Chapter Text
Fireballs crashed down from the sky like rain, leaving scorching circles of burnt grass in their flammable wake. The wards, previously impregnable, previously safe were cracked and non-existent in multiple places. Children and teachers alike flee from the carnage as the once-unyielding stone pillars crumble to dust and rubble. Men and women joyfully climb over the rubble, eyes gleaming with gleeful ire at the destruction caused by their wands. Some loom over fallen pupils, wands pointed at the innocents’ chests and malignant smirks staining their faces. Many children are able to flee from these monsters, these Death Eaters, but some are caught by them.
One such student was twelve-year-old Abraham Huff, frozen to the ground as the Death Eater above him begins an incantation. The child stares helplessly at the unforgivable monster before him, praying to every God he knew as well as his most distant ancestors for a savior. Fat tears stream down his rosy cheeks; shaking sobs permeate his small body and erupt as gasps for breath from his open mouth. The Death Eater was so entranced in the pain he subjected upon an innocent child that he did not notice another sneak behind him. In fact, he didn’t notice until the Entomorphis spell was cast on him. From his position as a disgusting bug on the singed grass, he felt fear for the first time. In a rather lackluster death, he was flattened by a shoe.
This shoe belonged to Harry Potter, a thirteen-year-old student of Emrys Academy. He offered a soot-dusted hand to Abraham. “Get up,” Harry insisted as the boy remained glued to the ground, “this is no place to die. Nor to live, either.” With a resolute look in his eyes, Abraham took Harry’s hand and both boys ran far - far away from the carnage and battle. Harry’s sharp Tsavorite-green eyes peered through the foggy courtyard for any sign of a teacher- of a sanctuary.
“There!” insisted Abraham, his shaking finger pointed at a translucent white dome. “A ward! It must be a teacher!” Harry, not wanting to waste any further time that could mean an Incendio to the back, dashed in the direction of the dome, dragging Abraham behind. As they neared the dome, Harry could determine who enforced it: Professor Sadie Hayes. She was employed by Emrys as the teacher for the Wards and Runes elective. She was also Harry’s master and sponsor; he had been apprenticed under her for two years. In sight of a trusted adult, and maternal figure, Harry’s aching legs felt invigorated to continue; breaking out into a sprint towards safety.
Inside the protective dome, Harry allowed himself to pause as he gasped for breath. He wiped his soot-covered face with the ripped cuff of his uniform. Then, he studied the spell of the dome. Protego Maxima , he surmised. Pulling his wand (alder wood with a phoenix feather core) out, he cast the same spell, strengthening the dome around them. He spared a glance around him; Death Eaters were closing in - angrier than before. Vehemently, he focused the entirety of his attention, as well as his Magic, on the spell he was casting. Sweat beaded down his forehead as he struggled to keep focused - as prodigal as he was considered in warding spells, he could not keep this up forever. An explosion shook the ground underneath him and he stumbled. His hands faltered from the spell position, and his focus shattered. As a sick, twisted, demented turn of fate, that was exactly when Master Hayes faltered as well. A singular spell broke through the weakened ward: Fiendfyre. Hayes screamed in pain and Harry felt himself joining in the chorus as both wixen collapsed to the flaming ground.
Harry awoke to a bright light beyond his closed eyelids, burning his retinas. He squirmed away from the offensive illumination before he remembered. Screams, the twin ones of he and Sadie Hayes flooded his memory and he jolted upright, wincing in pain he didn’t remember having before. Heavy eyes blinked open blearily, slower than he would have liked, as he surveyed the room he was in. Instinctively he patted his thigh for his wand holster. When he felt smooth, plastic-like fabric instead of a bump, his eyes jumped down. Instead of the half-burned school uniform he was previously clothed in, he was wearing a traditional hospital gown. There was no wand in sight.
He was sitting on a crib in what looked to be a hospital, evidenced by the many carts of medical supplies, medicinal cabinets, and an empty chair beside his cot. Attached to his arm was an IV drip that pumped from a clear bag on the rack beside his bed. Harry was not stupid enough to pull the cord out, so he waited. And waited. It seemed like an eternity until a face peered through the open door: a nurse, evidently. He wore a simple white robe with the traditional red plus embroidered on the outer breast pocket. In his arms was a clipboard, and a pen floated around his right ear. “You’re awake!” he exclaimed, entering the hospital room and depositing his clipboard onto the tray before Harry’s crib. “Are you feeling alright? Any aches, pains, or sores?”
Harry was startled by such a calm, soft-spoken voice. The professors at Emrys Academy all spoke authoritatively- none with any affectionate lilts to their tones. He recovered quickly and responded to the nurse. “Minor pain. Why am I here?” he demanded, “Where is Master Hayes? Is everyone safe?”
The nurse stood at Harry’s bedside and fiddled with the blanket he was under. “Where are you feeling the pain?” he asked.
“My back, I suppose. Can you please answer my questions?”
His pleas were ignored and the nurse lightly pulled his body forward to check his back. He undid buttons holding the gown together at the back, lightly pulling the fabric down his shoulders to pool at his waist. With a full view of his arms, Harry gasped. White bandages ran their way up his arms, looping around the space between his thumb and first finger and extending to just below his elbow. From there were more bandages all the way up his arms and around his shoulders, and more, thicker ones wrapped around his chest. “What happened to me?” he asked, extremely quietly, as the bandages about his torso were slowly and carefully unraveled. Harry winced at the scrape of gauze against his skin - something he had no trouble with before. The nurse tutted, reaching behind himself to the stand beside the bed and retrieving a squat, round container. He opened it to reveal a green salve - Star Grass Salve , to be exact (Harry could remember from when he interned at the medical ward of Emrys) and began applying it to his back. The feeling was cold and slightly painful, no matter how lightly the nurse coaxed it on.
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” the nurse soothed, “I’m almost done.” Once he was finished- and Harry could tell by the cold, burning feeling across the entire expanse of his back - he retrieved more of the thick gauze and rewrapped his torso. Harry clenched his teeth at the pain, breathing in quickly whenever the fabric rubbed against a particularly sore spot. The nurse withdrew from behind him, gently pushing Harry down onto the slightly-raised cot. Removing his stained gloves and discarding them into a nearby trash bin for new ones, the nurse spoke again, “Hello, Harry. I am Frederick McCoy, and I will be your primary nurse.”
“Please, answer me!” Harry’s begs took a frantic turn, “What happened to me?”
McCoy patted his blanket-covered thigh, “You were hit with the Fiendfyre curse, Harry. You are covered in burns, ones that we cannot heal magically. I am so sorry, kid.”
“What?” Harry whispered, his voice almost inaudible. He gathered himself, and proceeded to interrogate McCoy, “Is everyone alright? Is my master alright?” At McCoy’s downtrodden expression at his latter query, Harry gasped, “No! Is- is she alive?”
“I’m sorry Harry,” his heart sank in his chest. “Professor Hayes is in a magical coma. It was all we could do to keep her alive.” Tears filled Harry’s eyes before he could quell them, and they streamed down his face as he hunched forward, clutching himself with his bandage-covered hands.
“She can’t die!” he pleaded. “If-” he stuttered through sobs- “If I hadn’t faltered, hadn’t let down my guard, I could have saved her!” Harry deposited his head into his hands, “It’s all my fault that she could die. I- I should have been stronger, better!”
“No, honey,” McCoy soothed, amber eyes tinged with pity- pity that Harry despised, “nothing is your fault. The Dark Lord and his disgusting Death Eaterss are to blame for everything. You couldn’t have done anything: you’re a kid, Harry.” Harry couldn’t respond; he simply cried, and whatever words he tried to say choked and died in his throat.
Minutes, maybe hours later the tears dried up, somehow sapping his energy from him. McCoy summoned a plate of lukewarm broth and a flask of Dreamless Sleep and Calming Draught on a steel tray, placing it in his lap. “Drink the potions first: they tend to leave a rather unsavory taste in the mouth.” Harry brought the flask to his lips and slowly gulped down the mixture, cringing away its foul taste. Then, he lifted the broth to his lips and slowly sipped it, slightly wincing at the discomfort the warm liquid caused as it traveled down his throat.
Once finished, he set down the bowl and McCoy Evanesco -ed the tray to somewhere else. “Do you need anything, Harry, before you go to sleep?”
“Could you leave a glass of water on my nightstand, in case I feel thirsty, please?”
“I hope lukewarm will be okay,” McCoy commented as he fulfilled Harry’s request. “Say my name if you need anything, and I will be here to help you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
McCoy smiled, “It’s my job.” He retreated over to the door, retrieving his clipboard and grabbing his wand from his side pocket. With a flourish, the bright lights dimmed to nearly off and McCoy left the room, closing the door behind him. Harry closed his eyes and settled back into his cot. It was lucky that he drank Dreamless Sleep , because otherwise he would barely have slept.