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A Path Beyond Survival: Chapter 15 - Infirmary and Worry
🕑 Added 2025-03-29 01:51:39 +0000 UTCThe light in the infirmary was soft, golden, almost unreal. The air smelled of bitter herbs, healing potions, and freshly washed linens. Harry blinked slowly, his eyes adjusting to the brightness. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Then, the dull pain in his head and the weight in his chest brought him back.
The cold was still there. Not the cold of the air, but something internal, as if parts of him had been torn away and replaced with emptiness.
He tried to move and felt his muscles protest. Madame Pomfrey, at his side, started slightly when she noticed he was waking up.
“Oh, thank Merlin,” she murmured, adjusting the blankets with a firm gesture. “You were unconscious for more than an hour. That’s not common, not even for Dementor attacks. You need rest, Potter.”
Harry forced himself to sit up, though his arms felt like lead.
“You were lucky,” said a deep, calmer voice. He turned and saw Lupin standing near the window, arms crossed, his expression composed but clearly worried.
And then, beside him, Susan.
She was seated in a wooden chair, hands clasped in her lap, eyes downcast. When she realized he was looking, she lifted her gaze and tried to smile, but her expression was marked by guilt.
“Hi,” she said in a small voice. “I… I’m glad you woke up.”
Harry only nodded, unsure of what to say.
Madame Pomfrey retrieved an amber-colored vial from a nearby cabinet. “Drink this. It will help with the effects. And then, rest.”
Harry drank the bitter liquid without complaint, his eyes fixed on the white sheets. The silence stretched until Lupin stepped closer to the bed.
“You were brave,” the professor said. “Much more than anyone could have expected.”
“Stupid bravery, maybe,” Harry muttered.
Lupin frowned. “No. Instinctive, yes. But not stupid. You protected your classmate when you didn’t know how to defend yourself. That’s more than many would have done.”
Susan pressed her lips together, her eyes full of regret.
“I should have run faster. I should have helped somehow. I’m sorry, Harry. I… you put yourself in front because of me.”
Harry let out a short sigh, looking away. “There was nothing you could have done. It wasn’t your fault.”
Susan stood up, hesitant. “I… I’ll let you two talk.” Before leaving, she lightly touched his arm. “Thank you. Truly.”
She left without a sound, leaving only the muffled patter of rain against the stained glass windows.
Harry remained silent for a few seconds, then looked at Lupin.
“Why do they affect me so much?”
Lupin hesitated, then sat on the edge of the next bed.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “But Dementors feed on the worst memories. On pain. On emptiness. And you, Harry… you’ve faced more than most.”
Harry clenched his fists beneath the blankets. He knew. He knew exactly why those monsters brought him down. Because when they were near, he heard it.
The scream.
The plea.
The death.
But he said nothing. He couldn’t. Not yet.
“I need to learn,” he murmured. “I need to know how to fight them off.”
Lupin studied him for a long moment. In the professor’s eyes, there was something more than empathy—there was understanding. As if he carried a similar weight himself.
“Are you sure?” he asked in a low voice. “It’s advanced magic. It requires concentration, emotional strength. It can be dangerous.”
Harry nodded without hesitation. “Not knowing is more dangerous.”
Lupin stood.
“Then come find me next week, after classes. When you’re feeling better.”
And for a moment, before stepping away, he smiled.
“And Harry… what happened today… you didn’t fail. You endured.”
Madame Pomfrey returned with an extra pillow and a folded blanket in her arms. She placed everything carefully beside the bed and gave Harry a firm look, the kind that left no room for argument.
“You will be spending the night here, Mr. Potter. There is nothing more reckless than wandering around after an attack like that.”
Harry thought about protesting, but he was too tired to argue. And deep down, part of him felt… safe there. The soft light, the scent of herbs, the quiet steps of the healer. It all brought a strange sense of comfort that he rarely experienced elsewhere.
“All right,” he said, settling more comfortably under the covers. “I wouldn’t have the strength to leave anyway.”
Madame Pomfrey gave him a softer look, less authoritative.
“You were very brave, Harry. Foolish, but brave.” She smiled slightly, as if remembering other stubborn patients. “But even so, you shouldn’t expose yourself to this kind of thing without preparation.”
Harry turned his face toward the ceiling. “That’s why I want to learn. To fight them. Professor Lupin is going to teach me…”
“He is a good teacher,” she said, pulling a chair to sit beside him. “One of the best I’ve seen, actually.”
Silence hung for a moment until Harry, hesitant, broke it.
“Professor… you studied Healing Magic, right?”
Madame Pomfrey adjusted her cap, proud. “At St. Mungo’s, for four years. Then another two for specialization. Why? You were interested in that, weren’t you?”
Harry bit his lip and nodded. “I… I’ve been reading about it more and more. About Green Magic too. I don’t really know why. It just feels… right.”
The healer leaned slightly forward, her eyes more attentive.
“Green Magic?” she repeated, as if she hadn’t heard that term in a long time. “That’s an old name. Few use it today.”
“Daphne Greengrass mentioned it… and I found a book in the library. A strange book, it seemed older than Hogwarts.”
Madame Pomfrey leaned back in her chair, thoughtful. “Healing Magic was born long before we had formal schools. It was passed from wizard to wizard, as an art, not a science. The ancients called it Green Magic because they believed it came from the earth, from life, and from balance. It was intuitive. Sensitive. Almost emotional.”
Harry frowned. “Emotional?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “True healing doesn’t depend only on ingredients or wand movements. It requires empathy. Understanding. You have to feel the other person. Almost as if you let part of yourself heal their pain.”
Harry remained silent, absorbing that. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It is,” she answered without hesitation. “Because there is a price. For every wound healed, you take a fragment of the pain with you. Over time, it accumulates. And that’s why not everyone can endure being a healer for long.”
He swallowed hard.
“But why would someone choose that, then? Why be a healer if other people’s pain becomes your own?”
Madame Pomfrey smiled, but there was melancholy in her gaze.
“Because it is better to carry the pain of others than to watch them be destroyed by it.”
Harry lowered his eyes. For a moment, he thought of Neville, how he had felt in Potions class. Of Susan, fallen on the ground, trying to get up. Of Lupin, with that look that seemed to understand everything without saying a word. And of himself.
“I… I think I understand.”
Madame Pomfrey stood, smoothing her uniform skirt with an automatic gesture.
“You are still very young. But your heart is in the right place, Harry Potter. And that is rarer than any talent with a wand.”
She dimmed part of the lights with a wave of her hand.
“Now, sleep. And when you wake up, we can talk about which books are actually worth reading on the subject. Most of the ones in the library are more embellishment than truth.”
Harry smiled, feeling his eyes grow heavy.
“Thank you, Madame Pomfrey.”
The soft glow of the enchanted lanterns still cast golden reflections on the stone walls when the infirmary door opened with a slight creak.
Madame Pomfrey looked up, hands already poised to reprimand whoever it was.
“It’s late, Miss Greengrass.”
Daphne appeared in the doorway, the hood of her cloak still resting on her shoulders, her breath slightly quickened. Her eyes went straight to Harry.
“I know, ma’am. But I need to talk to him. Just five minutes. Please.”
“This will be quick,” Harry added. “We promise!”
Madame Pomfrey pressed her lips together, assessing the urgency of the request with that clinical gaze of someone who could tell when a burden was too heavy to delay.
“Five minutes,” she said at last, gathering some vials from the table. “And keep your voices down, please. The noisy Quidditch team was more than enough earlier.”
She disappeared behind the curtains, and Harry sat up better, pulling the blanket over his lap.
Daphne walked to the bedside without hesitation, but there was something more restrained in her movements. More serious.
“Susan told me at dinner,” she said bluntly, stopping beside the bed. “What happened to you. The dementor.”
Harry let out a short sigh, running a hand through his messy hair. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
“Nothing?” she raised an eyebrow. “You fainted, Harry. In the middle of the field. And she said you stepped in front of her.”
He looked away.
“I saw that thing coming… and she wasn’t going to get away in time. I just… acted.”
Daphne sat on the edge of the bed but kept a respectful distance. “She also said you tried to stay on your feet even when you could barely stay conscious.”
“It’s not heroism, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Harry said with a tired smile. “I just… refuse to stand by and watch someone get hurt.”
Daphne was silent for a few seconds, her eyes fixed on the sheets as if carefully considering each word.
“You know they’re not just patrolling the castle’s borders anymore, right? Not officially. Some of the older magical barriers have failed since they arrived. Flitwick mentioned it, quietly, after Runes class.”
Harry nodded slowly. “Doesn’t surprise me. Those… dementors. They don’t obey anyone. Not even the Ministry.”
Another silence settled between them. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy.
“Were you afraid?” she asked suddenly, without looking at him.
“Yes,” he answered without hesitation. “Not of what it could do to me. But of what it makes me remember.”
Daphne turned her face, finally meeting his eyes. “Susan said you opened up to her. About what happened last year… about what it was like to be treated as the guilty one.”
Harry blinked a few times, surprised. “She told you that?”
“She said you were the one who spoke. That it hurt. That she was unfair.”
Harry exhaled slowly. “At the time, it felt like the end of the world. Now… I don’t know. I carry so much inside me that sometimes I don’t even know what weighs the most.”
Daphne tilted her head slightly.
“You know, don’t you? That if you want to talk… or not talk… it’s okay.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“You’re different,” he murmured. “Not just from the image people have of Slytherin. But… different from everyone.”
A slight smile curved her lips. “I’m not that different. I just don’t have patience for games. I like when things are real.”
Harry smiled too, lighter.
“Thanks for coming.”
“You’re welcome for insisting with Pomfrey,” she replied, standing up with a final glance. “Now sleep. Tomorrow you’ll wake up with sore ribs if you keep using that pillow that’s way too thin.”
He chuckled softly. “Yes, ma’am.”
Daphne hesitated at the door, as if she was about to say something else… but simply nodded slightly and left, her cloak swaying gently with the breeze that slipped through the door’s gap.
Madame Pomfrey appeared shortly after, raising an eyebrow with a look of “I heard everything.”
“She’s right about the pillow,” she murmured, replacing it with a thicker one. “But if you start making a habit of nighttime visitors, Mr. Potter, I might have to start charging an entrance fee.”
Harry laughed again, but the sound came out lighter. Cleaner.
And when he finally closed his eyes, he felt that even with the constant presence of darkness lurking, there was something — or someone — pulling him back to the light.
