Poppy Pomfrey looks around her empty and organised infirmary in satisfaction. Just the way she likes it. She snorts to herself; not that it will last long, working in a school full of children with dubious control over both their magic and themselves. The start of a new year is always the busiest time of year for her. Between bodies reacclimatising to the school environment, students playing with magic again for the first time in two months, and the results of the inevitable revival of rivalries, it is sometimes a wonder she has time to think.

Of course, then there are the other injuries. Her smile fades as she returns to her office. Severus is the one who usually brings those students to her, the students whose injuries predate their arrival back at school. She has never understood how families can hurt one of their own in such ways, but year after year the students walking through her doors show it happens. With a bit of time she can heal their bodies just fine – although she has seen a couple of particularly bad cases over the years – but the physical injuries are often the least of their problems. So she does what she can and informs Dumbledore, and leaves it to him or Severus or the St Mungo’s mindhealers to help solve the other issues.

Poppy’s musing is interrupted by a chime announcing someone entering the hospital wing. Leaving her office, she smiles in exasperated amusement at the sight of a familiar dark-haired fourth year hovering in the doorway.

“Mr Potter, what a surprise, come in. Not yet a week into the new school year and you already require my attention. I hope you are not planning on making a habit of this?” A blush spreads across his cheeks as she leads him over to sit on a nearby bed. “Let’s see; the dementors have left since last year, Quidditch hasn’t started yet, it is much too early in the year for one of your famous stunts, and you don’t appear to have any unusual physical additions or alterations, so what did you do to yourself? Not another altercation with Mr Malfoy I hope?” Harry just shrugs, his downturned face now crimson.

“Potions accident. No big deal. I was stirring when it exploded and my arm was in the way. Professor Snape already neutralised the potion, but he sent me to you for the burn.”
He pauses for a moment, then continues. “He also said something about his special diagnostic; to test for any leftover magic?”

Poppy smiles brightly as she summons a salve from the storeroom. “Well, let’s just start with the burn, shall we?”
She hisses slightly as he raises his sleeve to reveal red blistered skin, slightly shiny from the counter-potion. She is impressed once again by his level of control given how painful it must be; impressed and slightly worried. But as she carefully smooths on the salve, her thoughts are distracted by a more pressing issue.

What is this test Severus told him to ask her for? She knows that there are various spells for discovering potion residue but she is not familiar with them; the few times they have been necessary they have either required a visit to St Mungo’s or Severus has completed them himself. Her mind flicks back to her earlier thoughts. Really there is only one diagnostic that Severus in particular regularly asks from her, the one he helped design for his Slytherin students at the start of each year. The one to test for… She stops, shocked at the direction her thoughts have taken. Surely he can’t mean that test; not for Mr Potter. Not the one for physical abuse.

As she carefully screws the lid back onto the jar her mind starts working again, examining the evidence. Severus does not have any definite proof, else he would be taking more direct action. But after watching over his snakes, his instincts for this sort of situation are the best of anyone in the school. If what they are telling him is strong enough to overcome his vendetta against the boy, she too should pay attention. Thinking back, she remembers the various irregularities she has noticed over the years. By themselves they are not enough to raise concerns, but in light of current suspicions…

She nods to herself. If the test shows there is nothing to worry about then he will never know the true purpose of the spell, to be angry or embarrassed, and she will confirm with Severus later just which diagnostic he meant. But if there is, she can only hope that it is a new development and not something she has missed for the last three years.

Keeping up her friendly smile she turns back to the boy, raising her wand.

“Mr Potter, just sit still for a moment and I will do that extra test Professor Snape requested. You should feel a slight tingling.” She waves her wand carefully, a faint glow lighting around the boy as she picks up the roll of parchment that appears before her.

Half-frowning in confusion, she looks down at the black ink spreading to form words in neat columns. The burn she has just treated is not listed, of course, it lacks the harmful intent the spell searches for. But what it does say… bruises, sprained ankle, malnutrition, all of it; how did she not see it when he walked in?

Her eyes flick down to the list of past injuries and with practiced ease she picks out the ones she herself has healed in the past; schoolyard fights, his yearly escapades, even the occasional Quidditch injury. There are too many of these, particularly for only three years, but it is the remainder of the list which causes her heart to sink. Bruises, welts, occasional burns and broken bones, row after row going back years and painting a horrible, inescapable picture. Her first thought is “Merlin, that poor boy!” Her second, “Why couldn’t Severus have been wrong for once?” Then a third sweeps both of them away; “How did we not see?”

Looking up from the list, mind reeling, she freezes, staring at the sight before her. The boy sitting on the bed is not the same one who entered the room earlier. Oh, it is the same hair, the same eyes and lightning bolt scar, but this child is thinner, with a dark bruise spread across one cheek, the other side of his face mottled with faint patches of yellow where older bruises have not yet healed. Her breath catches as she looks lower, seeing similar marks clustered around his throat. Stunned by the third shock in as many minutes, she can only be glad that her training gives her a poker face to rival Severus’ own.

She lowers unseeing eyes to the parchment again, trying desperately to control her mind so she can think. The boy is clearly wearing glamours as so many with similar injuries do, but appears unaware that she can now see through them. His body language is relaxed, completely at odds with the normal reaction displayed by students visiting her in such a state.

She grips her wand tighter, itching to start healing the boy, but she holds herself back. Normally in this sort of situation her actions are clear; heal the student, send them to sleep, then go report to Dumbledore and let him fix the rest. But this is Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. It will be almost impossible to keep such a revelation secret, and the last he needs right now is a scandal; not to mention other safety concerns. And the child will have questions, questions that will be difficult to answer.

It goes against her ethics to let an injured student – or teacher, or anyone else for that matter – leave her Infirmiry unhealed, but for once there are greater concerns. She refocuses on the list, reading through it once more. The child’s injuries, while they must be uncomfortable, are not severe enough to require immediate action; even the ankle should not sustain further damage being used for a few more hours. Yes; his glamours should hold him for the next little while, Dumbledore needs to know first.

Realising she has been silent too long she looks up at the boy.

“Mr Potter, you are free to go to your next class now however I would like you to return after dinner, eight o’clock perhaps. I will need to run the diagnostic scan
again, just to make sure there are no delayed reactions.”

She keeps a close eye on his body language as he nods then turns to leave. He shows no sign of resentment, that she should have seen his injuries and healed them, but also no sign of relief that they escaped apparently undetected. She winces as she picks up his slight limp, forcing herself not to call him back so she can heal it. Just a few more hours.

Returning to her office she collapses into her desk chair, face in hands, struggling to keep her breathing deep and even. She needs a moment – just a few minutes – to get herself back under control, to face the truth she has uncovered. Then… then she must tell Dumbledore.