Harry was unconscious in the Hospital Wing for two days with a raging fever, but by Thursday morning it had died down and he was sleeping soundly. Severus had fobbed Poppy off with a made-up curse and cure, and told her he would be fine soon enough. Since all her tests save for the thermometer were now coming out normal, she had no choice but to accept his word.

Severus felt guilty lying to her, but it really was for the best. He could hardly tell her the truth. In the meantime, he dared not spend too much time in the Hospital Wing. He had no excuse after Poppy believed he had ‘cured’ Harry, and so had to rely on updates from Albus, who frustratingly could spend as much time as he liked by Harry’s bedside and nobody ever raised an eyebrow.

Well, that was Albus Dumbledore for you. As much as he liked, and admired and respected, the Headmaster, Severus found it infuriating. Still … it wasn’t Albus’ fault. It was Severus’ own fault for taking the Mark in the first place. If he had known it would prevent him from being able to claim his own son …

Severus stopped those thoughts quickly in their tracks. Now wasn’t the time to go back down the self-pity road. He had done enough of that over the years. No, he had a much bigger problem to worry about—to figure out who was behind the dragon attack, and why …

-

“Hmm.”

Harry waited patiently while Madam Pomfrey examined him for the millionth time. After a few minutes she nodded approvingly. “All seems to be well. You can leave in the morning, Mr Potter.”

“Wh-what?” Harry said, alarmed. “Er, actually, Madam Pomfrey, I still feel a bit …” He shivered noticeably.

She eyes him suspiciously. “Mr Potter, usually I or one of your classmates has to drag you here and then practically restrain you until such time as you are well. You are avoiding something.”

Harry swallowed, and her expression softened.

“Bite the bullet, Harry, as the Muggles say. Whatever it is you’re running away from, just get it over and done with. Now, do you want me to let your friends in?”

-

“I can’t believe Madam Pomfrey is letting you go,” Hermione said in amazement, shooting a look at Ron who was helping himself to one of Harry’s many bags of sweets. “I was sure she would keep you in much longer.”

“Well, I feel fine,” Harry said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “And she says all the tests are coming out normal, so there’s no reason to keep me in longer.”

“Yeah, but still …” Hermione bit her lip. “Does she know about the Qui—”

“Ssshhh!” Harry clapped a hand over her mouth. “Whatever you do, don’t mention the ‘Q’ word, or she’ll forbid me from playing. I can’t miss the game. Please, Hermione.”

“Oh for goodness’ sake,” she huffed, though she did it quietly. “I’m not certain I don’t agree with her; you really shouldn’t be—”

“Nobody’s told me I can’t,” Harry said stubbornly, “so I’m taking that to mean I can. I’ve got to, the team’s relying on me. This is Wood’s last chance to win the Cup.”

“Yes, I know. You’ve mentioned it once or twice. All right,” Hermione said grudgingly. “I won’t say anything. But if the weather’s like this tomorrow, I want you back here pronto afterwards and get a Pepper-Up. No buts.”

“Yes, Mum.”

-

The weather was worse than the day before. In the stands, huddled under anything that would keep the rain off, it was difficult to make out the positions in the game. Albus, as was his wont, kept his eye firmly fixed on the Gryffindor Seeker.

It took a moment to realise that the aching cold was more than the weather; that there were Dementors on the pitch; Albus, furious, raised his wand to cast his Patronus, but screams from the crowd made his eyes snap back to the game.

One of the players—somehow, Albus knew it was Harry—was dropping like a stone from the sky. He ran onto the pitch, raising his wand to cast a spell, but Harry began slowing on his own. Albus hesitated, stunned. Harry hovered for a moment, and then slammed into the ground at an angle, and lay very limp on the grass.

After sending away the Dementors, Albus knelt down beside the boy and took his pulse. He was alive—thank goodness. He conjured a stretcher and walked with him to the Hospital Wing.

Poppy was furious; Albus wasn’t sure who she was angry at more, Harry for playing Quidditch so soon after being released from her care, or the rest of the staff for letting him. She examined him in tight-lipped silence; Albus hovered while Minerva kept the team and Harry’s friends from crowding the bed. For some reason, Severus stood in the corner, his face paler than usual.

“Some spell of yours, Albus,” she finally said. “He has a whole bunch of bruises, two fractured ribs, a dislocated shoulder and a broken knee.”

“Well if he hadn’t cast it, Potter would be dead!” Minerva exclaimed before Albus could get a word in edgeways. “He fell over fifty feet, Poppy!”

“I cast no spell!” Albus quickly said before the two women could start arguing. Everyone looked at him.

“What?” Minerva spoke first. “But I saw you—”

“I went to, but then Harry slowed on his own,” Albus insisted. “My wandwork is not to blame.”

Poppy let out what sounded like a ‘hmph’.

“Accidental magic?” Severus suggested. It was the first time he had spoken.

“While unconscious?” Albus raised his eyebrows. “I haven’t seen that one before.”

“Well, no use arguing about it,” Poppy said, though she still looked like she wanted to make some well-chosen angry remarks to them all. “He will be fine; simple bone healing and a lot of chocolate. Now shoo, all of you.”

-

When Harry woke up, he let out an “Ow!” as a sharp pain ran through his shoulder.

“Harry?” Hermione’s worried voice permeated his consciousness. “How are you feeling?”

“The ‘ow’ should have given you a clue, not too good,” he muttered, opening his eyes. “What happened?”

“You fell off your broom, mate.” It was Fred. Harry blinked and took in the sight of the entire Quidditch team save for Wood, Ron and Hermione all crammed in the Hospital Wing, drenched and covered in mud. “Must have been, what, fifty feet?”

“We thought you’d died,” said Alicia, who was shaking.

Harry opened his mouth to ask about the match, but as his shoulder twitched, he felt another sharp stab of pain. “Oo-ow.” It felt as though his shoulder was full of pins and needles. He took a moment to assess his physical condition; he was aching all over, but in particular his knee, ribs and the shoulder, which was unbearable.

“Madam Pomfrey!” Hermione called the matron over. Harry felt grimly that he had got his wish … he had wanted more time in the Hospital Wing, and now he had it.

“Where does it hurt, Potter?” she asked, flapping her hands at Harry’s friends for them to move aside.

“My shoulder. I think it’s broken.”

“You don’t have any broken bones any more, Potter; I fixed them before you woke up.”

Harry shifted, and winced at another stab of pain. “No, that’s not fixed. You missed something.”

She pursed her lips at his impertinence, but performed a diagnostic spell. “No, according to this everything is fine.”

“I’m telling you, something’s still broken,” Harry said, getting angry. “I can feel it.”

“Where? Show me exactly.”

Harry pointed out the tender areas and Madam Pomfrey checked three times. “Mr Potter, you are fine. I hope you are not turning into a hypochondriac; you were enough trouble as the opposite.”

“Harry, a hypochondriac?” Ron scoffed. “Only when hell freezes over.”