Autumn for the Two. The First Moment of Eternity

Harry irritably flung his jumper aside. Why the hell did all his clothes and bedding reek of blasted pine?! He was beginning to feel as though he lived in a bloody spruce forest. ‘And how long are you going to keep digging your heels in?’ Tom’s voice rang out as he watched his friend scatter his belongings about the room. ‘If someone’s poisoning you, you need to go to Snape or the Headmaster …’ he paused, ‘better to the Headmaster.’ ‘And what do you suggest I tell him?’ Potter snapped. This argument had been dragging on for days and both of them were thoroughly sick of it. ‘That you’ve gone paranoid and think someone’s trying to poison me?’ ‘I’m not going to put up with this much longer either,’ Tom said evenly. ‘I haven’t told anyone only to give you the chance to decide for yourself. But you keep being stubborn as if you’re a three‑year‑old!’ ‘Tom, please, just stop,’ Harry pleaded. ‘No one’s poisoning me, I’m not ill, I’m not at death’s door, I’m just —’ ‘Just tired,’ Archer cut in with a sarcastic snort. ‘Yeah, we’ve been hearing that for at least a fortnight while you’re getting worse by the day! Do you even know Flint’s gone completely mad because of you — and he only thinks you’re ill! I told him you’d been to Madam Pomfrey and were being treated, and that’s the only reason he hasn’t torn your daft head off yet!’ ‘Everything’s fine,’ Harry muttered gloomily. ‘I’m fine.’ ‘For your information, McGonagall and Lupin have been bombarding me with questions about you! Do you think I’ve nothing better to do than stand about chatting with them?’ ‘And what did you tell them?’ Potter asked anxiously. ‘That you’re a bloody idiot!’ Archer barked. ‘What else was I supposed to say?! Harry, why won’t you admit you need help?’ he let out a weary sigh. ‘Wasn’t it you who said asking for help means showing weakness?’ Harry shot back sharply, getting to his feet. ‘Are you saying I’m weak?’ For a moment Archer stared at his friend in confusion. ‘Do you honestly think admitting someone’s trying to kill you is weakness?’ Tom asked quietly. ‘You reckon asking for help makes you a weakling?’ ‘Doesn’t it?’ ‘No! No, you prat! This behaviour doesn’t show strength — it shows bloody stupidity! Who in their right mind denies being in danger?’ ‘I do,’ Harry replied darkly, heading for the door. ‘Give it a rest, Tom. There’s no danger.’ ‘You’re wrong, Potter,’ Malfoy stepped suddenly into his path. ‘Someone’s poisoning you, and I’d wager it’s the same person who ripped up your Potions essay — and then your Transfiguration and Charms homework.’ ‘Someone in Slytherin wishes you harm, Harry,’ Archer said, resting a hand on his shoulder, ‘and I bet my wand you know it perfectly well.’ ‘Leave me alone,’ Potter said quietly. ‘I’ll sort it out myself …’ ‘There we are — he’s slipped up,’ Zabini chuckled, appearing at Draco’s left. ‘I knew this idiot would try to handle it all on his own,’ Tom sighed. ‘Case in point,’ Malfoy shrugged. ‘You should’ve been in Gryffindor, Potter.’ ‘Don’t be daft,’ Archer scoffed with a grin. ‘Harry’s a born Slytherin — you just haven’t clocked it yet, Malfoy.’ Harry looked from one classmate to another in bewilderment, unable to grasp what this was all about. They’d clearly planned it. Discussed his condition, made decisions … worried? About him? What a load of rubbish. ‘Why do you even care?’ he burst out. ‘What?’ all three asked at once. ‘Why do you care if someone’s trying to poison me?! Why do you care if someone keeps turning my homework into a pile of shredded parchment — why does it matter to you?! They’re my problems. Stay out of it!’ ‘His problems,’ Draco looked at him with disdain. ‘No, just listen to him — HIS problems! The fact there’s someone in our House ready to commit murder for their own ends is HIS problem, ha! It’s the House’s reputation, Potter, first and foremost. What do you think people will say if you pop your clogs?’ ‘Besides, there’s nothing pleasant about staring at your pale mug,’ Zabini laughed. ‘Honestly, it doesn’t do your charm any favours.’ ‘And if you think I couldn’t care less whether you’re alive or dead,’ Archer said through gritted teeth, ‘you’d better have another think before jumping to conclusions like that.’ ‘But I —’ ‘Shut it,’ Tom suggested calmly. ‘Or we’ll fetch Flint.’ ‘We’re going to the Hospital Wing,’ Malfoy took Harry by the arm just above the elbow. ‘Because you’re becoming painful to look at, Potter. You’re disgracing the House.’ Harry closed his eyes, resigning himself to fate. ‘Fine. Do what you want,’ he muttered, receiving only three mocking looks in return.

***

‘Merlin Almighty,’ Madam Pomfrey breathed when the three Slytherins brought in a barely standing Harry. ‘Someone’s tried to poison him,’ Tom said quickly, unable to hide his worry — on the way to the Hospital Wing Harry had suddenly taken a turn for the worse; each breath seemed a struggle, and Archer had felt real panic when he realised his best friend might not survive the day. ‘Come with me,’ the mediwitch asked no questions, merely led the children into one of the wards and helped them lay Harry on a bed. ‘Fetch Professor Snape!’ she ordered as she examined him. Anxiety rang clearly in her voice. ‘Mr Potter!’ she called. ‘Can you hear me?’ Tom, already heading towards the exit with Draco and Blaise, caught his friend’s faint whisper. ‘I can’t … I can’t see,’ he repeated over and over. ‘I can’t see anything …’ At that, Archer stopped listening and bolted towards the dungeons in search of Professor Snape. One thought pounded in his head: “What if he dies? What will I do if he dies?” Racing through the corridors in blind panic, Tom finally understood the fate awaiting his friend in this world. Fight or die. They would always try to kill him; there would always be those in this cursed world who stood to gain from Harry’s death. Those for whom killing Potter would be the highest priority. “To hell with all of you,” Tom thought, gasping for breath. “To hell with fate and your entire rotten world! What canIdo?! How canIchange it?!”

***

Snape swept into the Hospital Wing and, without breaking stride, approached Madam Pomfrey as she emerged from her office. The nurse was carrying a tray crowded with phials of potions. Catching sight of the Slytherin Head of House, she pursed her lips in irritation and shook her head. Severus couldn’t have cared less about her disapproval. ‘And the verdict?’ ‘Poison,’ the witch replied quietly, wasting no time on reproaches. ‘But I don’t know which one. There’s none in his blood — I don’t know why … either it dissolves rapidly or it’s something unusual. I’ve only managed to detect traces of toxins in the lungs, but it’s impossible to identify the poison. Severus, this is a catastrophe,’ she whispered, fear ringing in her voice. ‘What’s his condition?’ Snape asked curtly, shutting down every thought and feeling — that could wait. What mattered now was establishing how badly Potter had been harmed. Madam Pomfrey gave a bitter little smile as though reading his mind. ‘He should have been admitted a week ago,’ she said tensely. ‘As it stands … the stomach, liver, heart, auditory and visual organs are affected. The lungs are in a dreadful state. His sight is almost entirely gone, but all of that is curable,’ she paused, as though bracing herself to voice the next words. ‘The worst of all is the damage to the brain cells,’ she said flatly. ‘The boy is in a coma.’ ‘What?’ Both the witch and wizard flinched and turned. It turned out that Thomas Archer had been standing a few paces from Snape all along, unnoticed until now. The boy was deathly pale; not a flicker of emotion showed on his frozen face, and only in his wide black eyes did an icy horror gleam. ‘What do you mean — in a coma?’ he asked quietly. ‘Are you saying Harry won’t wake up?’ ‘We need to determine the nature of the poison,’ the nurse sighed. ‘I can’t do anything until I know how to counteract the toxin; there’s a risk we might harm Mr Potter by choosing medicine at random.’ ‘What about a Bezoar stone?’ Tom pressed, darting a desperate look from professor to nurse. ‘Isn’t that a universal antidote?’ ‘Against most poisons, yes,’ Snape nodded. ‘And we shall try it. But I fear it will be useless here.’ ‘But why?!’ ‘If the potion used to poison Mr Potter dissolved instantly in the bloodstream, leaving no trace, then it belongs to the category of advanced potions and … may entail irreversible consequences.’ ‘Oh,’ Archer nodded with unsettling calm. ‘I see. Thank you, sir. I think I’ll go.’ He turned on his heel and stepped into the corridor, carefully closing the door behind him. Poppy shook her head. ‘We may have to admit him as well, Severus,’ she observed. ‘The boy appears to be in shock.’ ‘How severe is the brain damage?’ Snape asked ignoring her remark. He would deal with Archer later. ‘It’s difficult to say. In this case I can only make conjectures.’ ‘Understood,’ Snape inclined his head. ‘I shall attempt to discover which poison was used. In the meantime I’ll prepare several strong antidotes and restorative draughts. For now, we must at least prevent further deterioration.’ ‘Hurry, Severus. I believe we’re counting the hours,’ the nurse replied sharply, finally allowing her indignation to surface. ‘I warned you, but —’ ‘Poppy, let’s leave that — at least until tomorrow,’ the Slytherin Head cut in and left the infirmary. He had a great deal to discuss with certain people.

***

Tom closed the dormitory door carefully and sat down on his bed. Drawing his knees to his chest, he pressed his forehead against them and squeezed his eyes shut. Thoughts ricocheted wildly through his mind but he made no attempt to grasp them. The door creaked softly and someone sat beside him. ‘What does Madam Pomfrey say?’ it sounded like Zabini. ‘They don’t know what kind of poison it is,’ Archer replied dully without lifting his head. ‘How’s Harry?’ ‘Bad.’ He did not notice when Blaise left the room. He did not know how long he remained sitting like that — unmoving, devoid of a single coherent thought. A coldness had taken up residence in his chest, along with a strange detachment. It felt as though something vital had been torn from his soul — something without which there was no warmth, no feeling, no meaning. In its place lay only emptiness and a lifeless, frozen desert. He was frightened. He was frozen, blinded, deafened. Never in his life had Tom felt so lost and alone. And he had no idea what to do about it. In truth, he did not wish to do anything. Sitting there, unmoving, seemed almost perfect. Yet the more time passed, the higher a dreadful, boiling sensation rose within his chest — something nameless and without release. Tom lay back on the bed, drew a deep breath, buried his face in the pillow and screamed.

***

Minerva sat opposite the Headmaster, and Albus would have sworn she was emitting sparks — she was furious. ‘Explain to me once again, Albus,’ she said irritably, ‘why for a second week straight we have been watching Mr Potter slowly die — and doing nothing?!’ ‘You know as well as I do that since the day Severus informed us of Harry’s condition, we have been occupied with nothing else,’ Dumbledore sighed. ‘The boy should have been sent to the Hospital Wing at once, Albus! Did you see him at breakfast? He looks like a ghost! How long are we meant to sit and watch him suffer? It’s obvious he’s been cursed or poisoned.’ ‘We have examined him repeatedly for traces of poison. You yourself have secretly cast diagnostic spells more than once and found nothing,’ the Headmaster reminded her. ‘If Harry was poisoned, it was not through his food.’ ‘And are you certain you were paying proper attention to what the boy was eating?’ ‘Minerva,’ Albus looked at her in affront, ‘for two weeks Harry has been observed by myself, Madam Pomfrey, you, Remus, Severus, two house‑elves, Mr Flint at his Head of House’s request, Mr Archer, and Miss Granger. I should think at least one of us would have noticed if the food were poisoned.’ ‘Mr Archer and Miss Granger were not warned of a possible attempt on the boy’s life! If they kept an eye on him, it was out of concern — children could hardly be expected to know —’ ‘If I am not mistaken,’ the Headmaster smiled gently, ‘Miss Granger has spent the past week reading about poisonings and the effects of various toxins, while Mr Archer has been studying curses.’ ‘They are children, Albus — CHILDREN! Are children meant to solve such problems?! We, the professors, were obliged to put a stop to this the moment we realised something was wrong with Mr Potter, instead of calmly observing —’ ‘Had we raised the alarm, the one attempting to harm Harry might have acted rashly and attacked the boy outright …’ ‘As though we are incapable of protecting a child! What sort of guardianship is this, if we cannot prevent such things?! Were you waiting for him to work it out himself? He would not even admit he was unwell — kept insisting he was fine! Do not look for excuses, Dumbledore. Why did you go through with this?!’ ‘I hoped that —’ The Headmaster’s door flew open and another enraged professor entered Albus’s line of sight. ‘Potter is in the Hospital Wing,’ Snape announced shortly. ‘In a coma.’ Minerva looked at the Headmaster in horror. Albus remained silent, awaiting clarification. ‘It was poison after all. As. I. Told. You. There is a risk that, should the boy regain consciousness, he will remain either blind or mentally impaired,’ his impenetrable black eyes burned with scarcely concealed fury. ‘Now explain to me once more, Albus — why the hell were we playing spies all this time?’ ‘What was the poison?’ the Headmaster asked calmly. ‘Unknown. I shall conduct several experiments and attempt to determine it. Until we understand what he was poisoned with, curing Potter will be impossible,’ Severus gave an irritated snort. ‘And you have not answered me, Albus.’ ‘I … I confess, I simply did not expect —’ the Headmaster averted his gaze, and Severus knew some impossibly idiotic justification was about to follow as to why the life of an eleven‑year‑old child had been placed at risk. ‘Harry faces a difficult destiny,’ Dumbledore sighed, ‘and I had hoped — I believed — that such situations might strengthen the boy’s spirit, teach him to fight …’ From the look exchanged between the Heads of Gryffindor and Slytherin, Albus understood that this explanation, to put it mildly, did not satisfy them. ‘So,’ Minerva began in a dangerous whisper, ‘you arranged a survival exercise for a child — merely to harden his fighting spirit?’ For ten seconds the silence stretched, thick with the professors’ fury — the walls themselves might have cracked beneath it. Snape held his tongue, selecting his words. McGonagall exploded first. ‘He is a child! Merlin Almighty, Albus! Not a warrior, not a soldier, not an immortal knight! A CHILD! You condemned the boy to suffering in pursuit of interests that were not his own. Do not pretend you were thinking of Harry! You devised a plan in your head and sought to follow it to the letter; but you forgot, Headmaster, —’ in that single word there was more venom than in a Basilisk ‘— that Harry is eleven years old. He is only a little boy trying to live a normal life,’ she faltered, angry tears brimming in her brown eyes which she blinked away hastily. ‘Do not take his childhood from him, Albus,’ Minerva said quietly. ‘We have already taken far too much. Do not make the same mistake twice.’ With that she left the office, abandoning the Headmaster to Snape. ‘I never thought I would say this,’ Severus said evenly, ‘but she is right. We shall be fortunate indeed if the boy is now capable of fulfilling his “destiny”,’ he moved towards the door, then halted halfway and turned, fixing the Headmaster with a look of disappointment. ‘In future, Albus, allow me to make my own decisions regarding my students. This was the last time I relied upon your judgement. Truly, when it comes to Harry Potter, you lose your wits, Headmaster.’ The door slammed loudly behind him. Albus closed his eyes for a moment, slumping in his chair. One of the portraits on the wall gave a disapproving sniff. ‘You take too much upon yourself, Albus.’ Dumbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose and rose, walking to the phoenix perched upon its stand. The bird turned its elegant head towards him and clicked its beak. The white‑haired wizard absently ran his fingertips through Fawkes’s feathers. ‘It seems I am growing too old, my friend,’ the Headmaster confessed. ‘Apparently, upon reaching a certain age, life’s wisdom begins to turn into folly.’ Albus sighed and offered a joyless smile. “What a pity that men cannot be reborn like phoenixes.”

***

Two days passed in a haze. Tom slept poorly, ate almost nothing and stopped speaking to his housemates altogether. He scarcely noticed day giving way to night. He did not want to leave the dormitory, did not want even to rise from his bed. Blaise tried several times to drag him outside or persuade him to visit the Hospital Wing but Archer simply ignored him. He barely even heard what Zabini was saying. He just didn’t care at all. Tom greeted yet another morning staring at the ceiling; and for the first time since everything had happened, a thought stirred in his mind. At first he paid it no heed. Then he tried to get a hold of it — and finally spoke it aloud. ‘Spruce forest,’ Tom whispered hoarsely, frowning. ‘Spruce forest,’ he turned onto his side. ‘Spruce forest. That makes no sense.’ Yet the thought would not leave him. It had neither logical beginning nor conclusion. Just two words, refusing to let him be. Waiting until he was alone in the dormitory, Tom rose from the bed and dressed, not entirely certain what he intended to do. After pacing the room for a while, he reluctantly approached Potter’s bed, slowly sat down upon the dark‑green blanket and studied the thin silver pattern woven into the fabric. After a moment’s hesitation, he lay back on Harry’s pillow and drew in a deep breath. A bitter scent of pine struck his nose, and nausea rose instantly to his throat. Archer shot upright and bolted to the bathroom where he violently threw up. Rinsing his mouth and splashing his face with water, Tom stared at his reflection in the mirror. ‘Spruce forest,’ a pale, striking boy with tangled dark hair and eyes in which life was beginning to flicker once more stared back at him, ‘and pine,’ he tilted his head; the reflection mirrored the movement. The fire in his eyes burned brighter. ‘A spruce forest smells of pine. This isn’t a spruce forest. But it smells of pine. Why?’ He returned to the dormitory and once again stopped beside his friend’s bed, his mind working faster and faster. Snatching his grey‑and‑green scarf from the back of a chair, Archer wrapped it around his nose and mouth, pulled on gloves of the same colours and stripped the pillowcase from Harry’s pillow. “Why do all my clothes reek of blasted fir trees?” Harry’s indignant voice rang in his memory. “Feels like I live in a spruce forest!”

***

For almost the entire morning Snape had the persistent sensation that someone was standing outside his office door. At first he even listened for a knock but none came, and he returned to his work running through every conceivable poison in his mind and compiling a list of the most likely candidates given Potter’s condition. His patience snapped within half an hour; crossing to the door, he wrenched it open. Opposite his office, leaning back against the wall, stood a student — likely a Slytherin judging by the colour of the scarf wrapped about half his face and the gloves upon his hands. A heartbeat later Severus recognised him as Harry Potter’s best friend. ‘Archer?’ Snape frowned, watching as the boy folded and unfolded a piece of white fabric which, upon closer inspection, proved to be nothing more than an ordinary pillowcase. ‘Would you care to explain what you are doing?’ he enquired sternly, privately wondering whether Archer had gone mad under the strain. ‘Tell me, sir,’ the first‑year’s voice came muffled from behind the scarf, ‘what smells of pine?’ ‘Do you want me to deliver a lecture on Herbology?’ Severus replied dryly after a moment’s pause. ‘Pine trees, probably,’ Tom suggested, as though he had not heard him. ‘And fir trees. And … spruces?’ ‘Spruces?’ “I ought to send him to the Hospital Wing as well,” Severus thought wearily. “This looks serious.” ‘Like in a spruce forest,’ Archer lifted his head and looked Snape straight in the eye. The professor flinched. There was something in that gaze — something horribly familiar. And something profoundly unsettling. ‘Archer, are you feeling quite yourself?’ Severus asked cautiously. ‘Why does Harry’s pillowcase smell of pine? Or his jumper? And his robes? And why did I feel sick when I breathed it in? Sir.’ For nearly a minute the Slytherin Head simply stared at him in stunned silence. Oh, he is quite himself, Snape realised. Very much himself. He had simply never before seen such fury reflected in the eyes of an eleven‑year‑old child. Nor had he imagined that anyone would possess a mind twisted enough to employ the Black Spruce poison. ‘Fusternatrum,’ Severus whispered. Tom tilted his head questioningly. ‘Fusternatrum smells of pine. The Black Spruce draught. Devil! Follow me.’ He spun on his heel and strode into his office, halting before the bookcases. Archer followed, quietly shutting the door behind him. Snape’s eyes scanned the shelves for the necessary volume while at the same time he wondered how, in the name of Mordred, the cursed potion had not killed everyone sharing Potter’s dormitory. ‘Atra Fusterna,’ Severus began, thinking aloud, ‘which translates as Black Spruce. A potent poison brewed from the needles of the black spruce — a toxic coniferous plant. In England it is exceedingly rare. It grows chiefly in the northern hemisphere and is considered among the most dangerous poisonous plants. The needles secrete a virulent toxin which, once inside the body, rapidly damages the internal organs causing internal haemorrhage. The drawback of Black Spruce is that once the needles are separated from the branches, they lose their poisonous properties entirely. Harvesting those needles is extraordinarily difficult — not to mention perilous.’ Snape’s hand halted before one particular book and he swiftly drew it from the shelf. ‘The potion never gained wide circulation, as brewing it correctly requires considerable skill and experience. Moreover, it can only poison the individual for whom it is prepared … in other words, a highly specific toxin,’ he flipped through the pages, continuing to think aloud. ‘Between one and six needles are added to the draught to brew Fusternatrum. Combined with the other ingredients, they produce a thick, dark‑green solution with a persistent scent of pine. The potion is most effective when inhaled …’ Snape broke off abruptly. ‘Devil!’ Tom blinked in surprise as the professor turned towards him with a look bordering on madness. ‘Archer!’ he barked. ‘Go to the Hospital Wing at once! Tell Madam Pomfrey to air the room thoroughly and replace Potter’s bedding and pyjamas! Inform her he was poisoned with Fusternatrum! Move!’ Had Snape not known that Apparition was impossible within Hogwarts, he might have sworn the boy had done just that, so swiftly did he vanish from the office. Still leafing frantically through the book in search of a particular note, Severus seized a handful of Floo powder, flung it into the fireplace without looking, and roared. ‘Albus Dumbledore!’

***

Despite the severity of the poisoning and the boy’s condition, the antidote brewed by Snape purged the remaining toxins from his body rather quickly. The school mediwitch began treatment at once, and within a couple of days Harry regained consciousness, though he was somewhat unfocused and terribly weak. Several times a day Poppy tested her patient’s cognitive functions, yet every examination showed that his mind was working normally, without the slightest deviation. It was a good sign. ‘Had there been serious damage,’ she told Snape and Dumbledore, ‘we would have seen it immediately. I believe we have escaped lightly this time,’ and she cast the Headmaster a look that could have reduced stone to ash. Snape brewed a preventive potion for Harry to protect him against Black Spruce poison, fearing a second attempt on his life. Nevertheless, contrary to Madam Pomfrey’s and the Slytherin Head’s concerns, Potter recovered swiftly and showed no signs of renewed poisoning. For several more days Madam Pomfrey kept him under close observation, and only when she deemed his condition steadily improving were visitors permitted. To Harry’s surprise, the first to rush to his bedside was not Tom but Remus Lupin, and after him began an endless procession of guests. By the time Archer deigned to appear in the Hospital Wing, everyone imaginable had already visited: Draco, pretending he had merely been passing by; Blaise, who had attempted to smuggle in sweets only to have them confiscated by the nurse; Hermione, armed with a million notes about lessons and a stern reprimand; Professor McGonagall, deeply displeased that he had concealed the truth about his condition; Flint, threatening to strangle him if anything like this ever happened again; and even Headmaster Dumbledore, who seemed profoundly saddened and behaved with curious caution around Potter, as though fearing he might level accusations against him. In truth, however, Harry was far more concerned with the whereabouts of his best friend — and, as always, Archer arrived last. ‘I see you’re pleased with yourself,’ Tom observed, seating himself opposite his friend with a caustic smile. Harry, reclining as comfortably as the hospital bed allowed, was devouring his lunch with remarkable appetite — a bowl of rather unappetising porridge and a glass of skimmed milk. At his friend’s remark he merely shrugged. ‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ he said with a grin. ‘It just turned out that if you use those drops Madam Pomfrey gave me three times instead of two, like she said, your eyesight improves.’ ‘So you no longer need your glasses,’ Archer concluded. ‘Seems not,’ Potter beamed. ‘I’ve never seen the world this clearly in my life.’ ‘Yes,’ his friend paused pointedly, displeasure evident, ‘a fair price for two weeks of slow death.’ ‘You’re exaggerating,’ he finished the porridge and looked at Tom. ‘I wasn’t planning to die.’ ‘Do you have any idea how it looked from the outside?’ ‘From the outside things are never what they really are,’ Harry replied lightly, took a sip of milk, and grimaced. ‘Ugh — why did they have to pour that potion into it?’ ‘What potion?’ ‘A nutritional supplement,’ Potter explained. ‘I’m not allowed anything fatty, sweet, sour, or salty right now, so Madam Pomfrey adds a bit of this potion to my food to make sure I get enough vitamins and other nonsense. I don’t mind, exactly, but it tastes like old socks!’ ‘That’s revolting,’ Archer agreed. Silence fell. Potter retrieved a small pouch of sweets from beneath his pillow — the one which Zabini had somehow managed to smuggle in despite the strict prohibition — and began to open it with a rustle. At last Tom lost patience. ‘Well? Aren’t you even going to ask what I discovered while you were lying here?’ ‘Hm? You discovered something?’ Harry popped a sweet into his mouth and glanced at him inquisitively. ‘Of course I did! It seemed rather interesting to find out who tried to poison you!’ Archer exclaimed. ‘And?’ ‘What do you mean, “and”?’ ‘What did you find out?’ Harry pressed impatiently. ‘I won’t tell you,’ Tom said with a malicious smile. ‘Lie there and suffer from curiosity.’ ‘Your cruelty knows no bounds,’ sighed the Boy Who Lived Again. ‘Fine. Tell me later.’ He returned his attention to the sweets. Tom shook his head, wondering how much of that calm was feigned. Harry was at times impossibly difficult to understand — particularly this indifference toward his own safety. ‘Still,’ Archer said quietly, ‘why didn’t you say anything? If we hadn’t realised you’d been poisoned, you might have died.’ ‘I …’ Potter shrugged, looking away. ‘I don’t know. I mean, it only concerns me, doesn’t it?’ he met his friend’s gaze with defiance. ‘The danger was aimed at me alone. Why drag anyone else into it?’ ‘Drag anyone else into it?’ for a moment Tom stared at him in disbelief — then suddenly laughed. ‘Merlin, you really are a true Slytherin,’ he remarked through his laughter. ‘Only a Slytherin could possess such arrogance and be so entirely self‑absorbed!’ ‘But —’ ‘Harry, I appreciate your noble impulse to protect everyone,’ Tom smiled, ‘but for once allow me to take at least a small part in your life,’ Archer frowned. ‘I don’t care that you told neither the teachers nor the prefects. I’m upset that you didn’t tell me. Didn’t we swear always to protect one another?’ ‘I was trying to protect you,’ Harry began defensively, but Tom merely snorted. ‘Utter nonsense! I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. I hope next time you will think twice before keeping me in the dark.’ ‘All right,’ Potter shrugged. ‘As you say.’ They spent some time talking of trivial matters until Madam Pomfrey finally ushered Archer out, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts. He did not wish to show it — nor even to admit it — but deep down he was afraid. Only now had he fully grasped how precarious his life truly was, and he had no idea what he ought to do about it. Before, there had been only the vague threat of a wizard long missing and presumed dead for years. Now Harry had faced a genuine attempt on his life. The only thing he knew for certain was that as long as there existed in this world a powerful wizard who wished him dead, he would never be able to live in peace. But what could he do? What does one do when threatened? Hide? Run? Strike back? Harry was far from certain he could deliberately harm anyone. He had never even been able to hit Dudley back — and it was not merely because his cousin was twice his size and strength. Harry simply could not imagine striking someone, let alone killing them. Even someone who desired his death. Hatred was required for that — and in all his life Harry Potter had never once experienced that emotion, not even toward the man who had murdered his parents. “Tom would probably call it pacifism,” he thought with a faint smile, “or foolishness.” Listening to himself, Harry often wondered what he truly felt when he thought of Voldemort. Fear? Contempt? A desire for revenge? No. Each time he recalled the wizard who had brought so much evil into the world, Harry felt nothing but indifferent detachment. As though it were merely a character from a book, a figment of someone’s imagination, bearing no relation to real life at all. How simple everything would be then! Harry wished Voldemort did not exist. But he could not hate him. Even though that man robbed him of his family … Strange as it sounded, how could you hate someone you had never even seen before? Someone known only through stories? Harry leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes. These thoughts were too complicated; he pushed them away. “Gonna cross that bridge when I come to it,” he recalled from some old song and smiled drowsily. He rather liked the phrase. Throughout the week of his recovery, Harry was bored out of his mind and didn’t know what to do with himself. Consequently, he directed all his accumulated energy at the only person he saw constantly — the formidable school mediwitch, who was not especially inclined toward conversation. At first he pestered her with assurances that he was perfectly well and ought to be discharged, but when the topic grew tiresome for both of them, Potter changed tactics and began asking about the profession of Healers. Idle curiosity soon transformed into genuine interest. The boy was curious about everything, and Poppy did not even notice when her curt replies turned into detailed explanations. Within only a few days Harry had so thoroughly charmed the school nurse that he was allowed into the sanctum sanctorum — her private office, where rare medicines, the most valuable books, and a multitude of astonishing medical instruments were kept. Harry asked about each and every one, examining them carefully. Magical medicine bore no resemblance to its Muggle counterpart. Instead of needles, scalpels, and rubber tubes, there were delicate glass vials, herbs, potions, purple spheres that measured blood pressure, golden scales, and little clocks with eight hands indicating the severity of illness and apparently measuring temperature as well. All of it seemed vastly more fascinating to Harry and did not inspire the icy dread he felt whenever he attended a Muggle school medical examination. ‘This is only a fraction,’ Madam Pomfrey explained, gesturing to the curious devices. ‘Here at school I keep nothing too complex, as we rarely encounter anything truly serious. At St Mungo’s, however, you will find the finest equipment imaginable.’ ‘What can be treated at a wizarding hospital if wizards don’t fall ill?’ Harry asked. ‘Injuries, poisonings, the effects of curses,’ Poppy began, then waved a hand. ‘I would need a full day to list every magical malady and fever.’ ‘Oooh,’ Harry sat in a chair by the window, swinging his legs and noisily sipping hot mint tea. Madam Pomfrey fixed him with a disapproving look. ‘Firstly, sit properly while you are eating,’ the nurse said, pursing her lips and wondering when Harry Potter had begun to feel at home in her office. ‘Secondly, do not slurp your tea. Where were you brought up?’ Harry obediently straightened, a mischievous smile touching his lips. ‘My relatives did not devote much time to my upbringing, ma’am,’ he admitted guilelessly. ‘They probably thought I would do well enough as I was.’ ‘In that case, perhaps I should inform your Head of House to keep a closer eye on your behaviour,’ she remarked seriously, confiscating his half‑empty cup and ushering him from the chair. ‘And now, Mr Potter, back to bed.’ ‘When will I be discharged?’ Harry whined as they walked toward his ward. ‘I feel perfectly fine!’ ‘When I deem it appropriate,’ the nurse cut in sharply, watching as he climbed beneath the blankets. ‘And no more complaints. Next time you will pay closer attention to your health.’ ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he sighed mournfully, which drew a faint chuckle from Poppy. ‘Don’t look so despondent. I daresay we might let you go by the weekend,’ she relented. ‘Really?!’ Harry lit up at once. ‘Provided I am satisfied with both your condition and your behaviour,’ she added and with that swept out into the corridor, shaking her head. When exactly had she grown so fond of him? True to her word, Madam Pomfrey discharged Harry at the end of the week, presenting the exceedingly happy boy with an enormous list of instructions and ordering him to report for examination three times a week. Potter nodded obediently, smiling without pause. The nurse sighed, and the mask of professional severity on her face softened into genuine concern. ‘And Harry — I hope that in future you will treat your health with greater care.’ ‘Yes, ma’am! Thank you, ma’am!’ Potter assured her fervently. He straightened his robes, slipped his wand and the glasses he no longer truly required into his pocket, and stepped out into the corridor, breathing in the scent of freedom.