Disclaimer: Playing in Rowling's sandbox. She owns the toys; we're just having fun.

Previously on Chapter 4:

Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, Harry felt the sudden pull of something vast and overwhelming, a sensation so intense that it felt as though his very being was being torn from him. His legs buckled beneath him, his vision blurred, and his body went limp as if his very soul had been untethered from his flesh. His mind went black, and he collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been severed.

'Dragonstaff and Technomage' - Thoughts

Chapter 5: A Shifting of Care

Harry's eyes fluttered open to the pale, sterile light of the Hospital Wing, his head pounding in rhythm with the droning of Madam Pomfrey's voice.

"Thank Merlin, you're awake!" she exclaimed, relief creeping into her tone as she adjusted a potion bottle on a nearby shelf.

Neville sat at his side, looking both concerned and exhausted, his hands clasped together in his lap. "You gave us a real scare, Harry," he said, his voice hushed.

Harry squinted at him, then turned to Pomfrey, a smirk tugging at his lips despite the fog in his mind. "Well,did someone catch the number of the bus that ran me over?,'" he muttered, eyes flicking between Pomfrey's flustered face and Neville's uneasy expression.

Pomfrey shot him a glare, though her concern was still evident. "Don't you start, Mr. Potter. You've been unconscious for nearly a full day, and this is how you thank me?"

"I didn't know I was that popular," Harry said dryly, leaning back into his pillow, still feeling the sharp ache in his body, though the throbbing in his head had lessened.

Neville gave him a sheepish smile but didn't say anything, just fidgeted with the corner of his sleeve.

Madame Pomfrey sighed and pulled a chair closer, settling in beside Harry's bed. "This is the second time in two days that you have visited me, Potter. If you like the hospital wing so much, perhaps I can request the headmaster to shift you here full time?"

Harry arched an eyebrow, though it took more effort than he would have liked. "Well, if it means fewer lectures and more tea, I might just take you up on that."

Pomfrey's eyes narrowed, though there was a hint of amusement in her stern expression. "You are incorrigible. And reckless. Do you recall why you were in here the first time, or shall I remind you?"

The words stirred something hazy in Harry's memory—fragments of the first day swirling like ink in water.

Harry stumbled into the brightly lit infirmary, the remnants of cold seeping into his skin as if the dementor's presence still clung to him. Professor Lupin hovered by his side, his hand firm on Harry's shoulder.

"Madame Pomfrey," Lupin called out, his voice steady but edged with urgency.

She bustled out from behind a curtain, her eyes sweeping over Harry. "Dementor exposure, I presume?"

Lupin nodded. "He fainted on the train. A bit pale and shaky, but nothing permanent, I think."

"I'll be the judge of that," Pomfrey snapped, already guiding Harry to a cot. "Sit. Drink this." She pressed a steaming goblet of chocolate into his hands.

Harry took a hesitant sip, warmth blooming in his chest and dulling the chill that had settled in his bones.

"How are you feeling now, Potter?" Pomfrey asked, her hands already running diagnostic spells over him.

"Fine," Harry lied, though his hands still trembled slightly. "Just… tired."

She gave him a skeptical look. "You'll stay here for observation until the sorting is over. No arguments. You can join your friends for the feast afterwards"

Harry didn't bother arguing. The thought of the Great Hall, full of curious stares and whispers, didn't seem all that appealing anyway.

"And now here we are," Pomfrey said, breaking Harry out of the memory. She crossed her arms and gave him a pointed look. "Do I need to remind you that recovery requires more cooperation and less sarcasm?"

Harry snorted softly. "I think you've got it covered, Madame Pomfrey."

Neville, who had been silent during the exchange, cleared his throat. "It's good to see you're okay, Harry. You had me worried."

Harry turned his attention back to Neville, who still looked like he hadn't slept much. "What happened?" Harry asked, his voice quieter now, the weight of everything settling in.

Neville hesitated, glancing at Pomfrey. "I'll let Madame Pomfrey explain," he said finally, his voice soft but resolute.

Pomfrey sighed again, pulling the chair closer. "Let's start with the basics, Mr. Potter. What's the last thing you remember?"

Harry frowned, trying to piece together the frayed edges of his memory. "The last thing I remember…" He trailed off, the words slow and deliberate. "I was talking to Neville. Something about… confoundments. No—Confundus Charms, I think."

Pomfrey went unnaturally still. Her complexion turned a shade paler, her mouth tightening as though she'd been struck.

Harry caught the shift instantly. "Madame Pomfrey?" he asked, his voice sharper now, cutting through the air. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said quickly, too quickly. She stood, fussing with a nearby potion bottle. "It's just that—well, you're likely misremembering, Potter. Post-trauma confusion isn't uncommon."

"I'm not confused," Harry said firmly, sitting up straighter despite the ache in his ribs. His eyes narrowed. "You should check me for signs of a Confundus Charm. Now."

Pomfrey turned to him, her composure slipping further. "Mr. Potter, that won't be necessary," she said with forced calm. "There are no signs of such interference—"

"You don't know that," Harry interrupted, his tone clipped. "Unless you're saying you've already checked?"

She faltered, her gaze flickering between Harry and Neville. "Potter—Harry—there's no reason to assume—"

"There's every reason," Harry snapped, his pulse quickening now. "You're hesitating, Madame Pomfrey. Why?"

Neville, who had been silent until now, shifted uneasily in his seat. "Harry…" he said quietly, his voice steady but soft. "I think you should trust me on this one."

Harry turned to him, brows furrowing in confusion. "Trust you? About what?"

Neville hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his robe. "Just—let me handle this, okay?" he said, his tone imploring. "If you're right about… about what you think, then we can't take any chances. Not here, not like this."

Harry's eyes flicked between Neville and Pomfrey, suspicion curling in his chest. "What are you saying?"

Neville exhaled slowly, and when he spoke again, there was a quiet determination in his voice. "I mean that we need someone impartial. Someone who can't be swayed by… by loyalties or circumstances." He turned to Pomfrey, his expression still apologetic but firm.

"Madame Pomfrey," Neville said, rising to his feet, "please understand that this isn't personal. As Lord Presumptive Longbottom and the other half of the Potter-Longbottom Alliance, I hereby invoke Article 237 of the Hogwarts Charter. I must insist that no further examinations are performed on Harry, Heir Potter—not by anyone affiliated with Hogwarts."

Pomfrey blinked, clearly flustered, and Harry could feel the room's temperature drop with the shift in Neville's tone. He didn't know what Neville was talking about but could feel the weight of it. Madame Pomfrey hesitated.

"What… what are you saying, Neville?" Pomfrey stammered, her professional composure slipping for the first time. "You can't mean—"

"I do," Neville said softly but with an unshakeable certainty. "When an accusation like this is made, especially about Confoundments or any magical tampering, the responsibility for care shifts. It shifts to healers loyal to House Potter or those trusted by the ancient houses." He paused, eyes flicking to Harry. "Or to neutral parties like the Goblins, if the House's Healers cannot be found."

The words hung in the air, heavy and official. Pomfrey visibly paled, her gaze darting between Neville and Harry, as if searching for a way out.

"This isn't necessary," she tried again, but the firmness had left her voice.

Neville's eyes hardened just slightly. "I know it's difficult, Madam Pomfrey, but the law is clear." He glanced at Harry again, his expression softer now. "Please, Harry. Trust me. We need to take care of this properly, or it could… it could be dangerous."

Harry stared at Neville, his thoughts a tangled mess, but eventually, he gave a slow nod. "Yeah," he said, his voice quiet. "I trust you."

Neville stood beside Harry as they made their way down the corridor, the steps echoing in the quiet hall. Madam Pomfrey, still flustered and with a look of discomfort, walked just behind them, her usual brisk pace slow and careful. Harry's head still felt heavy from the encounter, but the tightness in his chest had begun to loosen, replaced with a dull curiosity.

"So…" Harry began, glancing sideways at Neville. "Where exactly would we find a healer that's a vassal to my house? What's a vassal anyway?" He wasn't sure if he was asking out of genuine curiosity or simply because he needed to fill the silence, but Neville seemed to welcome the distraction.

"A vassal," Neville began, his voice a little softer now, "is someone who swears loyalty to the head of a house in exchange for protection or privileges. It's like… an official servant, but it's more than that. Vassals are bound by ancient oaths. They owe allegiance to the head of the house and are trusted to care for their affairs—especially when it comes to matters of health, defense, and—well—family." He shifted slightly, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he considered Harry's question.

Harry blinked, trying to wrap his head around the idea. "You mean to say there are people who… like, work for your family as healers?"

"Yeah," Neville said, adjusting his grip on the railing as they climbed the staircase, his tone more thoughtful now. "It's not just healers, though. It's craftsmen, artisans, farmers, everything you can think of. Vassals serve in all sorts of ways. They help with the upkeep of the estate, provide for the family in various capacities, and, in the case of healing, they tend to the family's needs when it comes to magic and medicine." He hesitated, glancing sideways at Harry. "As to where your healers were… I honestly don't know. But, if they haven't tried to contact you, it's probably safe to assume they've broken their oaths. Or they've been made to."

Harry frowned, trying to process everything, but Neville continued before he could speak.

"The best thing to do right now is to go directly to the Goblins. They're more expensive, but they're better than any healer I know. And, when it comes to matters of the mind —especially with the possibility of Confundus or other magical tampering—they're the most reliable."

Harry's mind whirled as they reached the top of the stairs, his feet still feeling heavy with the weight of everything that had happened. The Goblins? But wasn't Gringotts just a bank?

"You're probably wondering about Gringotts, aren't you?" Neville said, as if reading Harry's thoughts. He gave a small, knowing smile. "Most people only think of them as bankers, but that's just one part of their work. They've been the guardians of ancient magical knowledge for centuries. Goblins know a lot more about magic than most wizards give them credit for. Their healers, in particular, specialize in dealing with things like ancient curses and mind tamperings."

Harry blinked. "Wait, so Goblins are the best for this kind of thing?"

Neville nodded, looking resolute. "Absolutely. They're the ones who understand how to undo the kind of spells you're worried about. They're precise and don't mess around with half measures. Plus, they don't have the same biases that most wizarding healers do. That's why it's probably the safest choice. Moreover, they need to know that the Lord Presumptive of an Ancient Family has not been raised in accordance with the old treaties. If I am correct, there will be hell to pay for that, Harry."

Harry processed this information, trying to ignore the knot that had formed in his stomach. He'd always thought of Goblins as a bit intimidating, and the idea of seeking their help was both unsettling and a little reassuring—unsettling because Goblins were known for being ruthlessly efficient and calculating, and reassuring because they were practical. If they were the best at what they did, then maybe that was the direction he needed to go.

AN: Will Harry make it to Gringotts?

Dragonstaff and Technomage