The Hospital Wing
Harry Potter had never been to the hospital wing before. In fact, he had avoided it on principle. The thought of lying in a bed, under the watchful eyes of Madame Pomfrey and the occasional passing teacher, felt stifling. He preferred his injuries treated in solitude, either by his own hand or with time. But after the events of the third-floor corridor, even Harry had to admit he’d pushed himself too far.
His limbs ached, his vision blurred at the edges, and his head throbbed with the faint hum of magic still pulsing from the Mirror of Erised. By the time he’d stumbled back into the Slytherin common room in the early hours of the morning, even his usual stoicism couldn’t mask the fact that he needed help.
“Bloody hell, Potter,” came Draco Malfoy’s drawl from one of the couches. The blonde boy looked up from a chess game with Crabbe and blinked. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. Twice.”
Harry ignored him and headed straight for the dormitory. He barely made it to his bed before collapsing.
The next morning, Pansy Parkinson, always one for theatrics, gasped when Harry trudged into the Great Hall. “Harry, you’re limping! What happened?”
“Nothing,” he muttered, brushing past her to sit at the end of the Slytherin table. He winced as he lowered himself onto the bench, his muscles protesting every movement.
By lunchtime, the whispers had started. By dinner, Professor Snape was standing behind him, his expression a mixture of irritation and something that might have been concern.
“Potter,” Snape said, his voice low but sharp. “Come with me.”
Harry didn’t argue. He followed Snape out of the Great Hall, through the winding corridors, and into the hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey bustled over immediately, her sharp eyes narrowing as she took in Harry’s pale complexion and stiff movements.
“Merlin’s beard, what have you done to yourself?” she demanded, ushering him onto a bed.
“Nothing,” Harry replied automatically.
“Don’t lie to me, Mr. Potter,” she snapped, already pulling out her wand to run diagnostic spells.
Snape crossed his arms and watched silently as Pomfrey muttered incantations. Her frown deepened with each one.
“Exhaustion, mild magical depletion, bruising along the ribs... and what on earth is this?” She pointed to a faint burn mark on Harry’s hand.
“It’s nothing,” Harry repeated.
Pomfrey huffed. “You’re staying here overnight.”
“I don’t need to—”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.” She turned to Snape. “I’ll handle this, Severus. Go back to your duties.”
Snape lingered for a moment, his dark eyes scanning Harry’s face, before nodding and sweeping out of the room.
Harry lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. The white curtains around him felt like a cage, too bright and sterile compared to the shadowy comfort of the woods or the dim corridors of Hogwarts.
As the hours passed, Madame Pomfrey brought him potions and fussed over his injuries. Harry drank the potions without complaint, but his mind was elsewhere.
He thought of Teeth. Of the way the creature had disappeared into the shadows of the Forbidden Forest without a sound. It felt strange to be truly alone again, without the constant presence of his guardian.
He thought of the Mirror of Erised, the images it had shown him, and the way his reflection had stared back with a calmness that wasn’t entirely his own.
And he thought of Quirrell. Or rather, the way the man had fled, leaving behind an air of unease that still lingered in Harry’s chest.
---
Late that night, when the hospital wing was silent and the only light came from the moon filtering through the windows, Harry heard soft footsteps.
He turned his head to see Dumbledore approaching, his robes shimmering faintly in the dim light.
“Ah, Harry,” the headmaster said softly, his tone kind but curious. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” Harry replied, though his voice lacked conviction.
Dumbledore smiled faintly and conjured a chair, sitting down beside the bed. For a moment, he simply studied Harry, his blue eyes twinkling with an unreadable expression.
“You’ve had quite the eventful term,” he said after a pause.
Harry said nothing.
“I understand you prefer your privacy,” Dumbledore continued, “and I won’t press you for details. But I must admit, Harry, I am curious about how you ended up in the third-floor corridor.”
“I was curious,” Harry said evenly.
Dumbledore chuckled. “Curiosity is a wonderful trait, but it can also be dangerous. You’ve shown great bravery, Harry, and remarkable resourcefulness. But even the bravest among us must know when to ask for help.”
Harry’s gaze didn’t waver. “I don’t need help.”
Dumbledore’s smile faded slightly, replaced by something more serious. “You might find, in time, that we all do.”