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The sun shone bright and golden, casting a rare warmth over the schoolyard. Even the sky, often hidden behind thick gray clouds, stretched out clear and endless today.
From his tiny desk in the classroom, Harry gazed out the window, a small smile tugging at his lips. The past week had been nothing but rain, turning the playground into a muddy swamp and forcing everyone to spend lunch crammed inside the cafeteria. There was no escaping Dudley and his gang in such a small space.
But today was different. Today, the sun was out. Today, they could go outside.
Under the desk, Harry crossed his fingers, silently wishing for a turn on the swings. They were his favorite. There was something about the weightlessness, the way the air rushed past his ears, that made him feel like he wasn’t just a boy stuck in a schoolyard. Maybe, if he went high enough, he could befriend a bird. Flying was safer than the ground.
And today, luck was on his side.
He made it to the swings. He kicked off, pumping his legs, higher and higher, until the wind rushed past his ears and his stomach swooped in the best way.
Then, luck turned.
Just as his trainers left the blacktop, Dudley’s fat fingers closed around the chain and yanked. Harry tumbled, hitting the ground hard.
A sharp crack.
The world tilted, and dizziness washed over him in waves. His mouth filled with something wet and metallic, and the taste of copper was thick on his tongue.
No one came running. The teacher on duty was too busy soothing two sobbing girls when their jump rope snapped in half—a far greater tragedy, apparently, than a boy sprawled on the pavement, bleeding.
So, Harry picked himself up, swaying slightly, and trudged toward the nurse’s station. His reflection in a window stopped him mid-step. A split lip gaped open, blood smeared across his chin and soaking into his shirt.
That would explain the stinging.
He knocked lightly before easing the door open.
Behind the desk, the school nurse barely glanced up from her celebrity gossip magazine. Her lips curled in irritation the moment she saw him.
"Not you again, Potter," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "Didn’t I tell you to stay out of trouble for at least a week? Your aunt and uncle are true saints for putting up with you."
Harry swallowed hard. "I fell off the swing," he murmured.
He didn’t bother adding that his cousin had shoved him. He knew from experience that adults never found that kind of information necessary—or useful.
The nurse barely looked at him as she tossed a rag across the desk. "Here. Sit down and press this to your lip until it stops bleeding."
Harry took the rag and sank into the chair by the window, dabbing carefully at his mouth. He hoped he could clean himself up before going home. Aunt Petunia hated messes. If she saw blood on his face—or worse, on his clothes—she’d snap at him for being careless.
She always acted like he bled on purpose.
Harry took the stone steps two at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Over the years, he had received plenty of Patronus messages, urgent and filled with horrible news—but none had ever sent terror lancing through his chest like the one that appeared in his office moments ago.
He had never needed a Patronus message for the boys. James had his fair share of Quidditch injuries, but they were always minor, nothing more than an owl home was required to inform Harry of the injuries. Albus once had a mix-up in Potions that landed him in the hospital wing, but it was quickly sorted, barely worth mentioning.
But this time, it was Lily. And it was bad.
His sweet, brilliant, fearless little girl. The one he had sworn to protect from the moment she was born. And her injury was bad enough that Madam Pomfrey—calm, capable Madam Pomfrey—had deemed it necessary to summon him by Patronus.
His Lily. In the hospital wing.
Harry didn’t need to think—his feet carried him swiftly through the familiar corridors, his heart pounding in his chest.
As he rounded the corner, he spotted McGonagall standing at the entrance to the hospital wing, her hand wrapped around the doorknob.
“Harry,” she greeted, inclining her head as he approached. “You arrived quickly.”
“Where is she? What happened?” His voice came out sharper than he intended, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
“She’s fine.”
“What happened?”
McGonagall sighed. “Come inside, Harry.”
She pushed the door open, and Harry stepped in, his eyes immediately scanning the room. The beds were all empty—except for one.
On the left side of the room, beneath a large window where sunlight streamed in, a familiar head of red hair rested against white pillows, the fiery strands catching the light like embers.
Lily.
Harry barely had time to take a step toward her before the door to Madam Pomfrey’s office creaked open. He turned as Albus walked in, now nearly his height, a steaming mug of tea in hand.
“Hi, Dad. You got here fast,” Al said, offering a small smile. “Pomfrey just made some tea—want some?”
Harry pulled his son into a quick hug, realizing with a pang that he could no longer tuck Al’s head under his chin like he used to. They stood eye to eye now.
“Thanks, Al,” he said, releasing him. “In a moment. I need to know what’s going on with Lily first.”
A familiar, sympathetic tut sounded behind him.
“I don’t know how many times I’ve told students not to sit two on a broom,” Madam Pomfrey said, shaking her head as she stepped closer. “There’s not enough room. A broom is built for one, isn’t it?”
She patted Harry’s arm, nodding toward the chair beside Lily’s bed. He sank into it without hesitation. With a wave of her wand, another mug of tea floated over and landed on the bedside table near his elbow.
Pomfrey continued, “The boy she was flying with—”
“What boy?” Harry interrupted, frowning as he looked at Albus.
Al held up his hands. “I don’t know. I don’t keep track of her illicit activities.”
“The Finnigan boy,” Pomfrey supplied. “They were sharing a broom, and somehow, Lily fell off. That daft boy panicked instead of slowing her fall—just sat there and watched. She hit her head pretty hard on a rock. I’ve put her to sleep while she mends. She should wake tomorrow morning with a bit of a headache but the skull fracture will have healed.”
Harry’s jaw tightened as an image flashed in his mind—his daughter plummeting through the air, the sickening crack of impact. His grip on the armrest tightened, and for a brief, irrational moment, he considered showing up at Seamus Finnigan’s doorstep and punching him in the face. Not that Seamus was the one who had dropped Lily from the sky, but still. He was the boy’s father. That had to count for something.
“Where is this Finnigan kid now?” Harry asked.
“Oh, Neville’s having a good talk with him in his office,” McGongall said. “Don’t you worry.”
“Maybe I’ll join him.”
“Ugh, Dad, please don’t,” Al groaned, settling onto the edge of Lily’s bed near her feet. “Let Uncle Neville do his job. Don’t go all super Head Auror on one of my classmates.”
“I’m not going Head Auror mode,” Harry muttered. “I’m in ticked-off Dad mode.”
Al rolled his eyes. “Same thing.”
Harry ignored him as he moved a strand of Lily’s hair off her freckled face.
“Harry,” McGonagall said softly. “If you need anything, you know where to find me. I’ll leave you in Madam Pomfrey’s excellent care.”
He looked up and gave her a grateful nod. She held his gaze for a brief moment, her sharp eyes filled with understanding, before sweeping out of the room.
Madam Pomfrey fussed over the blankets one last time before straightening up. “I’ll be in my office brewing more pain potion,” she said. “Call if you need anything.”
Harry murmured his thanks, but his attention never strayed far from Lily.
The door clicked shut behind them, leaving the room in a quiet stillness.
Albus shifted at the foot of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Where’s Mum?” he asked, his voice breaking the silence.
Harry exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Covering a game in Marrakesh. She’ll be here when she’s finished.”
Al nodded, swirling the tea in his mug before glancing toward his sister’s sleeping form. “You staying here all night?”
“Of course I am.”
Al let out a small huff. “Seems a bit excessive.”
Harry met his son’s gaze—the same familiar green eyes he saw in the mirror every morning. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Making sure you and your siblings are safe isn’t excessive, Al,” he said firmly. “It’s the most important job I have.”
“Lily’s going to be fine, Dad. You know that, right?”
“I know.” Harry looked over at her, at the way the golden sunlight caught in her hair. “But she’s my daughter. And she should never have to wake up in the Hospital Wing alone.” His voice softened. “I wouldn’t want that for you or James either.”
Albus didn’t argue this time. He just looked at his dad for a moment, then set his tea down on the bedside table with a quiet clink.
“Alright,” he said, shifting to sit more comfortably on the edge of Lily’s bed. “Guess I’m staying a while too.”
The bell rang, its sharp clang echoing through the halls. Outside, the children Harry had been watching from his seat near the window abandoned the playground, laughing and shouting as they rushed back inside.
“You still here?” the nurse’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts. She barely spared him a glance as she tidied up her desk, clearly forgetting there was still an injured child in her office. “You’re not still bleeding, are you?”
Harry peeled the rag away from his lip and touched the cut gingerly. When he pulled his fingers back, they were clean. “I think I’m good,” he murmured.
“Alright, then. Off with you.”
Harry hesitated for half a second before setting the bloody rag on the corner of her desk. She didn’t notice.
He slipped out into the hallway, making his way to the empty bathroom. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as he leaned over the sink, splashing cold water onto his face. His reflection stared back at him in the cracked mirror—messy black hair, pale skin, and a swollen bottom lip that still burned faintly.
There wasn’t much he could do about his shirt; the stain on his collar was already darkening. Maybe he could say he spilled juice at lunch. Not that it mattered.
He straightened up and sighed, running a hand through his hair.
Would Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia even ask about his lip when he got home?