Harry drifted in and out of consciousness. At one point he heard voices and felt something press into his back; then there was a shooting lance of pain in his right arm, and the blackness blessedly took him again.
When he finally woke, his foggy, delirious mind told him he was in a bed. No, I fell onto the grass in the field, he argued. But his brain insisted, said to open his eyes and see for himself. Harry cracked his dry eyes open and saw a blurry fog of white above his head. Harry frowned. That wasn’t right. Wasn’t the sky blue? He tried opening his eyes further, but the sky still looked fuzzy. I’m not wearing my glasses, he finally realized. What happened to them?
His wand arm felt numb and yet at the same time tingly, almost as if it were asleep, so Harry lifted his left hand and reflexively groped for his glasses. He turned his head and could just make out a short little table next to him. He reached out blindly; finding the glasses at last, he put them on and started as everything came into focus.
He was in a large, white room, in a bed with railings. Chairs were scattered around the room. Ron occupied the one by the bed, sleeping soundly. His head was tilted back and he was snoring loudly. Neville and Luna were also close by, reading magazines in other chairs. Hermione was nowhere to be seen.
I’m in a hospital! Harry struggled to sit up, but found he couldn’t. He looked and saw that his right arm was strapped to the bed. His numb hand was suspended in a bright orange potion that occasionally bubbled. As far as he could tell, the splinters were all gone, but his hand felt very swollen.
Harry licked his lips and tried to talk, but all that came out was a faint groan. He tried again, this time managing a croaky, “Ron?”
Ron’s eyes snapped open. “Huh?” He then spotted Harry and grinned sleepily. “Finally awake, are you? You gave us quite a scare back there, mate. We thought we might’ve lost you.”
Harry grimaced. “It’s that bad, eh?” He tried to undo the straps holding him down, but his hand wouldn’t work properly.
“Let me,” said Ron instantly. After a bit of struggling, he’d gotten Harry free. “God, they don’t make this easy, do they?”
Harry sat up and immediately asked, “Where are we?”
Ron opened his mouth to answer, but Luna and Neville had finally noticed Harry was awake. “Hello, Harry,” Luna said dreamily. “Are you alright?”
Neville burst, “That was one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen, Harry! That ‘Reducto’ spell was really strong, it made the whole box explode into a million pieces! It was amazing! It did do something bad to your hand, though. There were thirteen huge splinters in your palm, it took ages for the Healers to get them out.”
Healers? That would explain the potion... This was all too much at once for Harry. “Alright, where am I? How’d you get me here? And... where’s Hermione?”
Ron took a deep breath. “Well, once you’d destroyed the Horcrux ” it is destroyed, you know ” you got a lot of cursed splinters in your hand, and Hermione had no idea how to get them out. So we sort of picked you up and Apparated you to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical something blah-blah... anyway, they got you in right away and sorted your hand out. I’ll tell you, having a famous patient sure got the Healers moving. You were with a bunch of them for at least four hours, trying to get the splinters out. And as for your last question, far as I know Hermione’s out in the hall, talking with one of the Healers who helped you.”
“Ah,” said Harry, digesting all this new information. He was about ready for a brand-new set of questions when Hermione came in. A tall, handsome young man with bright blue eyes and dark blond hair entered just behind her. As he was wearing Healer’s robes, Harry assumed he was the one who’d been talking with Hermione.
“Oh, good, Harry, you’re awake,” Hermione said brightly. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay,” Harry said. “I was just ””
Hermione cut him off, continuing breathlessly, “Great! This is Healer Brooks, Harry, he’s the one who helped figure out how to fix your hand.”
The man smiled, turning to Hermione. “Please, call me Robert; all my friends do.” Hermione blushed and smiled happily. Ron in turn scowled at Robert Brooks, who didn’t seem to notice he was even in the room. “I’m glad you’re awake, Mr. Potter. You’ve been unconscious for nearly twelve hours, you know.”
Harry glanced over at Ron, then said, “No, I didn’t. How bad was it?”
Brooks pulled up a chair next to Harry. He seemed to find it very uncomfortable, and a moment later had pushed the chair away and instead stood at the foot of the hospital bed. Harry noticed that his eyes often darted up to the scar on his forehead as he spoke. “Mr. Potter... You had thirteen splinters of cursed wood lodged inside your right hand. Each being almost two-and-a-half inches long, they were coated with a poison known simply as Aquamortis which, when injected into the skin, normally causes paranoia, hallucinations, paralysis, and ultimately death. This... variety of cursed poison, however, seems to directly skip the hallucinations and immediately begin the process of paralyzing the body to a slow, painful death. We here had never before seen such a type of Aquamortis, and so we weren’t sure how to stop it without killing you in the process.”
He began drumming his fingers repeatedly on the top of the board at Harry’s feet, which was quite distracting to Harry. It didn’t help the headache that was slowly building up at the edge of his brain, either.
Brooks took a deep breath and said, “Let me get right to the point, Mr. Potter. You were injected with at least three times the amount of Aquamortis I have ever even seen, much less extracted from one single person. Only half of that poison could kill armies within hours; a young wizard like yourself would have had half that time to live, and most of it would be spent in a coma. That massive dose should have killed you instantly, but here you are, alive and recovering. You may have some physical limitations with that hand from now on, but it could have ” should have been much worse.” He seemed ready to leave, but before he did, he looked Harry straight in the eye. “All I’m trying to impress upon you is how incredibly fortunate you are to be listening to me right now. You’re the luckiest person I’ve ever had the chance to meet, Harry Potter.”
He shook Harry’s hand and swept out of the room after smiling warmly at Hermione, and nodding to Ron, Neville, and Luna. Ron scowled fiercely, but once again Brooks completely ignored him.
The door closed behind the young medic, and Ron turned to Hermione, who was staring after Brooks. His scowl deepened. “Just talking about Harry’s condition, were you?” he snapped moodily. “Seems to me that wasn’t all you were talking about.”
Hermione blushed, but wouldn’t back down. “So what if I was? I’m allowed to make new friends apart from you and Harry, Ronald!” She huffed and dropped into a chair across the room, pointedly turning it to face away from the two boys.
Ron wisely decided not to answer, but his expression darkened visibly. Harry saw this and bit his lip, torn between laughing at Ron or joining Hermione. He finally decided to do neither, instead withdrawing into his own mind to think things through.
Ron was obviously getting more tenacious about his relationship with Hermione, who was slowly branching out from their little group. Harry couldn’t blame her for wanting to make new friends, but knew Ron would not see it that way. Not when that friend was a handsome young man who was clearly attracted to Hermione.
Harry felt he was becoming even more the middleman in the tangled web their simple friendship had become. He was sick of having to deal with all their stupid jealousies, the fights that grew worse and worse as they got older. He knew it would never end until Ron plucked up the nerve to confess his feelings for her, which was inevitable. But then would he be shunted to the side as Ron and Hermione, his two best friends in the world, became a “they”?
Harry was jarred out of his reflections by Ron muttering, “That git Brooks, he’s not...” He looked up at Harry, muttered some more, then said desperately, “Harry... What if she ” what if she likes him?”
Harry tried to act oblivious, half-hoping the question would be dropped, but knowing it wouldn’t. “What d’you mean, if she likes him? You know she is right, Ron, she’s got the right to make other friends...”
Ron snorted. “Oh, come on, Harry, you saw the way he was looking at her. And she was...” He trailed off, looking a bit abandoned. Then he suddenly made a violent gesture with his hands, as if strangling an invisible neck. “Robert Brooks!” he snarled. “Robert Brooks! God knows life would be better if it weren’t for that... that...” He paused for a moment, apparently struggling to find the right word. “...that toad Robert Brooks! I swear, if he comes in here like that one more time...”
“Well, if Robert wasn’t alive ”” Harry began.
“Don’t call him ‘Robert’!” Ron snapped.
His friend glared at him. “Like I was saying. If ” Brooks, then, wasn’t alive, I’d probably be dead, remember?” He glanced down at his hand, which was now twitching spasmodically in the bubbling potion. “What is this stuff, anyway?”
All the bravado seemed to leak out of Ron. He sighed and sank dejectedly back into his chair. “Not sure,” he muttered. “It smells horrible, though.”
“It’s a mixture of murtlap and crushed pixiewing leaves, a kind of poisonous plant that counteracts the effects of Aquamortis,” came a voice.
Ron jumped guiltily, as did Harry, as they saw Hermione standing at the foot of the bed. The look Harry shot Ron was quickly understood: How long had she been standing there? How much had she heard?
Hermione said nothing that betrayed whatever she’d heard, if anything. She simply continued her narrative. “Pixiewing leaves are what’s making that potion bubble so much. It’s also what’s keeping your hand numb, otherwise you’d be feeling a terrible pain right now.”
“Isn’t murtlap that stuff you gave me for the... cuts I got on my hand from Umbridge?” Harry asked. He frowned, remembering those horrible detentions...
“Yes, essence of murtlap, actually,” Hermione said. “It’s also really quite helpful with ””
The door to the room suddenly banged open. Hermione, Ron, and Harry’s heads all snapped up at once. “Speak of the devil...” Ron murmured.
Into the room came Rufus Scrimgeour, the Minister of Magic; an Auror Harry faintly remembered being named Dawlish; and the person Ron had so appropriately called the devil: Dolores Umbridge herself. Behind them, Robert Brooks trailed, looking thrilled at the presence of the Minister.
“Looks like your boyfriend snitched,” Ron whispered scathingly.
“He is not my boyfriend!” Hermione whispered back, furiously. “And besides, you don’t know he told them, it could’ve been ””
Rufus Scrimgeour immediately saw Harry. “Ah, yes... how wonderful. Thank you very much, Brooks, you will be well compensated for your call.” Brooks grinned and half-bowed nervously, backing out of the room with an almost reverent air.
Just before the three reached them, Ron muttered sweetly to Hermione, “Does that obliterate your doubts?”
Hermione shot him a murderous look, but didn’t get the opportunity to retort.
Scrimgeour motioned for Dawlish and Umbridge to sit down, then stood at the end of Harry’s bed, looking down at him. The big man slowly began to shake his head, looking very much like that distant relative who pretends to care but really isn’t that sorry about your predicament.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Harry got tired of the head-shaking. “What are you doing here, Minister?” he asked, as politely as he could make it sound.
Scrimgeour stood there for a minute, staring at him. Behind him, Harry could see Dawlish fidgeting, twirling his wand between his fingers. Umbridge was staring straight at Harry, that falsely sweet smile of hers stretching her mouth. Her eyes, however, did not match the rest of her expression at all; they were dark, cold pits in her pale face.
Harry shuddered. His right hand twitched again, but this time Harry was sure it had nothing to do with the bubbling potion. Through the murky orange he could still see the faint scars on the back of his hand: I must not tell lies.
Her smile grew broader. Harry was sure she knew exactly what was going through his mind. A thought suddenly flashed to the surface. What if she’s a Legilimens? He tore his gaze from hers and quickly made himself block all outside forces from his brain.
Scrimgeour seemed to have finally gotten his thoughts together. He drew himself up importantly. “Just heard you were here, Harry, and I wanted to come and see how you were doing.” He flashed a smile that was almost ” but not quite ” as fake as Umbridge’s.
“He’d probably be doing a lot better if she wasn’t here,” Ron said angrily, pointing at Umbridge.
Scrimgeour stared at Ron as if he hadn’t even realized he was there. His eyes immediately took in Ron’s red hair, freckles, and patchy robes. “No one goes anywhere in these dangerous days without companions, Mr. Weasley,” he said coldly. He glanced at Neville, Luna, and Hermione, who’d all stood from their seats when he had walked in. Scrimgeour smiled in a scornful sort of way, turning back to Harry. “And it seems you know that better than most.”
“Yes, but her?” Ron blurted. “She chopped Harry’s hand open two years ago, and you bring her back here, right to him?”
Harry shook his head urgently, but it seemed he had been waiting to say this for a long time. “She was practically the worst thing to ever happen to Hogwarts! She obviously hated Harry, so what’s she doing here now?”
Umbridge suddenly stood and approached the bed. Ron automatically shrank back, staring at her with wary eyes.
Umbridge’s smile slipped. “I came to wish Mr. Potter a quick recovery,” she said menacingly. “And I might remind you that he was only punished for telling the entire school things that the Ministry did not want being told at the moment. Classified information cannot be spread as a careless rumor. And I would watch what my mouth spouts off if I were you, Mr. Weasley. Not everyone is tolerant of an ill-spoken word.”
She managed to put an edge on her last few words that made them a clear threat. Ron looked away from her, squeezing himself as far back into his chair as he could.
Harry was seething. So now Voldemort’s return had been considered “classified information” two years ago, had it? When he had first said something about it, the Ministry had declared that everything he said was a nasty, attention-seeking lie. And now they were claiming it had just been a secret, to make it look like they’d still been in control then? He glared at Umbridge, hating her even more.
Scrimgeour waved for her to sit down, then conjured up a chair for himself. He stared almost hungrily at Harry, who began to feel very uncomfortable. Where did they put my wand?
“Well. This is nice,” said the Minister. Harry snorted, but let him continue uninterrupted. “I haven’t seen you since Albus Dumbledore’s funeral, may he rest in peace. What have you been up to, Harry? The last time you were seen before your... accident, friends of mine told me you had a small box with you, that may have been the cause of your injury. What was that?”
The boys with the dog, Harry thought angrily. I told Ron to keep his voice down... What does Scrimgeour know about the box? Does he really care, or is he just fishing?...
Scrimgeour was looking at him expectantly. Harry’s mind whirled. Should he just ignore the question about the box, tell a flat-out lie to the Minister of Magic, or spill everything, abandoning all caution for the chance to confide in someone?
Except Harry didn’t trust him. Or Dawlish, and especially not Umbridge, for that matter. For all Harry knew, she was right in there with Voldemort and his Death Eaters. He’d been told she definitely wasn’t, but Harry wasn’t quite sure he believed that. She was certainly nasty enough.
Scrimgeour was still staring, and Harry realized he hadn’t answered yet. So he quickly thought up a lie.
“Near the end of the summer, I left my house to go to my friend Ron’s house.” Well, at least that was the truth. He chose to leave out the part about the fire and the Death Eaters. And Ginny... His throat constricted, making it hard to breathe. Come on, stop thinking about that... Just talk! “He, erm... he and another friend, Hermione,” ” he motioned towards Hermione ” “they decided to meet up with me and visit a, um... a relative in a nearby part of London.” Well, they had been planning to go to Grimmauld Place, before his accident. This just gave them an even better excuse. “We were on our way there, when two more of our friends met us and came along. As for the box, it was a present from my aunt. It’s been in her family for a long time, and she wanted to pass it on. Unfortunately we ran into a bit of trouble on the road, and... it... it got lost.” He sighed. Not too bad.
Scrimgeour shot him a piercing gaze, obviously doubting Harry’s story. “And this heirloom, you could lose it so casually? I’ve also heard your aunt is not the most generous of persons.”
Harry gulped. “Uh, it wasn’t all that old, and I suppose she had a few of them.”
“And the sudden generosity?”
Why did he have to be so nosy? Harry raced through his file of stories and excuses until he found one that was at least halfway plausible. He wryly remembered Dudley’s torn backpack. “She’s prone to fits of guilt, for me.”
“I see.” The Minister looked about ready for another round of interrogation, but Dolores Umbridge beat him to it.
She smiled coldly. “May I ask what happened to your hand, Mr. Potter? By what the Healers told us, you’d received quite an... extraordinary injury.”
Darn you, Robert Brooks, Harry thought sourly. Did you have to tell the whole world that Harry Potter is in St. Mungo’s? “Oh, yes, Harry Potter’s in here with a poisoned hand, why don’t you come over to gawk at the ‘Chosen One’? I’m sure he’d love the extra publicity.” He could almost picture it, too. He wondered what Scrimgeour meant by “well compensated.”
Harry struggled to think up a believable accident that would bring about the symptoms Brooks had described. He was immensely relieved when Hermione saved him the trouble and said quickly, “He cut it. It was an accident, but he lost a lot of blood, it was horrible.”
Brooks happened to re-enter the room then. He looked at Hermione strangely, then said, “Actually, his hand was pierced by over a dozen splinters of cursed wood. The splinters were also coated with a lethal poison that we had only seen twice before.”
Harry was strongly reminded of Percy. For a moment he understood Ron’s loathing of the young man, though for a different reason, and fiercely resented the railings between his hands and Brooks. Just shut up, will you? Harry shouted in his head. Bully for you to make a bad situation worse! Please, stop now and there might be a chance to fix it!
But the Healer was on a roll, and would not miss a chance to show Minister Rufus Scrimgeour what he knew. “I could show you one of the pieces if you’d like,” he said eagerly. “It’s called Aquamortis, just one small dose could kill a grown man. And Mr. Potter here took...” He checked a large clipboard near Harry’s bed. “He took thirteen two-and-a-half inch-long splinters coated with the stuff. And on top of that, the wood itself seemed to be horribly cursed. We’re still running tests to determine exactly what sort of curse could cause so much damage. I just told him, a minute or two ago, he’s extremely lucky to be alive.”
“Wood splinters,” said Umbridge thoughtfully. She directed an intense stare at Harry, who got the uncomfortable feeling that she suspected more than she let on. “Exactly how did you happen to lose that box again?”
Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Luna all looked at him. Harry knew they were all wondering how he would answer. So he chose not to answer at all.
Harry gave a huge, fake yawn. “You know, I’m really, really tired. I think I might just pass out again.” He looked pointedly at his visitors. “Thanks for your concern, but I’m sure I’ll be just fine.”
Rufus Scrimgeour stood, frustration written clearly across his face. Dawlish and Umbridge quickly followed suit. The squat woman showed no emotion whatsoever, other than the thoughtful look that persisted. Dawlish was obviously anxious to leave, fidgeting more than ever as he attempted to slide nonchalantly toward the door.
“Alright, Harry,” said Scrimgeour sharply. “I suppose I also came to tell you that my offer still stands ””
“No,” Harry said immediately. “No, Minister, I have no plans on being the Ministry’s mascot any time soon. Nothing you say or offer can convince me to do it, sorry. ‘Dumbledore’s man through and through,’ remember?”
All traces of congeniality disappeared from Scrimgeour’s face. “Dumbledore is dead, Potter,” he spat. “Albus Dumbledore is gone. There’s no hiding behind him anymore. It’s time for you to look out for yourself and make the right decisions. You would do well to remember that those with power are not gone, and one misstep can make enemies of those you’d rather have as allies.”
“One of the many prices I pay for being the Chosen One,” Harry said coolly, thinking of Dumbledore, Sirius, Ginny. Just one of the very many...
Scrimgeour stared at him icily, then swept to the door without another word to Harry or his friends. He gave a curt nod to Brooks and walked briskly through the doorway, with Umbridge and the Auror close behind.
“Have a nice day, sir!” Brooks called, looking disappointed and slightly confused at the turn of events. Then, after a quick smile in Hermione’s direction, he too left, closing the door behind him.
‘Too-smart prat,” Ron growled after him. “What was he thinking? Giving us away like that...”
“He was just doing his job, Ron,” Hermione said, voice unnaturally high-pitched.
“Did a bit more than he had to, though, didn’t he? The prat,” Ron added under his breath.
Hermione looked furious. “Don’t you call ””
“Hey!” said Harry, cutting their argument off. “I think it’s about time we got out of here, don’t you? Who knows who else Brooks might’ve told? If we’re kept here much longer, we’ll run out of time to find the other Horcruxes.”
“So what are you saying, you want us to try and break you out of the hospital?” Hermione asked, horrified.”
“Excellent!” said Ron. Then, to the other two: “Hanging around with Harry sure is an adventure, isn’t it, Luna, Neville?”
“Yeah,” Neville said weakly. His face looked a bit green.
Luna, on the other hand, seemed ecstatic. “Oh, yes!”
Hermione frowned. “But what about Robert? We can’t just leave! Shouldn’t we tell ””
“What about him?” Ron said angrily.
Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but seemed to think better of it and instead refused to look at him. In an effort to keep himself from smirking, Harry bit the inside of his cheek so hard it almost bled. He grimaced from the pain, and when he had recovered, the danger was over. “Alright then. How should we do it?”
Several suggestions were made, each of which proved too complicated. Finally Hermione came out of her shell and set to work. She presented her plan, and after a moment of furious brainstorming everyone agreed that it just might work.
“Okay, everybody know what to do?” Harry asked, already wondering gleefully how Umbridge and Scrimgeour would react to their escape.
“Yes,” Hermione said hesitantly. “But Harry, what about your hand? Is it healed enough to go without the potion?”
Oh yeah. Harry pulled his limp hand out of the jar and tried flexing the muscles a few times. It looked red and sore, but after several good shakes feeling came back with a vengeance. He reached for his wand, which he’d found in a bedside drawer, and gave it a practice wave. Sparks flew out of it, but at the same time, Harry experienced a jolt of such intense pain that he momentarily blacked out.
When he opened his eyes a second later, everyone was looking down at him with expressions of fright and concern. “Are you alright, Harry?” Ron asked, looking scared.
“Yeah, m’alright,” Harry mumbled, pushing himself back up. His hand was now covered with a thick layer of sweat, and although it no longer hurt, he felt the pain at the edge of his consciousness, waiting for an opportune moment to leap back to the surface. He collapsed back down.
“Robert warned us,” Hermione whispered, clutching her robes worriedly. “He told us your hand wouldn’t be the same. Oh, Harry... What are we going to do now?”
Harry closed his eyes in horror. He was right-handed. How could he possibly manage this way? He wouldn’t be able to use his wand, write, do anything normally without these terrible lances of pain. He knew he couldn’t ever use his hand casually again. He realized how much he had taken things like this for granted. What was going to happen now?
He opened his eyes and tried to grin, but even through it anyone could see that the loss of his hand had hit him hard. “Looks like I’ll have to become left-handed,” he said, a bit miserably.
They were still looking at him in a worried way, so he sat up. I’ve got to beat this thing, he thought. I’ve got to! He stood up and stumbled across the room, holding his injured hand awkwardly. His legs felt useless and heavy for a few steps, but he could soon use them properly again. He walked to a large closet as his friends watched silently.
“I’m going to get past this thing if it’s the last thing I do!” he growled to himself. He reached the closet, yanked out his robes, and awkwardly pulled them one-handed over his head, nearly ripping them in his struggle. There was another, more minor stab of pain, but finally he did it and slowly made his way back to his friends.
After another round of the room, Harry regained his lost sense of balance and felt his hand was slightly better. Apart from the knowledge that he now had to learn to do things with his left hand, he felt wonderfully energized. He sat triumphantly back on his bed. Hermione slowly smiled, and even Ron looked impressed at his attempt at normalcy.
Neville clapped, grinning, and Harry felt a little embarrassed. But then, remembering the present task, he sat back and raised his eyebrow, trying to forget that he only had one working hand. He took a deep breath. “So... Ready to go?”