“But how could a dragon have got in?”

The same question had been going around the faculty for two days. Even the excitement of the Quidditch match had only paused the discussion slightly.

“The very thought is ludicrous,” Albus said thoughtfully. “But we know it happened, so the question remains …”

“If I were you, Albus,” Severus said, unable to keep quiet anymore, “I would be more concerned about where it went.”

He left the staff room before Albus could start plying him with questions and theories. He had got no further than the rest of them with the problem. Severus was stumped where to start. He had started doing a Legilimency sweep of the school, but it would take a lot of time. He also had to be subtle; no doubt if any of the students felt him poking into their minds and figured out what he was up to, he could end up getting the sack. Parents got so precious about their children’s minds being invaded by scary teachers.

Well, he couldn’t say he blamed them. After all, he would be outraged if one of the staff members plunged uninvited into Harry’s mind. Albus excepted; Severus knew Albus never went very deep without permission and only did so to discern lies from truth, and only then when it was a matter of life or death—Voldemort incidents, for example. It struck him as ironic, considering Severus himself had delved into his son’s mind, on more than one occasion. He had always softened his conscience by telling himself that it was for Harry’s own good.

Severus sighed. He wanted more than anything to go and check up on Harry now, but he knew he couldn’t. He had to do as he always did, and trust his peers to take care of him. Poppy would see to his physical needs; Albus and, now, Lupin to his emotional needs; and Minerva kept them all in line (Harry included). Severus smiled slightly—Lupin aside, if he had had to pick a set of surrogates to do his job for him, he couldn’t have come up with better ones than those who had naturally taken a shine to the boy.

Well, all right, he supposed he could include Lupin—the man was good at what he did, Severus would give him that. Not that he had to like him for it.

It often made him proud, just how well-loved Harry was by everyone, even if the boy himself was oblivious to it. Of course, Severus knew he had no right to be proud, considering all his son’s likeable qualities were inherited from Lily—with the possible exception of the Quidditch skills. Still, it wasn’t something he could help.

-

Harry groaned and turned over again. With every movement, pain exploded in his shoulder, and he bit his lip against the urge to cry out. As long as he was still in pain, Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t let him go, but she couldn’t seem to tell what was causing it. The painkiller potion she had left him had done little, and if he went to sleep and turned over, it woke him up.

Even if the pain hadn’t been keeping him awake, Harry doubted he would sleep well anyway. He knew he was a wreck. His mind was full of Dementors and the Grim and his mother’s cries and Snape and he wanted nothing more than to forget it all and sleep, but no amount of counting Hippogriffs helped.

Eventually, towards the early hours, he drifted into a sort of half-sleep, lying on his front—the least painful position. He thought he heard a floorboard creak, but kept still and silent, determined to stay as asleep as possible.

-

Albus had spent a restless night dreaming of dragons and Dementors, and woken with the firm belief that he wasn’t going to get any more rest tonight. Knowing full well that, in the aftermath of the Quidditch game, Harry was unlikely to be sleeping either, he decided to check out his theory and, if Harry were awake, find a way to distract them both.

The last thing he expected to find, upon opening the Hospital Wing door, was a long silver knife inches from Harry’s sleeping body.

Albus acted immediately, tackling the invisible holder of the knife to the ground. A sharp pain pierced his chest, and a second later he was blinded by fire. Blackness took hold as he vaguely heard the sound of smashing glass.

-

In his half-asleep state, Harry had heard a yell and the scuffle, a cry of pain and then the crash—which really was the noise that woke him up properly. Sitting up with a wince, he rubbed his eyes, and then in cold terror spotted an unmoving body on the floor.

His own pain forgotten, Harry jumped out of bed and knelt beside Dumbledore. “MADAM POMFREY!”

She came running as Harry took Dumbledore’s pulse. “He’s alive.” Harry’s heart jumped into his throat as he saw the pool of blood. “Oh no. No.”

“Potter, help me get him on the bed.”

Harry’s hands were shaking as he helped her, and then unable to think of anything more useful to do, clutched Dumbledore’s hand as Madam Pomfrey ascertained the extent of the damage. He had a thin, but deep, wound to the chest, and was losing blood fast; there was also a spread of burns down one side of his face and body.

“Hold that to the wound.” Harry did everything Madam Pomfrey instructed him, trying very hard to focus on the task and not worry what would happen if … At some point without his noticing it, Madam Pomfrey must have called for help, for within a short time Professors McGonagall and Snape both turned up in their nightwear and dressing-gowns, looking as frightened as he felt.

“Hold on there, Albus,” Professor McGonagall said softly. “It’s not your time yet. Remember, you were saying just the other day you knew you had years left in you.”

“Albus, you still owe me ten Sickles,” Snape said. Professor McGonagall slapped him.

“Severus, really; your sense of humour sometimes leaves a lot to be desired.”

“Don’t worry Minerva; I’m sure Albus would appreciate that one,” Madam Pomfrey said. She glanced over at Harry, still holding Dumbledore’s hand. “Potter, try talking to him.”

“What?”

“I need these two to help me with the Healing; it’s up to you to talk to him. Try and keep him with us.”

Harry swallowed. No pressure there, then. His mind felt a blank as Professor McGonagall and Snape took out their wands and began helping Madam Pomfrey fix the wound.

“Er … hi, Professor. It’s me—Harry Potter.” He felt incredibly stupid doing this, but if it helped save Dumbledore … “Um … remember the Mirror of Erised? I promise, if you pull through this, I’ll buy you a pair of socks every Christmas. No—two pairs. And every birthday—though I don’t know when … no, never mind, you can tell me when it is when you wake up.” Harry’s voice grew firmer. “’Cause you will wake up, won’t you, Professor. And when you wake up you’ll be all smiles and twinkly eyes again and we’ll all feel silly for doubting you.”

Harry paused. “I reckon your birthday’s in May. Don’t know why. Just a guess. Or perhaps November. November the fifth—I can see you with loads of fireworks at your birthday party; that seems very you.” Harry was pretty sure what was coming out of his mouth was complete rubbish, but it was the best he could do in his frame of mind. “Or … the summer, then you can have a proper celebration when all us students aren’t in the way. I bet you and all the other teachers have a right knees-up and then you’re all so hung over the next morning you can’t remember your own names.”

He continued rambling in a similar vein for some time, focused on seeing that Dumbledore breathed in and out and only vaguely aware of what the three Healers were doing. Eventually, Madam Pomfrey sighed, and Harry glanced at them, realising they had all drawn back a little.

“It’s up to him now,” Snape said quietly.