Harry rolled to his side and groggily lifted a hand to rub at his sleep-swollen eyes. He felt like he had only just placed his head down on the pillow. What had awoken him from such a deep sleep? Carefully cracking one eye open, he jerked suddenly upright in shock and scrabbled away from the blurry silhouette that hovered right before his face in the harsh mid-morning light of the Gryffindor dormitory. Harry grunted inarticulately and flung out an arm in a protective gesture, connecting soundly with something solid.

“Ow!” Ron’s disgruntled exclamation came from the indistinct blob still hovering close by.

Harry immediately relaxed with a sigh and fumbled around on his bedside table for his glasses. Ron was leaning against the side of Harry’s four-poster bed, rubbing at the mussed hair above his left ear and glaring indignantly down at him.

“Watch it, Harry,” Ron complained. “I was just telling you that you’d better get moving if you want any chance of grabbing breakfast at all this morning. I know it’s Sunday, but they won’t be serving breakfast in the Great Hall for too much longer.”

“Sorry, Ron,” Harry shrugged and yawned widely before grinning ruefully at Ron as he slid out from under his covers, his earlier fight or flight response quickly abating at the familiar sight of his friend. “But you really shouldn’t sneak up on a mate like that. Especially when I haven’t managed to get much sleep.”

“Dreaming of Lockhart’s fan mail, were you?” Ron placed both hands over his heart and fluttered his eyelashes at Harry in a winsome fashion.

Less than amused at the posturing redhead, Harry grunted and shook his head as he sleepily located his clothes and began changing out of his pyjamas.

“You seem to have recovered quite nicely, considering you couldn’t stop spewing slugs yesterday,” Harry observed wryly as he zipped up his hooded sweatshirt.

“Yup,” Ron followed Harry to the door of the otherwise empty dorm room. “And I am absolutely starving, so we need to get down to breakfast now, before I am forced to actually eat slugs,” he shook his head in mock horror before pushing past Harry and moving eagerly down the stairs to the common room, where Hermione was waiting for them on a cushy looking armchair, wearing the long-suffering grimace of one who has been kept waiting for far too long.

Harry snorted at Ron’s comment and mused, as he walked down to breakfast with his two best friends, that life was never dull at Hogwarts. His thoughts shifted immediately to the sinister voice he had heard last night whilst attending his detention with Professor Lockhart.

“Hey, wait up,” Harry caught up to the other two, who had managed to get ahead due to Ron’s near jog through the halls to reach breakfast on time.

“What is it, Harry?” Hermione turned to him with a quizzical expression.

Harry rubbed at the back of his neck and glanced around the apparently empty corridor before continuing.

“I was just thinking about what I heard last night. You, know, that creepy voice…”

“Shh,” Ron replied. “Not so loud, Harry. I told you before – well, it’s a bit odd that Lockhart never heard anything, don’t you think?”

“Well, yeah, that’s exactly what I keep thinking,” Harry acknowledged. It was preying on his mind that whilst sealing the envelopes for Lockhart’s fan mail the night before, he had heard a voice, clearly expressing a desire to kill, when the only other person present in the room had heard nothing at all. “Do you think there’s a reason why I could hear a voice, but Professor Lockhart couldn’t? I mean, a magical reason?”

“Harry, hearing voices isn’t something to go around talking about, okay?” Hermione looked worried. “It’s not normal, even in the magical world. Perhaps you were just tired. It was really late at night, after all.”

Harry felt a surge of both concern and irritation. “I’ve been tired loads of times in my life, and I have never heard voices talking about murder before. I’m telling you; this was something different.”

“Well, I’m telling you, Harry, that it’s not normal to hear voices that no-one else can hear,” Ron frowned at his friend.

“But, I think it was telling me to kill-“

Ron clapped his hand over Harry’s mouth as Hermione shook her head vigorously. “Not here, Harry, we’ll talk about it later, alright?”

Sighing internally, Harry nodded and together, the trio resumed their journey down to the Great Hall where breakfast waited.

Unbeknownst to them both, a pair of grey eyes watched keenly from behind a faded tapestry. Smoothing back his white-blonde hair, Draco Malfoy pursed his lips in contemplation before he smirked to himself, stepped out into the hallway and changed course, heading directly for the owlery.

***

It was only a day later that the first news article was published.

Hermione was sitting at the breakfast table, calmly eating a bowl of oatmeal when a non-descript tawny owl landed neatly on the edge of the table, bearing a copy of The Daily Prophet in its talons. Unrolling the heavily inked parchment, she gasped in horror and slowly looked up at Harry, her face a picture of disbelief.

“How, in Merlin’s name, did they hear about this?” she asked Harry in a frenzied whisper, thrusting the newspaper across the table with a shaky hand.

Slowly, Harry reached for the article with dread, already seeing a moving image of his soot-covered face plastered across the front page, clearly taken earlier that year during his shopping trip with the Weasley family at Diagon Alley. Perplexed, he peered at the article more closely. Harry recognised the photograph, by his own bemused expression, as being the moment when Lockhart had yanked Harry up for a photo opportunity in front of the crowd of gathered witches at Flourish and Blotts. The image was a close-up, showing only Harry’s dazed and confused face in a particularly unflattering moment.

‘POTTY POTTER?’, the headline shouted.

The article, written by a witch named Rita Skeeter, went on to detail how Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, was allegedly experiencing issues with ‘mental illness’ that included details from ‘concerned parents and other reliable sources’ about the hero of the wizarding world apparently hearing voices and showing delusional behaviour.

Harry could feel his heart thudding in his chest as he read on with no little trepidation. According to this Skeeter woman, Harry had been encouraging his friends to commit unprovoked acts of magical violence against other students at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Most concerning of all, she continued, was the evidence that Harry’s violent tendencies were becoming worse by the day. The writer implied in her final paragraph that if nothing were done to curb Harry Potter’s murderous urges, the very lives of staff and students alike were at risk.

Ron, who had been peering over Harry’s shoulder in order to read the offending article, leaned back and looked warily at Hermione. His face was just as pasty and pale as it had been yesterday after his wand had backfired upon his casting the slug-eating hex at Malfoy.

“This is bad,” Ron said shortly, shifting his gaze sideways to his tousle-haired friend, who sat stock still beside him, the paper clutched desperately in his white-knuckled grip. Ron looked around at the other House tables, noticing that, already, students were muttering to one another and twisting around in their seats, craning their necks to get a better look at Harry. He stared them down angrily before returning his attention to Harry’s self-consciously bowed head and hunched posture.

“Harry,” Hermione said softly, as she eased the paper out of his hands. “It will be okay. We’ll be there to support you – right, Ron? It’s just malicious gossip and it will all die down in a few days.”

Ron nodded and patted Harry’s shoulder.

Harry desperately swallowed down the fear building in his chest, took a few shallow breaths through his clenched jaw and lifted his head to look straight into the malicious grey gaze of Draco Malfoy. Something told him that this wasn’t going to just go away.

***

Harry was right. It didn’t go away.

At the end of Tuesday afternoon’s Second Year Transfiguration lesson, Cornelius Fudge was waiting in the hallway for Harry to exit the room. Alongside him stood four Aurors, dressed in scarlet robes, wands at the ready. Harry had barely stepped through the door when he was promptly surrounded by the grim-faced Aurors.

Professor McGonagall, who was alerted to the problem by the excited muttering of students milling at the exit to her classroom, swept through the assembled group and stopped short upon seeing the Minister himself standing outside her classroom.

“What is the meaning of this?” Professor McGonagall demanded of the nearest Auror, who had grabbed Harry by the lapel of his Hogwart’s robe and was pulling the boy roughly away from his friends.

“Ah, Minerva,” Cornelius nodded officiously at the Transfiguration professor as he handed over a sealed scroll. “How fortunate that I should find you here!”

“Well, what did you expect, Minister?” Professor McGonagall replied with an aggrieved twitch of her mouth. “You are standing directly outside of my classroom. And, might I add, you and your Aurors appear to be making quite a scene!”

“Erm, yes, well, be that as it may. Unfortunate business, this – and particularly with Dumbledore unavailable to meet with me right now – yes, most unfortunate indeed. However, bearing all of the facts in mind, there is little else that can be done-“

“Perhaps,” a deep voice intoned. “You could start by asking that Auror to unhand Mr. Potter and then explain precisely why it is you are here in the first place.” The sardonic baritone of Professor Snape slithered its way through the crowd of students, the disembodied voice seemingly clearing a path between the assembled adults and the Potions master. Around them, the students quieted, as always seemed to happen in the presence of the commanding teacher.

“It would seem quite coincidental,” Snape continued with a sneer. “That Headmaster Dumbledore has been called away this afternoon to attend to some last-minute official Wizengamot duties. In his sudden and unexpected absence, he has asked me to step in as acting head. Now, Minister, would you please explain why it is that you are here and, more importantly, why you have accosted one of our students?” Cold fury emanated from the professor’s coal-black eyes.

“Severus!” Professor McGonagall, clearly relieved to see her colleague, gathered her wits and began clearing the vicinity of gawking students. “Students, go on to your next class, now! Those caught dawdling will be losing house points and will automatically receive a detention.”

Reluctantly, the spectators began to slink away, still trying to get a good look at Harry, who was now held firmly by the upper arms between two of the Aurors.

McGonagall continued to chivvy the students away, including both Ron and Hermione, who looked desperately worried as they moved down the corridor, peppering their Transfiguration teacher with questions as they went. Harry struggled in vain against the Aurors’ hold as his friends disappeared around the corner, unhappy to be the centre of this unwelcome and unfriendly adult attention. He wrenched at his arms, only to find himself suddenly staring up at the back of his most hated teacher, who had glided soundlessly to place himself squarely between Harry and the Minister.

“What exactly is this all about?” Snape snapped out, looming menacingly over the squat form of the Minister for Magic. The other two Aurors quickly moved to flank the Minister and drew their wands.

“Stand down, Snape,” the older of the pair commanded. “We will use force if we need to.”

Harry drew his breath and flinched at the open hostility of the man.

“Use force?” McGonagall stuttered in an appalled tone as she returned breathlessly to the group. “Gentlemen, may I remind you that this is a school? Potter is a child!”

The Auror snorted and glared at Snape derisively. “Snape’s no kid and we’ve got our orders to follow.”

“Ah,” Snape said softly. “Yes, your orders, which brings us back to the question of what exactly it is that you are doing here at Hogwarts.”

“As to that,” Fudge interjected. “It’s all in the Removal Order there.”

Snape and Fudge turned as one to look at the scroll that Minerva McGonagall still held, unopened, in her hand.

“Of course, you will have to wait for Dumbledore – only the Headmaster has clearance to open correspondence from the Wizengamot-“

“The Wizengamot? A Removal Order – for Harry?” Professor McGonagall looked like she was about to pass out from shock. Sickened as he was at hearing Fudge’s words, Harry frowned as he attempted to move to his professor’s side, concerned that she might indeed fall. Snape clearly had similar thoughts. After a swiftly curious glance at Harry’s solicitous movement, which was aborted by the Aurors’ tightening their grip on the boy’s upper arms, the man moved to stand beside his colleague, gently easing the scroll from her hand and taking her elbow.

“Yes, yes, it’s all in the Order,” Fudge waved his hand impatiently at the Aurors. “As of this moment, Mr. Harry James Potter, of Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, current student of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, will henceforth remain in the custody of the Ministry of Magic”. As if his pronouncement were a spell, the official party came to life and hurriedly marched past the stunned forms of both Snape and McGonagall. The group proceeded, unhindered, to the Hogwarts gates with Harry Potter still held firmly in the grasp of two of the Aurors as they Apparated away with a sharp ‘crack!’.

***
That unfortunate event had taken place four days ago.

In the aftermath, The Daily Prophet was rife with speculation about Harry’s mental health and featured a variety of front-page articles accompanied by unflattering photographs of the boy. These ranged from images of him looking bewildered and fearful at the Hogwarts gates just prior to his abduction, through to a close-up of Harry’s face looking narrow-eyed and dangerous as he glared at the Minister of Magic from the interrogation chair to which he had been magically bound, seated in front of a full assembly of the members of the Wizengamot at an official hearing. A mere twenty-four hours after that photograph had been published, The Prophet shouted its headline for all to see, accompanied by a single image.

‘DISTURBED BOY-WHO-LIVED COMMITTED TO MUNGOS!’

Beneath the headline, the moving photograph showed Harry’s stricken face and tense posture as he was grabbed from either side by two burly Aurors, lifted bodily from the interrogation chair in the Ministry courtroom and promptly hit with a burst of light from an unknown spell that caused him to fall completely slack in their hold.

The horrific image looped through this sequence of events over, and over again as Severus Snape sat on the edge of an over-stuffed armchair in the Headmaster’s Office, clutching the newspaper in his hand, unable to look away from this stark proof that the Ministry had now made their threats against Harry Potter a reality.

In front of the fireplace, Minerva McGonagall paced agitatedly to and fro. The pair were waiting for Albus Dumbledore to return from an impromptu emergency meeting with Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Order’s most reliable contact at the Ministry of Magic.

The Headmaster had rushed from the school the evening before, upon receiving word from Kingsley of an emergency hearing of the Wizengamot, only to be unceremoniously turned away from the Ministry as an ‘unapproved visitor’. It had been decided by the Minister that Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, would not be permitted to participate in Harry’s hearing due to perceived bias as Headmaster of Hogwarts. Instead, Dumbledore had waited, along with the rest of the wizarding world, to read of the outcome in the press.

“Severus, I feel I must apologise – “ Minerva appeared uncharacteristically nervous as she halted her pacing to look over at the very still and silent Potions Master.

“It is, I feel, a little late for that, Minerva,” Severus responded flatly, still gazing at the paper in his hands.

He had implored Albus and the Deputy Headmistress to see reason when he had read that very first article in The Prophet detailing Potter’s ‘instability’. It had boded ill for Potter’s welfare, however, that for ‘appearance’s sake’, both older professors had insisted that Harry continue to attend classes as usual, as would be expected by the wizarding public. It was their fault, Severus thought, that Harry had been placed in a position where he could be snatched from right under their noses by the Minister and his lackies. But then, he himself had known that the boy was at risk, and he had done nothing.

“There is nothing to be gained now by apologising,” he snapped, before continuing on in a softer tone, still unable to meet the eyes of the older witch.

“I blame myself as much as anyone,” he sighed now, still clutching the newspaper in his fist, but no longer able to stomach looking at Potter’s picture on the front page. “I knew he was in danger; Lucius Malfoy was bragging to me only days ago about some ‘inside information’ on Potter that he was planning to release to the press. I should have insisted that he tell me what he was up to.”

Usually, like the man’s son, the elder Malfoy was full of pomp and bluster. It was for this reason that Severus had just dismissed the wealthy man’s claims as more nonsense. ‘Foolish’, he thought of himself, clenching his fists. Unforgivable.

Minerva shook her head and slowly sank into the armchair beside his own. “What worries me is what awaits that poor boy at St Mungo’s?”

“Nothing good,” Severus replied grimly.

The Floo chose that moment to flare green and a weary Albus Dumbledore stepped from the grate. A moment later, the imposing form of Kingsley Shacklebolt followed. His expression was at least as bleak as that of the Headmaster.

The fact that Dumbledore refused to look in Severus’s direction as the elderly wizard rounded the desk to sit in the Headmaster’s chair told the Potions master everything he needed to know. The Headmaster gestured for Kingsley to sit and brought a wizened hand to his forehead.

“I am afraid I have been unsuccessful in gaining approval to visit Harry at St Mungo’s,” he stated in a quiet voice. “Furthermore, the boy presently remains under Auror guard in a private room located in the Janus Thickey Ward.”

“Janus Thickey?” Minerva looked stunned. “But, Albus, that ward is for wizards who are suffering from magical injury. Why, in Merlin’s name – “

“The Minister is claiming that Harry is suffering from some kind of spell damage,” Kingsley interjected. “The official line is that he will remain there in order to receive ‘treatment’ for an undisclosed dark curse.”

Severus, who had remained silent throughout this exchange, stood swiftly and threw the newspaper onto Albus Dumbledore’s desk.

“We need to get him out of there, now,” he intoned sharply.

“I agree, Severus,” Dumbledore nodded. “And Kingsley and I have a plan. It requires your assistance and is by no means foolproof. Unfortunately, it will also take some time to implement. It is, however, the only option available to us.”

Severus jerked his head up sharply. “Tell me what I need to do.”

***

Healer Primrose Popplestock had spent the past 23 years of her life working in various positions at St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, but it was the last decade that had proved both the most challenging and rewarding. She had retained the position of Healer-in-Charge of the Janus Thickey Ward throughout that time and prided herself on running an orderly ward, despite the decidedly disorderly patients residing within its walls.

Structure and a calm atmosphere were important in Janus Thickey. Many of the residents were easily confused and distressed by the smallest change in routine. The familiar was soothing to those suffering the permanent effects of misused spells and it had therefore caused Primrose no end of frustration over this past week to deal with a constantly rotating shift of Aurors coming and going at all hours of the day and night in her previously peaceful ward.

To add insult to injury, the Ministry was now insisting that the patient whom the Aurors guarded was no longer to be attended by St Mungo’s staff. Instead, a Ministry-appointed Healer would be arriving that morning to assume responsibility for young Harry Potter’s care.

Primrose knew exactly why this turn of events had come to pass. Over the past three days, she had fielded a litany of complaints from orderlies, Mediwitches and Healers about the Ministry-prescribed potion regimen and unorthodox experimental mind magic ‘treatments’ that had been forced on the Potter boy.

The child may not have initially presented at St Mungo’s with any evidence of having sustained a magical injury, but that was no longer the case. She had taken it upon herself to personally oversee his care once it had become apparent that the boy’s welfare was not first and foremost on the agenda of the Ministry.

Clearly, those in charge had not taken kindly to her interference.

She now stepped forward to meet the rather unassuming looking wizard who stood waiting for admittance at the doors of the locked ward. Waving her wand in a complicated pattern, Primrose keyed the man’s magical signature to the complex wards that ensured that the patients in Janus Thickey did not wander away, while also preventing entry to any unapproved visitors.

Primrose held out her hand to the man, determined to maintain a professional demeanour, despite her misgivings about dealing with this Ministry stooge.

“Good morning, I am the Healer-in-Charge, Primrose Popplestock,” she greeted him brusquely.

“Healer Nyal Sommers,” came the bland response. “Ministry-appointed Healer to Mr. Harry James Potter.” The handshake was surprisingly warm, sure and firm, considering the man’s outward appearance.
Primrose inspected Healer Sommers for a moment. Everything about the man was grey, apart from his green Healer robes. He was of a nondescript height, slightly shorter than Primrose (who was of a slender build and tall stature). Sporting a receding hairline, Healer Sommers looked steadily at Primrose with ash-coloured irises.

Despite his exceedingly average appearance, there was something commanding about the Ministry healer. His gaze held a sharp intelligence. Primrose gained the impression that Sommers was not to be messed with. Perhaps not a stooge after all, she surmised.

“I am aware of the reason for your presence on my ward, Healer Sommers,” Primrose said disdainfully, unable to resist poking the bear. “I have read through the paperwork carefully, and although your jurisdiction over Mr. Potter is understood, I must warn you that your interference in the general care of the patients here will not be tolerated.”

“Excepting the care and management of Mr. Potter, of course,” Sommers stated softly, a dangerous glint in his eye.

Primrose stilled for a moment. “Of course. Although, I feel I must remind you that as Healer-in-Charge, I will still be overseeing Mr. Potter’s care as a patient on this ward.”

“Of course,” Sommers bowed in a slightly mocking way. “I will do my level best, Madam, to avoid making a hinderance of myself.”

Sniffing with annoyance, Primrose led the man down the corridor towards the far end, where the private rooms housed the patients requiring high-needs care. As she walked, she explained to Sommers the general layout of the ward.

“I suppose you will be wanting to visit with your patient?” she asked.

“Indeed,” Sommers responded, indicating down the hallway with a single nod. “I believe I can safely assume that his is the room currently under Auror guard at the end of this corridor?”

“Indeed,” Primrose echoed the man softly, leading him towards the red-robed guards without any further discussion. The pair submitted themselves to a cursory scan by the Aurors before Primrose took out her wand and performed the charm to unlock the complicated wards sealing the room off from the rest of the hallway.

“This room is magically-dampened,” she paused at the closed door to explain this important and unusual detail to Sommers, whose eyes narrowed just a fraction at the revelation. “No spells, healing or otherwise, can be performed in Mr. Potter’s private room. There is a Healing station located across the hall. If you require any diagnostic spell work or wish to use any healing incantations, you will first need to transfer the patient to that station. There is a wheelchair located in Mr. Potter’s room for that purpose.”

She stiffened at the momentary flicker of something unreadable in Sommers’ expression.

“The restriction of magic is a Ministry requirement, Healer Sommers,” she said coldly. “It is not considered good practice by St Mungo’s Healers to risk a patient’s health with such constraints, however, Mr. Potter’s magic has been deemed ‘unstable’ by the Ministry. I can assure you, at this time, he is no threat to himself or others.”

“That is what I am here to judge, Healer Popplestock,” Sommers stated in a bland tone, once again impassive. “Shall we?” He gestured at the door that Primrose had yet to open. She nodded briskly and unlocked the handle with an ordinary brass key, allowing the man to enter the room ahead of her.

Stark white walls were unrelieved by any form of decoration or window, save a single door in the left-hand corner of the room. A folded wheelchair sat against the wall beside the door and a wheeled trolley, of the sort that allowed a patient to eat whilst bedridden, stood next to a single iron-framed bed. Both of the Healers shuddered slightly at the oppressive feel of their magic held captive by the dampening wards.

The occupant of the bed gave no indication that he was aware that anyone had entered the room. He did not move, not even to turn his head towards them. Primrose noted that Sommers now stood stock still as he stared first in disbelief at the hospital bed and then stiffened his posture in what appeared to be barely contained rage.

“What is the meaning of this?” he hissed, still standing and staring at the bed.

Primrose frowned in confusion for a moment, then stepped slightly away from the angry Healer. “Because there is no magic in here, it is a…Ministry requirement…that the patient be restrained – manually – when not directly supervised.”

Harry Potter lay flat on his back on the bed, heavy padded restraints holding him rigidly in place, stretched across chest, hips and thighs. The boy’s wrists and ankles were additionally caught up in padded cuffs that held his arms straight down at his sides and attached his feet to a strap across the foot of the bed.

Sommers slowly approached the bedside, almost as if he were afraid to interact with his patient. Primrose stepped in neatly beside the man, glancing at him curiously before laying a gentle hand on the boy’s forehead.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter,” she said softly, brushing a stray lock of dark hair back with her palm. “Let’s get your day started, shall we? We’ll have you all sorted out in a trice.”

Primrose felt the same empty hollow in the pit of her stomach that she felt whenever she entered this room. It had nothing to do with the absence of magic. Ignoring Sommers, who appeared frozen in place with shock beside her, she focused her attention solely on her patient. The boy’s eyes were open, as they always were at this time of the morning. He blinked sluggishly, and Primrose watched as his gaze slowly tracked to find her face.

Despite the movement of the boy’s eyes, there was no spark of recognition there, the green irises remaining dim and unfocused, as they had for the past week or so that the child had been confined to this bed. An opaque white tube had been inserted into his right nostril and was affixed to the boy’s cheek with adhesive medical gauze. Primrose carefully checked this to ensure that there were no blockages or twists in the tubing that allowed the staff to administer both food and potions to their patient.

“He is heavily sedated,” Sommers said quietly. It was not a question.

“Yes, although I am afraid that I am no longer privy to the precise details of Mr. Potter’s treatment course of potions. You would need to access his file for that. It is currently under the purview of the Ministry.”

Primrose gave Sommers a long, searching gaze. “No doubt you shall have full access in due course.”

“No doubt.”

The man continued to stare at the quiescent boy in the bed, his eyes seeming to catalogue every detail. He said nothing, but Primrose could see that he was working to keep his face clear of any kind of emotion and his posture relaxed.

“How long has he – has the patient been restrained in this manner?” Sommers flicked his gaze to Primrose, giving nothing further away, his voice steady and brusquely professional.

“He has been sedated since his arrival. The restraints were not necessary until a few days ago. The potions…I suppose his tolerance of the dosage increased. He became…agitated,” Primrose trailed off, remembering the cries of distress that had come from the room in the middle of the night, the boy’s tear-stained cheeks proof of his anguish. She shuddered to think that the boy had, in a moment of lucidity, become aware of his situation. As awful as it was to see a young person tranquillised like Harry was currently, she liked to think that he was at least not currently cognisant of what was happening around him and therefore not as affected by the Ministry’s experimental treatments.

“We can remove the restraints for now,” Primrose looked steadily at Sommers, who nodded his approval immediately. “While we work with him, they are not required.”

Together, the two healers worked to undo the buckles of each strap, freeing the teenager of his bindings. His limbs remained slack as Primrose carefully adjusted the bed into an inclined position.

“He is unresponsive?”

“Mr. Potter has not spoken since the day of his arrival,” Primrose gave a short nod. “He does react to visual stimuli, but his Healers have nonetheless diagnosed him with catatonia. He will occasionally vocalise sounds, but no speech.”

Sommers made an unexpected move to take the boy’s right hand in his own. Primrose stood back and observed with interest as the Ministry-approved Healer carefully manipulated the fingers of the unresisting hand into a fist and then gently placed the elbow on the bed, so that the forearm remained at a right angle to the upper arm. The Healer released his hold and observed that the hand remained curled, still held upright in the same position.

“Waxy flexibility,” Sommers muttered.

“Yes,” Primrose replied. “As I said, he is catatonic and that tendency to remain in an immobile posture is symptomatic. I cannot, however, confirm if this condition has arisen as a consequence of his potion regimen or if it is due to his...other treatments.”

“Why the need to sedate a catatonic patient?” Sommers had not looked once in Primrose’s direction since beginning his examination of the Potter boy and even now he continued to gaze intently at his patient. A twitch in his jaw was the only tell that the man was controlling some strong emotion.

“I don’t know,” Primrose replied softly. “After I asked one too many questions, I was told that you would be taking over the care of Mr. Potter.”

“Healer Popplestock- “ Sommers pinched his lips together and said nothing for a long moment.

“Yes?”

He raised his grey-eyed gaze to her own and she could clearly see her own confused outrage reflected in his stare. Finally he spoke.

“I require your assistance with relocating Mr. Potter to that Healing station you mentioned earlier.”

She nodded and moved to bring over the wheelchair. As she turned her back, she was surprised to overhear Sommers speaking directly to the supine young man.

“Mr. Potter, I am going to help you up out of that bed and into a chair. I would like to take a closer look at exactly how you are feeling right now, and I will definitely require the use of my wand in order to do that. I daresay you will feel much better to be out of this room, in any case.”

Primrose arrived back at the bedside and fussed a little with adjusting the high-backed wheelchair, casting occasional glances up at Healer Sommers as he gently rolled the Potter boy onto his side so that he was facing her. A soft moan issued from the boy’s lips as he was moved.

“I know, I know, those muscles must be feeling quite stiff and sore at present after all that time bedbound. Or should I rephrase that statement to ‘bound to your bed’?” he pursed his lips in a disapproving fashion as he flicked his attention momentarily towards Primrose. “Rest assured, we will take this nice and slowly, alright?”

Sommers gently squeezed the boy’s shoulder and then turned to Primrose, who was now standing and openly staring the man.

“Problem, Healer Popplestock?” he asked in a deceptively light tone.

“Er…no,” she offered him a tentative smile. “Quite the opposite, in fact. You just…aren’t quite what I expected from a Ministry-appointed Healer.”

“Well, let us just focus now on our patient, shall we?” he appeared a little uncomfortable with Primrose’s observation and simply turned back to the boy, gesturing at Harry’s legs, which she carefully swung from the bed as Sommers attended to gently lifting the boy’s upper body so that he was now seated on the edge of the bed. Together, they then shifted his small frame swiftly and easily across into the waiting wheelchair. The entire procedure was complete in a matter of moments, Sommers carefully placing the teenager’s feet on the footrests as Primrose leaned Harry’s head back against the headrest and smoothed down the slightly rumpled hospital gown. She draped a light blanket over his lap.

Transferring the patient to the Healing station across the hall was accomplished with little fuss or fanfare, the Aurors clearly familiar with overseeing their charge moved in and out of the room they guarded so closely. The red-robed wizards simply crossed to the door adjacent and stood outside with their backs against the doorframe as Primrose wheeled Harry’s chair into the room, followed by the taciturn Sommers, who took a moment to look each Auror up and down with disdain before passing between the two men.

He closed the door firmly behind him and withdrew his wand in one swift movement, stepping forward to wrap his free hand around the back of the unresponsive boy’s neck. Primrose drew in a sharp breath when she saw the tip of the dark wood pointed squarely at her face.
“I am so sorry to have to do this to you, Madam,” he said quietly, holding firmly to Harry’s nape, the wand rock steady in his right hand and his voice again curiously devoid of emotion, despite the circumstances.

“Your heart would appear to be in the right place. I am sure you will forgive me once you realise that I am here not only to save the boy, but also to relieve you of a great deal of trouble and distress. You see, this way you won’t be required to explain exactly how it came to be that Mr. Potter was Portkeyed away by a Healer who claimed to be appointed by the Minister himself. Not when you were held at wandpoint and then attacked. Stupefy.”

Sommers watched dispassionately as Healer Primrose Popplestock fell gracelessly to the floor with a muffled thump. He swiftly crouched so that he was at eye level with the boy whose face he now gently cradled in both hands.

“Portus,” he whispered, closing his ash-grey eyes against the bright flash of magic emanating from the silver ring on his left thumb. He gave himself over to the uncomfortable tug of the magic which instantaneously relocated both boy and man to their destination.

***

It was quiet in the room. That was the first thing Harry noticed. It was a nice kind of quiet; peaceful and broken only by the occasional distant trill of some small bird calling off in the very distance. Eventually, he became aware of the sound of someone breathing. At first, he thought he was listening to his own quiet exhalations, but at some point, Harry realised that there was a different rhythm to the breaths, and he knew that there was someone else there with him. He didn’t mind that. He had been so alone before, in that other place. It had been quiet there too, but that hadn’t been a nice kind of quiet at all. The silence had suffocated him, burying him in a cold vacuum of nothingness. Even though he knew that he was elsewhere now, and safe, Harry panicked a little, thinking of that other place. He felt his own breathing quicken and his pulse fluttered uncomfortably at his throat.

The quiet was broken, then, by another soft sound. It was a susurration of fabric sliding and shifting. The sound of a clothed body moving, just a little, repositioning itself. He recognised it right away and was further assured of the accuracy of his identification of the sound when a warm hand closed gently over his wrist. He could hear the breathing closer to him now, steady and calm, just like the feeling of the hand on the bare skin of his wrist. Harry felt himself begin to relax again as he focused on that one sensation. It was comforting and it felt real to him in a way that nothing had in such a long time. It reminded him of something else – a warm palm pressed against his forehead, or sure fingers curved at the nape of his neck.

Someone was calling to him now. Not inside the room, no, there remained the serene quiet that he so enjoyed. But inside, he could sense the summons of another mind, calling on him. That other mind spoke to him without words, and reminded him of his name – Harry – but he already knew that about himself. He knew that he was Harry.

But then that other mind (so familiar!) was telling him other things as well. Without a voice, that reassuring presence let Harry know that he was safe, that he was not alone. That he was alive. Harry hadn’t known that. He hadn’t really thought much about it, to be honest, but somewhere deep within himself, there must have existed an idea that perhaps this is what it is like to not be alive. This stillness didn’t seem much like life.

For some reason, the other mind was angry about something. There were no words, nothing was said, but he could feel the rage building up and it worried him. He could feel his heart race and the other mind withdrew for a while, taking the warm hand away from his wrist as it departed, leaving him to listen to the breathing, and the birds and the peace. After a while, the other mind returned (he knew that other mind so well) and Harry felt happy, welcoming the comfort it offered.

After a while of just resting peacefully, aware of the other mind (who was it?) but not really interacting with it, Harry thought he might try to talk to it. The idea just came to him and it seemed strange because until that moment, he had forgotten entirely that he had lips to speak with. It was so much harder, to talk, than he thought it would be. First, he had to open his mouth a little bit and that wasn’t so difficult. But pushing the sound out and forming a word, well, that was a challenge. The other mind knew what he wanted to do and he could feel the swell of encouragement. It occurred to Harry that perhaps the initial urge to speak had come from the visiting presence, rather than from his own mind. It didn’t matter anymore. Harry wanted to speak, so he did.

“He-ll-lo?” his lips shaped the word and his throat forced the sound out and the quiet in the room was shattered. There were voices, excited voices all around and they were loud. For a moment, Harry felt a thrill of fear that he was only hearing them inside his head and he had some vague recollection that this was a bad thing. It wasn’t normal.

It reminded him strangely of the cold vacuum of the quiet place from before. He could feel the panic swelling up inside and his breathing stuttered, forcing him to take tiny little pants to get enough air. The voices around him (not inside his head!) were still making noise and one of the voices was much louder and deeper than the others. Harry couldn’t understand what it said, but all the other voices suddenly went quiet. The deep voice continued on, but it was softer now, and spoke just to him.

The hand that had before wrapped so warmly around his wrist returned to comfort him. Harry focused on the slow rhythm of the breathing in the now quiet room and felt his own breathing deepen and slow. He knew he could talk, so he decided that he would also like to open his eyes. He wanted to see who sat here with him in this quiet room, holding his wrist and talking softly to him. Slowly, Harry pushed open his heavy eyelids. He looked around, blearily observing the dark-haired, dark-eyed man who sat at his bedside, leaning over a dog-eared book on his lap. He was reading with that deep, soft voice. One of the man’s hands was wrapped around Harry’s right wrist and the other, the left hand, swept a thumb across the surface of the page he was reading. Harry was distracted for a moment by the glint of a silver ring on that thumb as it caught the light from the lantern on the bedside table.

“Hel-lo,” Harry said again into the quiet of the room. The reading halted and the hand on his wrist squeezed reassuringly. The dark eyes observed him.

“Hello, Harry,” Snape replied.