?" Michael asked nervously.
"Don't worry about it, mate. It's nothing," Harry said, trying to sound casual. "Listen, don't pay any attention to what they say. They're just full of it."
Michael nodded, though he still looked concerned. "Are you sure you're, okay? Should I call an ambulance or something? They kicked you pretty hard."
"I'll be alright. Just go home, yeah?" Harry said, starting to walk away.
"Will I ever see you again?" Michael asked hopefully.
"Probably not. I go to school in Scotland most of the year. Maybe next summer," Harry said with a half-smile as he walked off.
"Okay... thanks again," Michael called after him.
Harry raised a hand in farewell without looking back.
As Michael walked home, his mind raced. The big boy had called him Potter... Could it be? He wondered if he'd ever see the mysterious boy again.
Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall were left standing in silence, watching the scene unfold from a distance, still under the *Notice-Me-Not* charm.
"What on earth just happened?" McGonagall whispered, shocked.
"I have no idea," Madam Pomfrey replied, shaking her head.
McGonagall's Office, Three Days After the Incident
Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall sat in the latter's office, the crackling of the fireplace the only sound in the room. The tension was palpable, neither woman able to shake the unsettling thoughts from their minds.*
"What do you know about the Dursleys, Poppy ?"
"Not much, Minerva. Harry rarely spoke about them, and when he did, it was never in detail. I've sent letters—countless times—when Harry was injured or needed someone to step in. But they never responded. Not once."
Minerva clenched her hands, a troubled look on her face.
"I met them once, just after Harry was left on their doorstep. Awful people, the lot of them. I remember thinking then that poor boy would never have an easy life. But Albus"
she pauses, frustration flickering in her voice
"—he insisted there was no other way. 'They're his only family,' he said."
"Yes, he told me the same. But lately... I can't help feeling we made a mistake. Something is terribly wrong here."
Pomfrey shifted in her seat, her face pale.
"Have you ever looked into Harry's medical history?"Minerva asked
"I have. But there's barely anything. It's as though he's never set foot in a doctor's office." Poppy answered
Minerva's brow furrowed deeper, her voice laced with concern.
"That's not right, Minerva. Every child—Muggle-born or wizard-raised—has their first-year medical check when they come to Hogwarts. But when I pulled Harry's records… there was nothing. It's like the Dursleys never took him to a healer—or a Muggle doctor, for that matter."
"They assumed every magical family would handle their own, and for Muggle-borns, we have our procedures. But Harry... they overlooked him. Completely."
Silence fell between them as the gravity of the situation settled in. McGonagall's lips tightened into a thin line, her knuckles white as she gripped the armrest of her chair.
"I'm beginning to wonder how much damage we've let slip through our fingers, Minerva. Harry's been through far more than we ever imagined."
"Then it's time we find out just how deep this goes. For Harry's sake."
The Hogwarts Express rattled along the tracks, and Harry, though in pain, felt a sense of comfort as the familiar train carried him back to Hogwarts. The pain from the summer beatings lingered, but it was dulled by the relief of leaving Privet Drive behind. He leaned back in the compartment, feeling bruises throb with each movement, but forced himself to smile as Ron and Hermione chatted excitedly.
Across from them, a man was sleeping—a new face, though somehow familiar. The man was dressed in shabby robes, his head resting against the window as he dozed. Remus Lupin, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, had been there when they arrived, soundly asleep and seemingly oblivious to their chatter.
Ron leaned in close and whispered, "That's the new professor, right? Bit odd, isn't he?"
Harry nodded, but the dull ache in his ribs distracted him. He shifted uncomfortably, trying not to wince in front of his friends. The excitement of returning to Hogwarts masked the pain, at least for now.
Hermione glanced at Harry, noticing his discomfort. "Harry, are you sure you're alright? You seem... I don't know, a bit pale."
"I'm fine," Harry lied quickly, giving her a weak smile. "Just tired, I guess."
Before Hermione could probe further, the compartment door slid open, and Harry's heart nearly stopped. There, standing awkwardly in the doorway, was Michael Murphy—the same Michael Harry had defended on the playground just days ago. Michael's eyes went wide with surprise when he saw Harry, his mouth dropping open slightly.
"Harry?" Michael blurted out, clearly stunned. "What... What are you doing here?"
Harry's stomach twisted painfully, panic rising in his chest. Michael wasn't supposed to be here, not on the Hogwarts Express. He didn't know Harry was a wizard, and worse, he knew too much about the terrible summer Harry had endured. If Michael said anything—
"Uh, hey," Harry forced out, trying to sound casual, but his voice cracked. "I, uh... I go here. To Hogwarts."
Michael's eyes flickered between Harry and his friends, confusion etched on his face. "You... You're a wizard? But... but I thought... I mean, you didn't say anything."
Ron and Hermione exchanged curious looks but remained silent. Harry's heart pounded. He could feel the bruises from his uncle's beatings burning under his clothes, reminding him of what he was desperately trying to hide.
"Listen," Harry whispered urgently, stepping closer to Michael and lowering his voice. "You can't tell anyone. Not about what happened this summer. Not about... any of it."
Michael blinked, still in shock, but nodded slowly. "I... I won't say anything, I swear. But... you're a wizard?"
"Yes," Harry hissed, anxiety creeping into his voice. "Just don't tell anyone, alright? Please."
Michael nodded again, more firmly this time. "Okay. I won't."
"Good," Harry muttered, though the tension in his chest didn't ease. He slumped back into his seat, trying to push away the lingering panic. His ribs throbbed painfully,
When Harry returned to the compartment, Hermione was frowning deeply. "Harry, what's going on? Who was that boy?"
"Just... someone I know from the summer," Harry muttered, quickly sitting back down. He didn't want to explain any more.
Ron shrugged, clearly uninterested. "Anyway, I can't wait to get back. You'd think Mum would stop nagging me about my OWLs now that we're finally getting back to school."
As Ron rambled, Harry relaxed a little, but the pain in his ribs kept him from fully settling. Hermione still looked worried, but Harry made sure to keep the conversation light, trying to divert attention from himself.
Just as Harry started to catch his breath, the temperature in the compartment dropped suddenly. A chill swept over them, and the glass of the windows frosted as though winter had swept in.
Ron sat up, alarmed. "What's going on?"
The door slid open, and a hooded figure loomed in the doorway—a Dementor. Harry's blood ran cold as the creature's icy presence filled the compartment. His head spun, his vision darkening. He heard the distant echoes of screams—his mother's screams—and felt the world slipping away.
The last thing he saw before everything went black was the Dementor gliding towards him, and then—nothing.
Harry sat uncomfortably in Professor McGonagall's office, feeling the warmth of the fire crackling nearby, but it did little to ease his anxiety. He could still feel the embarrassment burning in his cheeks from the incident on the train. the memory of the panic coursing through him as he made Michael swear not to reveal anything about his life at Hogwarts lingered like a dull ache. Now, here he was, facing McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey, both looking far too concerned for his liking.
Professor McGonagall, with her stern expression, broke the silence. "Professor Lupin sent an owl ahead to say that you were taken ill on the train, Potter."
Before Harry could muster a protest, Madam Pomfrey bustled in, her eyes narrowing as they landed on him. The look on her face made him uneasy.
"I'm fine," Harry said quickly, hoping to end this conversation before it started. "Really, I don't need anything."
"Oh, it's you, is it?" Madam Pomfrey said, ignoring his words and leaning closer to scrutinize him. "I suppose you've been doing something dangerous again?"
"It was a Dementor, Poppy," McGonagall interjected sharply.
Madam Pomfrey clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "Setting Dementors around a school? Terrible things, they are. And the effect they have on people who are already delicate…" She pushed back Harry's hair, feeling his forehead with her cool hands. "Yes, he's clammy."
"I'm not delicate!" Harry protested, his voice rising in irritation.
"Of course you're not," she replied absentmindedly, now taking his pulse. It felt like an eternity, and Harry was hyper-aware of every moment that passed, especially the thought of the scars on his body that he desperately hoped they wouldn't discover.
"What does he need?" McGonagall's tone was crisp, betraying her concern. "Bed rest? Should he perhaps spend tonight in the hospital wing?"
"I'm fine!" Harry insisted, jumping up. The very idea of spending the night in the hospital wing made his stomach churn. The thought of revealing his injuries and his home life to them was unbearable, and the embarrassment made him panic. What if they found out? He couldn't let them see the scars; they had no idea what he had been through.
"Well, he should have some chocolate, at the very least," Madam Pomfrey said, moving closer to peer into his eyes.
"I've already had some," Harry retorted, desperate to dismiss their worries. "Professor Lupin gave me some. He gave it to all of us."
"Did he, now?" Madam Pomfrey's expression softened slightly, a hint of approval flashing in her eyes. "So we've finally got a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who knows his remedies?"
"Are you sure you feel all right, Potter?" McGonagall's gaze was sharp, and Harry could see the concern etched on her face.
"Yes," he replied, though he felt a flutter of unease in his stomach.
"Very well. Kindly wait outside while I have a quick word with Miss Granger about her course schedule, then we can go down to the feast together," McGonagall instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Harry stepped into the corridor, the heavy door closing behind him. He leaned against the wall, letting out a frustrated breath. He was fine. He didn't need their fuss. But as he stood there, the panic still lingered in his chest. What if they pushed for him to stay in the hospital wing? He wouldn't let that happen. He would just have to promise them he would visit Madam Pomfrey if he felt worse—which he had no intention of doing.
After all, he was Harry Potter. He could handle this.
But deep down, he felt the weight of the secrets he was keeping, and it made him feel more alone than ever.
Professor McGonagall watched Harry closely as he sat in her office. He looked uncomfortable, shifting slightly in his seat, his face a bit pale, and his eyes clouded with an edge of wariness she had seen before. She knew why. It wasn't just the Dementor attack, not the fainting that had sent him to her office—it was everything that lay beneath the surface. The bruises, the injuries, the panic she had witnessed at the train station, and the dreadful beating she and Poppy had seen, hidden by their Notice-Me-Not spells.
She exchanged a glance with Madam Pomfrey, who had entered the office quietly, her hands already hovering with the precision of a healer who knew exactly what to do. But McGonagall wasn't just concerned with the wounds Harry would let them see—no, there was more to it. She was almost certain of it.
"Professor Lupin sent an owl ahead to say that you were taken ill on the train, Potter," McGonagall said, keeping her voice even, her heart heavy. Lupin's message had made Harry's condition seem minor, but she knew there was more to his fatigue than he was letting on.
"I'm fine," Harry said quickly, too quickly. McGonagall could hear the defensiveness in his voice. He hated this—being fussed over. He had always been like that, even in his first year. And now, here he was again, trying to push them away, just as he had after so many accidents and mishaps.
Madam Pomfrey moved in, gently but firmly ignoring Harry's protests. "Oh, it's you, is it?" she muttered, giving him a knowing look. "I suppose you've been doing something dangerous again?"
McGonagall's heart clenched. She knew Harry had faced far worse than a Dementor on the train today. But did he trust them enough to admit it?
"It was a Dementor, Poppy," McGonagall said quietly, her voice tight as she remembered the panic on Harry's face when Dudley and his gang had attacked that young boy just days ago. Harry had been so bruised—his limp had been subtle, but unmistakable. But here he was, acting as if nothing was wrong.
Pomfrey tutted, brushing Harry's hair aside and checking his forehead, her concern clear. "Yes, he's all clammy. Terrible things, Dementors, especially for someone… in his condition." She trailed off, clearly thinking the same thing McGonagall was—Harry wasn't just suffering from the Dementor's effect. He was hiding something.
"I'm not delicate!" Harry said sharply, the bite in his tone betraying his frustration. McGonagall sighed inwardly. She had been hoping Harry would open up, if not to her, then at least to Poppy. But that wall was still up—firm, unyielding.
"Of course you're not," Pomfrey murmured, but she was taking his pulse with the calm efficiency of someone who was not about to be swayed by teenage defiance. McGonagall watched as Harry flinched slightly when Pomfrey's hand brushed too close to his side. He was hiding something—likely the same bruises they had seen days before, but she didn't want to push him now.
"What does he need, Poppy?" McGonagall asked, keeping her voice level, though her thoughts were racing. Was this the right moment? Should they confront him about what they had seen at the playground? Or would it drive him further into silence?
Pomfrey gave Harry a stern look, but her response was gentle. "He needs rest, Minerva. And chocolate, at the very least. He shouldn't be pushing himself like this."
McGonagall caught the implication. He shouldn't have to push through pain like this at all. Harry was too accustomed to suffering, too used to hiding it. She had seen that in his eyes when he was a first-year, and it had only grown worse. "Perhaps he should spend the night in the hospital wing, just to be safe."
"I'm fine!" Harry jumped to his feet, his face going pale again, and McGonagall couldn't miss the flicker of panic in his eyes. The boy was terrified of something. Was it the hospital wing? Or was it that they might see something he didn't want them to? Something that would tell them more about his life outside of Hogwarts?
"Harry," she began softly, but stopped herself. Confronting him now wasn't going to work. He was too defensive, too scared. "Very well," she said, giving him the space he clearly needed. "But if you feel worse—"
"I won't," Harry interrupted, though his voice cracked slightly. "I promise."
though McGonagall wasn't convinced. He was hiding something, and she feared it went far beyond physical injuries.
Pomfrey, however, gave him one last look, as if she, too, was weighing the decision to push harder. But she stepped back, giving him the space he so desperately sought.
McGonagall finally sighed, knowing this wasn't the time to pry deeper. "Go on, Potter. The feast is waiting."
Harry left the office, closing the door behind him, and the two witches exchanged a long, troubled glance.
McGonagall's lips pressed into a thin line,. Pomfrey packed up her things, her gaze lingering on Harry for just a moment longer.
"Let him go for now," Pomfrey's eyes seemed to say. But the concern didn't fade.
"We'll let him be, for now," McGonagall thought, as she watched Harry step toward the door. "But this isn't over."
As Harry left, McGonagall leaned back in her chair, the flickering light of the fire casting long shadows in the small room. She turned to Pomfrey, her voice low, but firm. "We can't leave it like this, Poppy. He's hiding something, and I suspect it's far worse than we think."
Pomfrey nodded. "I've thought the same since the start of the year, Minerva. But he's a proud boy. If we push too hard, he'll shut us out completely."
McGonagall stared at the door Harry had just walked through, her mind swirling with thoughts of the playground, the brutal reality they had witnessed. "We'll watch him closely," she said finally. "We have to. He's not just any student. He's Harry Potter."
Pomfrey sighed softly. "He's still just a child, though. One that's been hurt far too much."
"Yes," McGonagall agreed quietly, her heart heavy. "Far too much."
Harry lay in bed, staring at the dark canopy of his four-poster bed. The warmth and comfort of the familiar dormitory couldn't mask the pain that shot through his body every time he shifted. The aches from his ribs, back, and arms felt like constant reminders of the summer he had just escaped. He could hear the gentle breathing of his dormmates—Ron, Neville, Seamus, and Dean—filling the room. It was peaceful, unlike the storm of memories raging in his mind.
He turned to his side, wincing as the bruises made themselves known. Closing his eyes, he tried to force his mind to quiet, but all he could think about was the summer. His uncle, towering above him, red-faced and furious, the sting of a hand across his cheek, the punches that followed. There had been days when Harry had wondered if he would survive. But somehow, he always did.
And then there had been Dudley—bigger and meaner than ever—and his gang. Harry could feel the dread settle in his stomach just thinking about the playground. Michael had been there. Harry clenched his fists under the covers. Michael... He had been sorted into Gryffindor earlier that night, wearing the red and gold robes now. Would Michael keep his word? Would he tell anyone?
The memory of Michael's surprise, the look of betrayal when he found out Harry was a wizard, flashed through Harry's mind. He had made Michael swear—*begged* him not to say a word about what he saw or knew. But Harry couldn't shake the fear that, like everyone else in his life, Michael would eventually turn on him too.
The pain in his ribs flared again, pulling him back to the present. He stifled a groan, not wanting to wake anyone. His chest tightened—not just from the physical pain but from the suffocating feeling of being trapped, alone with his secret. Could he really survive another year like this?
Meanwhile, in Professor McGonagall's Office..
The fire in the hearth crackled softly as Professor McGonagall sat behind her desk, her expression stern, yet tinged with concern. Madam Pomfrey stood by the window, arms crossed, her brow furrowed in deep thought.
"I don't like the look of this, Minerva," Madam Pomfrey said, her voice low but resolute. "There's no doubt in my mind that boy has been through something terrible."
McGonagall nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. "Neither do I, Poppy. But we cannot rush him into talking. If we confront him too directly, he may shut us out completely."
"That's exactly why we need to approach this carefully," Madam Pomfrey replied, turning to face McGonagall fully. "But we can't just stand by either. I saw the way he flinched earlier, the bruises I couldn't heal properly... If he's been hurt, we need to know. And soon."
McGonagall tapped her fingers on the desk, her sharp eyes betraying her worry. "I agree. Tomorrow, we will speak with him. But we must be prepared for the possibility that he won't tell us everything, if anything at all. The boy is incredibly private about his struggles."
Madam Pomfrey sighed, her concern for Harry evident. "He needs to know that Hogwarts is a safe place, Minerva. That he can trust us."
McGonagall met her gaze. "We will make sure he knows that. But we must tread carefully. We owe him that much."
As they sat in the quiet of McGonagall's office, both women knew that tomorrow would be crucial. Whatever Harry had endured, they were determined to help him, even if they had to wait patiently for him to open up.
Back in the dormitory, Harry remained awake, his mind swirling with memories and fears. Sleep eluded him, but so did peace. Tomorrow loomed ahead, but Harry couldn't know that help was already waiting, just beyond the silence of his room.
Harry hadn't slept much the night before. Every time he shifted in bed, the sharp, aching bruises from the summer beatings sent waves of pain through his body. His mind, however, refused to quiet. It replayed the events of the summer—the constant bullying from Dudley and his gang, the beatings from Uncle Vernon, and, most of all, that day at the playground.
Now, sitting in the Great Hall, Harry poked at his breakfast with a fork, hardly tasting it. He felt Hermione and Ron's concerned glances, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything. His mind was too distracted, thinking about Michael—how surprised he was when they met again at Hogwarts, sorted into Gryffindor, no less. Michael had sworn not to tell anyone about Harry's summer, but Harry couldn't shake the anxiety. What if McGonagall or someone else had seen something?
Before he could dwell on it longer, a voice called across the Hall.
"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall's voice was steady, though there was something different about it today. "Please come with me."
The usual murmur of the students grew as Harry rose from the bench. He nodded at Ron and Hermione, who both looked puzzled, and followed McGonagall out of the Hall. The walk to her office felt like a march toward doom, his heart thudding in his chest. He had no idea what this was about, but the tightness in his chest told him it wasn't good.
In McGonagall's Office
When Harry stepped into McGonagall's office, Madam Pomfrey was already there, waiting beside McGonagall's desk. The warm atmosphere of the office did nothing to ease the cold dread creeping into Harry's stomach. The two women shared a look before McGonagall gestured for Harry to sit.
Harry shifted uncomfortably in the chair across from Professor McGonagall's desk. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, his hands clenched in his lap, wishing more than anything that he could disappear. Madam Pomfrey stood nearby, arms crossed, her expression a mixture of concern and determination.
Professor McGonagall broke the heavy silence. "Harry," she began gently, "Madam Pomfrey and I… we saw something this summer."
Harry's heart raced. He knew what they were talking about. He'd been hoping against hope they wouldn't bring it up.
Here's the revised chapter with Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall confronting Harry, followed by the ending where he is taken to the hospital wing:
Harry sat tensely in the chair across from Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey, his fists clenched on his lap. His heart pounded in his chest as both women exchanged glances, and McGonagall spoke first, her voice soft but filled with resolve.
"We saw you, Harry," she said. "At the playground in Surrey."
Harry's stomach churned, and his throat felt tight. He stared at the floor, not trusting himself to speak.
"We were there visiting Michael's family," McGonagall continued, "when we saw... something that concerned us."
Madam Pomfrey leaned forward, her expression filled with worry. "Harry, we saw that boy—your cousin, wasn't it?—strike you."
Harry's breathing quickened, and his hands gripped the chair even tighter. He didn't want to talk about this. He didn't want to remember it. "It's nothing," he muttered, his voice barely audible.
McGonagall's lips thinned. "It didn't look like nothing."
"Your cousin," Madam Pomfrey said gently, "said some things that day. He taunted you, and we couldn't help but hear it. He spoke of things that... well, Harry, no child should have to endure."
Harry's head snapped up, eyes blazing. "I don't want to talk about it," he said, more forcefully this time.
Madam Pomfrey's gaze softened even further, but she didn't back down. "We're not asking you to talk about it now, Harry. But we need to help you."
McGonagall nodded. "You're not going back to Privet Drive, Harry. We will make sure of that."
Harry's heart skipped a beat at those words. He wasn't going back? Relief washed over him, but the fear of what they might do next crept back in. "Where am I going, then?" he asked warily.
McGonagall exchanged a look with Madam Pomfrey before shaking her head slightly. "That's a discussion for another time. Right now, our priority is your health."
Harry didn't seen so sure
"You won't be returning there, Harry," McGonagall said firmly. "But you must tell us the truth. What has been happening at your aunt and uncle's?"
Harry's throat tightened again. He shook his head, unable to speak.
"Harry, you don't have to be afraid anymore," Madam Pomfrey said, kneeling beside him. "We're here to help you."
"I'm not afraid," Harry muttered, though his knuckles had gone white from clenching his fists so hard. He wasn't afraid—he was ashamed. And he wasn't going to talk about it. Not now. Not ever.
McGonagall and Pomfrey exchanged glances. Harry could feel their disappointment, but he couldn't bring himself to look at them.
Madam Pomfrey stood up, her voice soft but firm. "You're hurt, Harry. I can tell. I want you to come with me to the hospital wing so we can take care of it."
Harry froze. The thought of going to the hospital wing made everything feel too real. "I'm fine," he tried to insist, though his voice cracked.
"You're not fine," McGonagall said, standing as well. "And it's alright, Harry. We're going to make sure you're alright."
"Come on now, dear," Madam Pomfrey said gently, rising to her feet. "Let's get you to the hospital wing. You need proper rest."
For a moment, Harry was overwhelmed by the urge to refuse, to run and hide from this conversation, but the warmth in Madam Pomfrey's eyes and the determination in McGonagall's voice broke down his defenses. He nodded slowly, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
"Come on, then," Madam Pomfrey said softly, guiding him gently towards the door. "Let's get you taken care of."
As they left the office, Harry's mind whirled with all the things he hadn't said, all the things he wished he could forget they made their way to the hospital wing
The hospital wing was quiet, the usual soft clink of potions and jars the only sound as Madam Pomfrey led Harry to one of the beds. The sterile smell of healing salves and medicinal herbs filled the air, reminding Harry of all the times he'd ended up here before—but this time felt different. It wasn't a Quidditch injury or something magical that had gone wrong. This time, it was the summer, and everything he'd tried so hard to forget.
"Sit down, dear," Madam Pomfrey said gently, gesturing to the bed.
Madam Pomfrey bustled around, preparing a series of potions and tools with her usual no-nonsense efficiency. As soon as they'd arrived, she'd helped Harry settle in, but not before thoroughly inspecting his injuries.
Madam Pomfrey bustled around, gathering various vials and jars from her shelves. "We'll start with a diagnostic spell," she said, her tone matter-of-fact but still filled with concern. She raised her wand and moved it carefully over his body, muttering an incantation under her breath.
A soft, bluish glow surrounded Harry, revealing the areas of his body that were bruised or damaged. Madam Pomfrey's brow furrowed as she assessed the extent of the injuries
"Good heavens," she muttered under her breath, her eyes narrowing as she scanned her wand over Harry's body. "You've more broken bones than I first thought—your wrist, your ribs—this is going to take time."
Harry winced but said nothing. He was used to pain by now, and he didn't want to make a fuss. Madam Pomfrey's wand hovered over his chest, and a soft light glowed from the tip as she assessed the damage.
"These bones won't heal overnight. A few of them will take a couple of weeks to fully mend, but you'll start feeling better soon enough," she said, her tone brisk but tinged with concern. She placed a vial of bone-repairing potion on the table beside him, giving him a stern look.
Her wand shifted to scan his torso, and her frown deepened. "You're also severely underweight. How long has it been since you've had a proper meal?"
Harry remained silent, staring at the floor. He felt a wave of shame wash over him, even though he knew it wasn't his fault. He didn't want to be here, didn't want anyone fussing over him
Harry glanced away, biting his lip. "I dunno… I guess I just haven't been hungry."
Madam Pomfrey clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "You're malnourished, Mr. Potter, and your body isn't going to heal properly if you don't start eating. I'll get you some nutrient potions, but you'll need real food as well. Skipping meals won't be an option."
Harry nodded, still avoiding her gaze. The truth was that food had been the least of his concerns over the summer. Between the beatings, Dudley's bullying, and trying to avoid Uncle Vernon's wrath, he'd barely had time to think about eating. But now that Madam Pomfrey had mentioned it, he could feel the gnawing emptiness in his stomach.
Madam Pomfrey pulled up a chair beside the bed and placed a calming hand on his shoulder. "Harry," she said softly, "you've been through a lot. But we're going to make sure you heal properly, alright?"
He nodded stiffly, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over him. The events of the summer, the stress of hiding it, the confrontation with McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey—it was all too much. He just wanted it to be over.
Madam Pomfrey looked at harry as she continued her scan. "And you're sleep-deprived. I'll give you something to help you rest tonight, but you'll need regular sleep if you want to recover fully."
Harry shifted uncomfortably, not liking the idea of being knocked out with a sleeping potion. His nightmares had been bad enough on their own without adding a magical sleep to the mix. But at this point, he didn't have the strength to argue.
Madam Pomfrey set to work, applying a cooling salve to his bruises. The relief was instant, the pain ebbing away as the potion did its magic. Harry let out a small sigh, the tension in his muscles easing for the first time in what felt like weeks.
Madam Pomfrey returned to her potions cabinet, carefully measuring out doses and bringing them to his bedside. She handed him the first vial—a murky green concoction for his broken bones.
"Drink this," she ordered. "It'll help with the pain and start mending those fractures. You'll need to take it every morning for the next few weeks."
Harry obeyed, downing the bitter potion with a grimace. Almost immediately, he felt a tingling sensation spreading through his chest and arm, as if something warm was knitting his bones back together.
She handed him another vial—this one a deep blue. "This is for your sleep. Take it tonight before bed. You'll wake up feeling more rested, but don't get used to it. I want you to start sleeping properly on your own soon."
"Yes, ma'am," Harry murmured, his voice low.
Madam Pomfrey gave him a long, assessing look. "You're strong, Harry, but you don't need to bear all of this on your own. Rest now, and we'll deal with the rest in the morning."
He nodded but stayed silent. Resting seemed impossible with the memories of the summer weighing so heavily on his mind. But the warmth of the potion was already working through his bones, dulling the sharpest edges of the pain.
"Now," Madam Pomfrey said, smoothing the covers over him, "I'll be keeping a close eye on you. Don't even think about leaving this bed without my permission."
Harry managed a small smile at her sternness, but he appreciated her care, even if he couldn't say it. As she finished tidying up, the exhaustion hit him in full force, and for the first time in days, he felt like sleep might be possible.
"Goodnight, Harry," she said softly before exiting the room, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.
The quiet of the hospital wing settled around him, and though the pain was still there, it was muted, manageable. He stared at the ceiling, his eyes heavy but his mind still racing. Despite Madam Pomfrey's reassurances, he wasn't sure how long it would take to heal—not just his body, but everything else that had been broken over the summer.
He closed his eyes, letting the exhaustion pull him into sleep, but even as he drifted off, the echoes of the past lingered.
The morning light crept through the hospital wing windows, casting a soft glow over Harry's bed. He lay still, the pain in his body having dulled slightly overnight, though it was far from gone. His broken bones ached, and despite the potions Madam Pomfrey had given him, his body still felt weak, like it could give out at any moment.
Madam Pomfrey bustled over, carrying a tray of food. Her expression was stern, but there was concern in her eyes. She set the tray down on the small table beside Harry's bed with a firm thud.
"You've got to eat today, Mr. Potter," she said in that no-nonsense tone of hers. "You're far too underweight, and your body needs fuel to heal. I won't have you wasting away."
Harry's heart sank as he looked at the tray. A bowl of porridge, toast, and fruit. His stomach churned at the sight of it, a mix of nausea and fear bubbling up inside him. He wasn't hungry—he hadn't been for days—but Madam Pomfrey's insistence reminded him all too much of the way Aunt Petunia would demand he eat when Uncle Vernon was angry with him. He didn't want to disappoint her, didn't want to get into trouble here at Hogwarts.
"I—I'm not that hungry," he mumbled, staring down at the tray.
Madam Pomfrey's eyes narrowed. "You've lost too much weight, Potter. You will eat, and that's final. I've seen enough stubborn patients to know what happens when they don't take care of themselves. Now, I'll give you some privacy, but when I come back, that tray had better be empty."
Her words felt like a command, not a suggestion. The tone, firm and unyielding, made Harry's chest tighten. He knew she was right—he was too thin, too weak—but the thought of eating, of forcing himself to swallow the food, made him feel ill.
But he couldn't say no. Not to Madam Pomfrey. He'd already caused enough trouble, with everyone worrying about him and making such a fuss. He couldn't risk upsetting her.
With trembling hands, Harry picked up the spoon and scooped a small bit of porridge into his mouth. The warm, sticky texture hit his tongue, but it tasted like nothing. He swallowed, forcing it down, his throat tight and his stomach already protesting.
He kept going, bite after bite, each one harder than the last. His stomach twisted and turned, and the porridge sat like a heavy rock inside him. Sweat broke out on his forehead, but he kept eating, not stopping until the bowl was empty.
His heart pounded as he moved on to the toast, taking small bites, chewing slowly. His body screamed at him to stop, but the fear of getting in trouble pushed him forward. He had to finish it. He had to prove he could do what was expected of him.
When he finally set the empty plate back on the tray, his entire body felt cold and clammy. His hands shook, and his stomach churned violently, but he pushed the tray aside, relieved that it was done. Maybe now Madam Pomfrey would be satisfied.
A moment later, though, he felt the nausea rising fast. He clutched the edges of the bed, his body rebelling against him. Before he could stop it, a wave of sickness crashed over him. He leaned over the side of the bed just in time as everything he'd eaten came rushing back up, his body convulsing with the force of it.
The porridge, the toast—it all spilled into a hastily conjured basin, the taste of bile burning his throat. Harry gasped for air between retches, his whole body shaking as he emptied the contents of his stomach.
Madam Pomfrey rushed over, her face a mixture of concern and dismay as she knelt beside him, holding him steady as his body continued to heave. She didn't scold him or say anything, just gently rubbed his back until he had nothing left to give.
When it was over, Harry slumped back against the pillows, utterly exhausted and ashamed. His limbs felt like lead, and his head was spinning. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, unable to meet Madam Pomfrey's eyes.
"I'm… sorry," he muttered weakly, his voice barely a whisper.
Madam Pomfrey sighed, her expression softening. "There's no need to apologize, Harry. I shouldn't have pushed you so soon. You've been through more than enough."
She waved her wand, vanishing the mess and conjuring a cool cloth, which she pressed gently to Harry's forehead. "You're malnourished and sleep-deprived. Your body needs time to adjust before you can start eating properly again. We'll take it slow from now on. No more forcing yourself."
Harry nodded faintly, still too drained to respond. He felt a deep sense of failure settling in his chest. He hadn't been able to do something as simple as eat a meal without messing it up.
Madam Pomfrey sat down beside his bed, her voice calm and soothing as she spoke. "You've endured far too much, more than any child should. But you're safe now. You're at Hogwarts, and we're going to help you get through this. One step at a time."
Harry didn't answer, but her words settled over him like a soft blanket, a reminder that he wasn't alone in this, even though it felt like the weight of everything was pressing down on him.
She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Get some rest, Harry. We'll try again later."
As Madam Pomfrey moved away, Harry closed his eyes, his body sinking deeper into the bed. He felt the nausea slowly fading, but the exhaustion remained, pulling him toward sleep. For now, he let himself drift, trying to forget the pain, the summer, and the heaviness of everything that had happened.
Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it was a deep, dreamless escape from the weight of the world.
Harry sat in the hospital wing, staring at his hands, now encased in a cast. His wrist had been badly fractured, and his leg, wrapped up tightly, rested awkwardly on the bed. Madam Pomfrey had made it clear that he'd need to use crutches for at least four weeks while his bones healed. Four weeks of hobbling through the corridors of Hogwarts, of eyes watching him.
and while the bruises and cuts littering his body were starting to fade, they were still there—reminders of the pain that followed him.
Madam Pomfrey bustled around him, adjusting his pillows and checking his bandages. He appreciated her care, but a deep sense of unease gnawed at him. He knew what was coming.
A soft knock at the door startled him from his thoughts, and Harry's heart sank when Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey entered the room. They had been trying to get him to talk for days, and every time, Harry had insisted that nothing had happened. That he was fine. That everything was fine.
But today, he knew they wouldn't leave without pressing the issue further.
"Harry," Professor McGonagall said, her voice gentle but firm as she sat down in the chair beside his bed. Madam Pomfrey stood behind her, arms folded, watching him carefully.
"How are you feeling?" McGonagall asked.
Harry shrugged, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his blanket. "Fine," he mumbled.
"Harry," McGonagall began gently, "I know this isn't easy. But we need to talk about what happened."
Harry stiffened. He shook his head slightly, his heart pounding. "There's nothing to talk about, Professor," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "I'm fine.
Madam Pomfrey, standing beside him, gave a small sigh. "We only want to help you, dear. We know you've been hurting."
The words made Harry's chest tighten even more. They didn't know anything, he told himself. They didn't need to know. If he could just keep quiet long enough, they'd eventually stop asking. But the pressure was building, the weight of their worry pressing down on him more than the pain in his leg.
McGonagall stepped closer, kneeling slightly so she was at his eye level. Her expression was so soft, so understanding, that Harry had to look away. "I understand you're afraid to talk, Harry, but you don't have to face this alone."
He swallowed hard, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor. His chest was burning now, the lump in his throat so big it hurt to breathe. He wanted to scream at them to stop, to leave him alone, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he felt his eyes prick with tears. He blinked them back, refusing to cry in front of them, but it was becoming too much.
"Harry, please," Madam Pomfrey said, her voice quieter now, full of concern.
The lump in his throat was unbearable. He clenched his fists, willing himself not to fall apart. But the memory of those awful days—being locked in the cupboard, Dudley and his friends taunting him, the fear of his uncle's next blow—swelled inside him, breaking through the walls he'd built around it. And suddenly, he couldn't hold it back anymore.
Tears spilled over, his whole body shaking as he finally let go. "I—I don't want to talk about it," he choked out between sobs. "Please—just stop asking."
McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey exchanged a look, neither of them pressing him any further. McGonagall reached out, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. "It's all right, Harry," she whispered. "You don't have to say anything right now."
Madam Pomfrey quickly moved to his side, offering him a glass of water, but Harry couldn't stop crying. He felt ashamed, embarrassed by his own weakness, but at the same time, there was relief in letting it out. He didn't want to talk, didn't want to relive any of it—but for now, all he could do was cry, and they stayed by his side, quietly waiting until he was ready.
The silence in the hospital wing stretched on after Harry's tears had subsided, leaving him feeling raw and exposed. His eyes stung, and his throat was sore from crying. But even though the weight of the emotions had lessened, it still lingered, heavy in the air. He sat slumped on the hospital bed, his casts awkward and uncomfortable, but his mind was elsewhere, swirling with thoughts he didn't want to acknowledge.
McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey hadn't left his side, though they were giving him space. McGonagall was seated in a chair at the foot of his bed, watching him with that same soft expression she'd worn earlier. Madam Pomfrey stood a few feet away, arms folded, her face etched with concern.
Harry shifted uncomfortably, staring down at his hands as they lay limply on his lap. He didn't want to say anything. He didn't want to share what had happened, to relive those moments. But he could feel the pressure mounting again, the need to say something—to explain enough that they wouldn't ask more questions. If he could just give them something, maybe they'd stop pressing him so hard.
"I…" Harry's voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. He coughed, clearing his throat. "I don't… I don't really want to talk about it."
Both women remained silent, letting him speak at his own pace.
"But…" he continued, his voice shaky, "I know you won't stop asking until I do."
McGonagall's lips pressed together, but she nodded gently. "We won't force you to say more than you're ready to, Harry. But yes, we do want to understand what you've been going through."
Harry's heart pounded in his chest. His instinct was to shut down, to tell them nothing happened, to insist that everything was fine. But he knew they wouldn't believe that. They'd already seen too much. His mind raced, trying to figure out how much to tell them without revealing too much.
"I…" He swallowed hard, his voice trembling. "I don't know where to start."
"You don't have to tell us everything right now," Madam Pomfrey said softly. "Just take your time."
Harry nodded, but it didn't feel that simple. He looked down at the cast on his wrist, tracing the edges of it with his fingers, as if the injury itself could tell the story he didn't want to speak.
"There were beatings," he said quietly, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. "At home. With my uncle. It's… it's just how things were."
He saw McGonagall stiffen slightly, but she remained quiet, her face carefully composed.
"I tried to stay out of the way," Harry went on, his words halting, as if each one was being pulled from him with great effort. "But it didn't always work. Sometimes Dudley would… you know, make it worse. Him and his friends."
He wasn't looking at them, couldn't bear to see their faces as he talked. He could feel Madam Pomfrey's gaze on him, heavy with sadness, but she didn't interrupt.
Harry's hands were trembling slightly as he spoke. "This summer was worse. They locked me in my room most of the time. Didn't… didn't really get to eat much." His voice faltered, and he clenched his fists, hating how much it hurt to talk about this. "And then… well, you know about what happened on the playground."
Madam Pomfrey and McGonagall didn't say anything, but the tension in the air was palpable.
Harry took a deep breath, feeling like he was standing on a cliff's edge, unsure if he should take another step forward or pull back. He didn't want to talk anymore. He didn't want to explain the rest. But he knew he'd said enough to make them understand a little.
"That's… that's it," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper now. "I don't want to talk about it anymore."
McGonagall leaned forward slightly, her voice gentle. "Thank you for telling us, Harry. We know that wasn't easy."
Madam Pomfrey nodded, her face softening with sympathy. "You've been through so much, dear. More than anyone your age should have to."
Harry looked away, uncomfortable with their kindness. He didn't want pity. He just wanted to be left alone, to stop talking about all the things that made his skin crawl and his heart ache.
"We won't press you for more right now," McGonagall said. "But know that we're here, and we'll do everything we can to help."
Harry nodded, grateful that they were letting it go for now. He didn't want to push himself to say more, not when every word felt like tearing open an old wound.
Madam Pomfrey stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You need rest, Harry. You've been through enough for today."
Harry nodded again, feeling drained. He didn't have the energy to argue or even to feel embarrassed anymore. He just wanted to be left in peace.
As they left him alone in the hospital wing, Harry lay back on the bed, his mind racing. He hated talking about it, hated how vulnerable it made him feel.
The soft morning light filtered through the hospital wing windows, casting a pale glow over Harry's bed. Four days had passed since he had broken down in tears and started to open up, however cautiously, to Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall. The days had been a blur of rest, potions, and quiet conversations. His injuries were slowly healing, though the cast on his wrist and leg would stay for weeks yet, and the cuts and bruises still marked his skin, faint reminders of what had happened.
But today, he was finally being discharged from the hospital wing. Harry lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, a knot of anxiety in his stomach. He wasn't sure what would happen next. He didn't want to go back to the Dursleys, but he didn't know where else he could go. The uncertainty gnawed at him.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall had entered the room, their expressions calm but serious. Harry sat up, wincing as his sore muscles protested the movement.
"Good morning, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall greeted him, taking a seat beside his bed.
Madam Pomfrey stood beside her, her usual no-nonsense demeanor tempered with kindness. "How are you feeling, dear?"
Harry shrugged slightly. "Better, I guess."
Pomfrey gave him an assessing look, as if she could read the truth in his eyes. "Well, I'm glad to hear that. You've made some progress, but you still have a ways to go."
McGonagall leaned forward, her sharp eyes softened with concern. "Harry, we've come to discuss what will happen next. We know you've been worried about… where you'll go after this."
Harry's stomach twisted, but he nodded, waiting for them to continue.
"You won't be going back to the Dursleys," McGonagall said firmly. "You won't be returning to that house ever again."
A surge of relief washed over him, so strong it almost made him lightheaded. The Dursleys were done with him. He wouldn't have to face his uncle's anger, or Dudley's bullying ever again.
"But… where will I go?" Harry asked, his voice tentative, not wanting to get his hopes up too high.
Madam Pomfrey gave him a reassuring smile. "You'll be staying here, at Hogwarts."
Harry blinked in surprise. "Here? For the summer?"
McGonagall nodded. "Yes. Madam Pomfrey has kindly agreed to take responsibility for you over the summer holidays. You'll be staying here, under her care."
Pomfrey chimed in. "And I'll be keeping a close eye on your remaining injuries—your wrist and leg will take several weeks to fully heal, and we need to ensure your weight improves as well. You'll be seeing me regularly, at least a few times a month, to monitor your progress."
Harry looked between them, trying to take it all in. "So… I'll just be here? With you?"
"That's right," McGonagall said, her tone gentle but firm. "You'll be spending the summer here, and I'll also be helping oversee your wellbeing. You're not alone in this, Harry. If you need anything—anything at all—you can come to either of us."
Harry swallowed, feeling a strange mix of emotions. Relief, certainly, but also uncertainty. He had never stayed at Hogwarts over the summer before. It felt safe—much safer than Privet Drive—but the idea of being watched over so closely also made him feel exposed. He wasn't used to people caring like this.
"Thank you," Harry murmured, though his voice was quiet, unsure. He didn't know what else to say.
Pomfrey reached out, patting his shoulder gently. "You're welcome, dear. And remember, this isn't just about your physical injuries. We'll also be keeping an eye on how you're sleeping and making sure you're eating properly."
McGonagall added, "You've been through more than any child should, Harry. And we're here to help you through it, even if it takes time. You don't have to face it all on your own."
Harry didn't meet their eyes, instead focusing on his hands as they rested on the blanket. It was hard to accept their help, harder still to imagine relying on them. But a small part of him—a part he barely acknowledged—was grateful. Grateful that he wasn't being pushed away or abandoned, that someone cared enough to make sure he was okay.
"We're not expecting you to talk about everything all at once," Madam Pomfrey reassured him. "But if you ever feel like you need to, or if you're struggling, don't hesitate to come to us."
Harry nodded, feeling a lump form in his throat again. He had never had anyone say something like that to him before. It made him uncomfortable, but also… safe, in a way.
Pomfrey straightened, giving him a brisk nod. "Well then, once we get you out of that bed, I'll show you to your quarters for the summer. It won't be far from my own, so I'll be nearby if you need anything."
"And we'll make sure you have everything you need for your recovery," McGonagall added. "This summer is about healing, Harry. Physically and otherwise."
Harry nodded again, not trusting himself to speak. It still felt strange, this idea of being taken care of. But for the first time in what felt like forever, the future didn't seem so terrifying.
As they left the hospital wing together, Harry couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, things would be okay after all.
The end