Cantus Dimindium Argenteum by Mogu2mochi

Cool air blows across the starless night in the Scottish highlands. Hogwarts, unlike any other year, is occupied by a few students and outsiders for the summer. Despite the warm lights shining through the tall windows from the great hall, never has the children under floating candles and abundance of stars at the enchanted ceiling been this mute, silence chokes them like a cobra strangling its prey, they eat their meal stiffly, preventing any of clattering from the silver utensils.

“Mate…hey.” Ron waves his fork in front of Harry, “you good?”

“I’ll get Poppy for a checkup.” Remus leaves his barely eaten meal and stands up abruptly, wooden bench scraping against the stone floor. Padfoot, who is resting next to the man’s legs immediately attends to Harry’s side, eyes wide in alert, its hackles raised.

“Ah no, Remus I was just lost in thought!” Harry holds on to the man’s threadbare sleeve, “really, it’s just…a lot happened, you know?” He squeezes a tight smile to appease the skeptical look upon the scarred face.

Remus waves his wand along Harry’s scar, then down to the newly healed bruises, finally ending at the long faint line at his arm that was cut open to resurrect a monster. The tip of his cypress wand glows a comforting deep sea blue, convincing the man to sit down, and ruffles the boy’s raven hair.

“Sorry Harry, I guess you’re right.” The scars on the man’s face warp a little at the warm smile, “I’m just — we’ve been worried.”, the harsh line bordering the recovered skin creases like a valley, and there's a suspicious gleam at the corner of his eyes.

“I’m fine!” Harry says brusquely, with barely suppressed frustration, “Really, I just need some time.” he smiles around the gut coiling guilt, but he really can’t handle it when he feels all the sympathetic looks directed at him plastered onto everyone's faces. “I…I’ll just head to bed early.” He throws them an apologetic smile and walks toward the door as calmly as he could.

“Oh Harry–” Mrs. Weasley, pushing her plate aside, stands up and opens her arms, ready to pull the boy into a crushing embrace, yet her face falls when Harry evades her, as well as the fearful expression on his face. “Not now.” he blurts out, before rushing past the Matriarch, bolting out of the great hall.

“Let him be Molly, he needs the space.” Harry hears the whisper before the wooden door shuts, he can’t help but tug his oversized jacket close to his cold sweating body, hoping to evade Cedric’s vacant eyes that had been following him at the empty Hufflepuff table.

He can feel dozens of blades clawing at his arm, Voldermort’s sharp nail stabbing his scar, the merciless scythe of the angel of death choking him. It’s choking him, choking as hard as it can, and he can’t breathe, his airways blocked, He gags, cold stone tightening its hold around his neck, blood bursting and trickling all across his arm, he’s drowning, he’s sinking, he’s dying.

I’m dying. He claws at his own throat

Yet from the sea of overwhelming sensations, a gentle strum from his pocket calls him back to the shore like periodic sweeps of light from a lighthouse, dispersing the dark spots in his vision. Lambent flames from the flambeau slowly light up his view, as they did to the empty halls.

[ Breathe ] A familiar, yet distant voice whispers, like a gush of wind, fresh air is coaxed into his constricted lungs, and the tremors at his arms stills as his heartbeat returns to a steady tempo. And Cedric’s eyes seem to have moved away from his back.

Harry slowly slips his hand into the pocket, his fingertips are met with a slow hum at a cool surface, the same resonation he had felt when he was still in the cell, with the silver wand that Snape gave him.

Wait.

Harry draws the object from his pocket, though he is met with a snitch size sphere, sitting snuggly on his palm rather than a wand. Its silvery exterior is almost as clear as a mirror, his worn-down face looking back at him, the reflections of the torches forming halos behind him.

Didn’t Snape take it back? He delves into the jumbled memories and vaguely recalls Snape using it to heal him, yet here they are, a suspicious object, possibly a death-eater exclusive artifact that can morph itself, and pops up in someone’s pocket.

Debating if he wants to risk being seen by the injured, but no less snarky professor, he treads back to the Gryffindor tower, the sphere rolling in his hands, maybe he’ll just return it under his invisibility cloak.

[ Keep it ] The melodic voice rings again, yet it doesn’t startle him like it is simply one of his best friends cajoling him into copying his essays. It’s playful, comforting, almost freeing like soaring the skies on a broom. And the flower field with his mother… and that someone else.

No, Harry Potter, this is an unknown artifact and it could kill you at any minute.

Harry shakes his head and continues his walk down the everlasting corridor, just as he is about to take his turn, footsteps come echoing down the ends of the hallway, just as he’s about to fumble his own recently retrieved “Freakish stick”, the sphere thins out in his hand, stretching into the shape of the wand, and snaps up on its own accord, leading his hand to the pointed direction.

“Professor.” The boy immediately recognized the headmaster as soon as the long white beard comes into view. Yet, the man simply walks past him as if he is one of the suits of armor standing guard along the corridor, making him stumble back against the wall as if there’s an invisible border surrounding the man.

“Professor Dumbledore?” Harry calls out again, demurely.

The man turns around, his expression uncharacteristically apathetic, cold like his ice blue eyes as he turns his sight on Harry, there is a hint of irritation at the slight twitch of his brow. Still, just like a flash of torchlight, it is gone in a second, replaced with the usual serene smile that gave him assurances and guidance.

“Ah, my boy.” Dumbledore nods, eyes behind his half-moon spectacles twinkling, “I thought you were at the hall with your friends?”

“Oh, I uh…” the warm sensation climbs all across his body from the wand, he glances at it and notices his holly wand in his hand instead of the silver. “am feeling a bit tired so I’m turning in early.”

Harry sees how Dumbledore gives his “wand” a peek and subtly retracts it into his sleeve, “Sorry! I didn’t mean to point–”

Harry almost yelped when Dumbledore marches forward and pats his shoulder.

“Don’t worry Harry, it must have been stressful for you, some more rest won’t hurt, hm?”

“Yes sir.” Harry breathes out. “Ah, what about Sna– Professor Snape?”

Dumbledore smiles at him, yet his brow twitches, “Severus is recovering well-”, he suddenly pauses at the sight of a ghost-like cat. A Patronus, Harry muses. The man lowers himself and listens to the message it relays, his eyes brighten considerably when the Patronus finishes.

Must be good news. Harry looks at the man from his spot.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow young man, have a good night.” Dumbledore gives him one final pat on the back, turns, and walks down the other end, as Harry stands still at the same spot watching the ends of the flowing robe disappear with the pressure that has been building in his head.

The “wand” in his hand never stopped humming, instead, it grows warmer as it melts and reforms back to a sphere.

[ Go to rest ] it suggests.

Death eater artifact or not, Harry picks up his pace, hoping to dive back under the safety of warm blankets and perhaps, a dreamless sleep this time.

But then, of course, since when did Harry Potter ever get what he wants.

The first thing he sees waking up is the gay sky, and how the darker clouds are moving rapidly despite the lack of wind.

He sits up and notes he is not in a field of flowers, but rather on a small hill with dried-up mud-yellow grass, a few feet away from a ginormous leafless tree, its empty branches expanding like a web in the air, standing out from the pale background. A large tree hole in the middle splits the black trunk in half, tangling roots exposed, the space between seemed to be occupied by a few strips of sticks and rags. A nest? Harry thinks, although he doubts there’s any life left in this desolate dream.

Looking around, a thick layer of fog covers the surroundings like a blanket, yet the repetitive outlines of houses and unlit streetlamps going on for miles are like a never-ending loop, reminding him a lot of Privet Drive, except a lot more depressing. Pushing himself with one hand, wet mud sticks onto his palm, like the cheap diluted glue Duddley used to pour onto his old mattress in the cupboard, dries quickly, but the sour smell of chemicals lingers for days.

Everything seems to exist, yet does not at the same time in this dream, at the other side of the hill is a dried river with a line of darkened soil in the middle, a wide bridge that leads to a series of even more blurry shapes, large sewage pipes supporting the structure beneath. The air grows colder as he continues to look around. Pattering rain slowly echos across the hill, yet nowhere on his body is wet save for his muddied hand.

What is going on?

There’s no red-haired girl in sight, no singing, no nothing whatsoever—just him in this desolate dream.

Wake up, wake up, wake up. He urges himself, squeezing his eyes shut, wishing the posters at the end of his bed to reappear when he opens them.

Harry jolts when there’s a tug at his sleeve, wands at ready despite being in a dream, he turns around and sees a short figure.

“Oh.” The boy he saw previously, still in the oversized beige coat, albeit soaked in rain, pale hand-holding at Harry’s jacket’s sleeve, with a cardboard box under his right arm. He still can’t see through the frustrating blur on the boy’s face, yet he can somehow tell his expression is that of fear.

“What’s wrong? Where’s the other girl?” Harry kneels and holds the boy’s hand gently, trying to comfort him.

Harry doubts he can hear him, but the young boy hugs him close in response. He feels the small chin bobbing atop his head, yet no voice comes out as he speaks…

The young boy steps away from the embrace and pulls Harry towards the tree hole by his hand. He quickly throws the pile of junk in it down onto the grass and slides the box into the emptied space.

Harry has learned to accept that his dreams or visions have always been an omen of some sort, but never has there been a dream as bizarre as being lifted effortlessly by a seemingly 10-year-old boy, and even weirder, being laid into a box that could miraculously fit him in, inside of a tree hole.

He tries to stand up within the cardboard walls, but the pale hand gently pats him on the head, coaxing him back down, like a parent tugging a child to sleep.

Through the ripped-out handle of the cardboard, he sees the boy taking off his coat carefully to not have its ends touch the mud. Things within the box dim as he covers the box with the wet coat after the boy gives Harry one last hesitant hug. A continuous cacophony of scrapes can be heard all around until every last spot of light is blocked out.

The boy speaks, his voice is overpowered by the harsh, insistent bullets of rain, yet still discernible:

“Wait for me.”

Thunderous humming rings painfully in Harry’s ear, hugging his knees close with his head in his hands, he moves to the very corner of the box. The bottom part of the card box starts to soak and soften, the wind hitting the coat makes it vibrate aggressively, much like the batter head of a war drum. As the noise grows deafening, Harry begs his mind to fight its way to reality.

WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP.

In a flash within the darkness, he sees blood gushing out of his side, dripping and slowly pooling onto the floor, skin on his left hand crusted with the dried matter, his body is on fire, and his mind spirals in pain and confusion.

STOP!

Everything comes to a sudden halt except the slight ringing in Harry’s ear, his heart thumps loudly, then slows down to a gentle staccato, finally to a normal pace, and gradually fades into nothing.

Harry doesn’t fight the welcoming darkness.

Despite hearing whatever Potter is up to at the Gryffindor table, Draco doesn’t bother to turn around and sneer at the lot of them, he’s currently busying himself with stabbing the fondant potato into a mashed pile of patheticness. His parents have given up reminding him of the deplorable table manners, as they seem to be far away, their meals abandoned, fingers interlocking on the table so tightly the knuckles have gone white.

“I’m sure he’ll be a fine Padfoot.” The werewolf, Draco recognizes, appeases his disgraced cousin who has transformed back into his human self.

“You can’t expect someone to recover that fast, especially right after what happened in the tournament.” One of the Weasley twins adds.

More people pop into the conversation, while the Slytherin table remains eerily silent, only breaking when Dumbledore’s pet Aurors have short discussions among themselves, when they aren’t staring at him or his parents, that is.

“…adding to the guilt.”

“I‘ve heard that Prongslet and that Cho girl from Ravenclaw are friends.”

“Poor Miss Chang, it’ll never be the same for her.”

“Well yes, her too, but also…you know…”

Draco Malloy genuinely detests Gryffindors, mudbloods, blood traitors, and reckless idiocy aside, they seem to know nothing about “being discreet”.

“Snape’ll be fine as ever, he’d be back sneering at us in no time.” Without looking back he can tell Weasley is speaking with a mouthful of food like a swine. He better be, Weasley.

Across the table he notices his mother’s lips pinched thin at the subject, and looks away from her plate that she has been glaring daggers at.

“That git?” Black bites out, “Casting some wicked dark arts thingy into my godson,” He takes a large bite of steak from Lupin’s plate, “he better be dead, that is as much good as he can do.”

What comes immediately after both McGonagall’s and several decent beings’ cries of disapproval, a resounding “Bang” rings across the hall, effectively silencing everyone, in which Draco finds a dozen wands pointing at him.

Ignoring the splinters that have found their way into his palm, he turns around, as gracious as the Slytherin Ice Prince does, and glares straight at that offending thing.

Whatever rubbish the Aurors are yelling at him right now, his white-hot rage is effectively blocking them off. For the first time anger powers him, he feels it deep within its core, he feels mighty, invincible even, it is infinitely euphoric to see how that dog flinches at the crackling magic, magic of a Black around him.

“Draco, compose yourself.” Mother gently grasps his wrist.

How dare they stop him? How dare it call Severus that awful name?

“Dragon. Calm down.” Mother calls him again, her light blue eyes shining with intensity, and by the looks of both of his parents, they are livid too, Father’s face is still impassive as ever, but a harsh line of vein popped up at his temple.

He sits back down hesitantly, and remembers his euphoria amidst his anger is also what hurts people under his power, fearing it’s the same that causes his godfather to be incapacitated, he blocks off every emotion in his mind.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

The Aurors’ wands are begrudgingly back in their holsters.

There’s a collective sigh at the Gryffindor table, Black is muttering something under his breath, and immediately got a warning from Lupin.

Father puts his hand on his knees under the table and gives him a firm nod.

Suddenly, the man's eyes widen, and slowly removes his hand from Draco’s knees, caressing the fabric on his left arm.

“Lucius?” Mother's voice is now solemn, and the prospect of what is going to happen to them fills the boy with dread.

“I think…” His father ignores the Aurors, who are now standing up, “he might be calling me.” He is still looking at his covered arm, but the confusion is apparent on his face.

“Might be?” The taller Auror, Shacklebolt, Draco recalls, asks.

Father looks at the man and pauses, “Normally, the lor— he would give… stronger implications.” Both men turn their eyes back on the covered arm, “This feels different.”

“Like hell we are letting you leave that easily!”

“Black! Stand Down!” Professor Moody, the real one, shouts at the advancing man, his magical eye twitching frantically, the scars stretched tight with his wrathful expression, much like a mythological demon itself. “Minerva, call Albus.”

“Wha-“ Father’s objection is immediately shut off by Tonks, another blood traitor’s silencing spell, with cuffs now holding his left arm down onto the table. He and his mother are also forced back down onto the bench, at least the Shacklebolt has some decency to make a quiet apology.

Casting the spell, a ghostly mist flows out of McGonagall’s wand, swiftly twirling and forming into a cat Patronus, sitting there obediently waiting for a command.

“Go to Albus…” she whispers, and the cat runs and disappears through the door. McGonagall doesn’t take her eyes off for a moment, but when she turns and looks at him, there is something indecipherable in her eyes.

Dark wizards are unable to cast Patroni.

Pity? Draco sneers at that. He does not need such spells.

After almost a lifetime, the old man casually ambles into the hall, like he’s visiting a museum and enjoying the spectacle in front of him with that disgusting grandfatherly look on his face.

“Minerva, Alastor.” He greets, “Mr. Malfoy, kindly show us your dark mark, please.”

Despite being under the silencing charm, the father’s refusal rings rather loud when he slams his fists down on the table, consequently tied back by another Incarcerous.

“Lucius,” Dumbledore chides him patronizingly “your cooperation is necessary for your family’s safety, it will help me greatly in turn to provide your son a better sanctuary against Voldemort.”

There is a collective flinch at the mention of the dark lord while the senile man keeps smiling at his father, Draco looks back at him across the table, his expression is calm, and the familiar haze of occlumency is washed over in the glacial grey eyes.

A quiet “thwack” can be heard when the Aurors cancel both of the spells, like a retracting bowstring. Father slowly stands up, removing his sapphire cufflinks, and rolls his left sleeve up.

“Is this what you put him through, too?”

Mother is looking intently away from the chaos, far towards the head table, her voice is soft but firm, and to Draco’s knowledge, very deadly

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes merely simper at that.

“The mark…it’s gray.” One of the headmaster’s lackeys says, bewildered.

The snake and skull no longer stand out against the porcelain skin as they did for the past few months, now it simply looks like a fading sketch on parchment. The mark itself is not moving as it usually does like a living being either, now it’s simply…there.

“I assume it should be black since Tom’s return, correct?” The old man runs his hand down the beard “How long has it been in this state?”

The boy’s parents look at each other in a moment of soundless communication. “Hours ago it was still activated,” Father replies warily.

The hollow sockets of the skull flashed jet black for one second before returning into an even lighter shade of grey, and the father seems to wince at the change.

“He is calling me.”

Dumbledore stays silent, he looks upward at the enchanted ceiling, constellations orbiting peacefully above them, and a wave of silence washes over them as they wait in bated silence.

“Go to Voldemort,” the old man ignores the flinch and glare sent his way, “come back after the meeting.”

A sense of déjà vu comes over Draco when a familiar wave of disagreement ripples through the crowd.

“Draco, Cissa, go back to the manor, just in case.” Lucius says in a hushed tone.

“Ah, pardon me, my boy,” Dumbledore puts his hand onto Draco's shoulder, fingers almost stabbing into the muscle, which he unwillingly squirms against it. “But I think dear Draco should stay here in Hogwarts, after all, it’s the safest place in Magical Britain.”

Draco could feel his barely eaten meal about to rush its way up.

“Headmaster Dumbledore,” Mother turns to face the old man, “are you keeping my son hostage?”

Mother’s hand clamps on his other shoulder, slightly pulling Draco towards herself, but Dumbledore does not relent.

“Oh no my lady, in times of danger, it has always been my priority to keep my students safe.”

Newly manicured nails dig deeper, and her son barely suppresses a grimace.

“Then I’ll stay here with him.”

“That would be unwise, Mrs. Malfoy.” Dumbledore’s voice lowers, the ceaseless glittering in his eyes is grinding on Draco’s already frayed nerves, but the man is not wrong either — his father is a trusted one of the most trusted and valued followers for his wealth and status in the Wizenmagot. To be in close relations with a defector would surely cause suspicions.

What if the Dark Lord decides to pay them a visit tonight? He would certainly question their disappearance, especially when father came home early after a meeting, and he himself should be at home during the summer holidays. Auntie Bella would most certainly be happy to eradicate any opposers, her years in Azkaban didn’t deter her resolution in pursuing this particular goal either. She may love mother, but it’ll never surpass her devotion to the Dark Lord.

They are under suspicion, and they will die.

“Mother.”

The dead gaze in her eyes immediately soften into one of affection, “Yes Draco?”

Breathe in.

Breath out.

“I’ll stay.”

“NO!” Both of his parents shout without hesitation.

“I’m safe here,” just saying that leaves a bad taste in his mouth “but what if aunt Bella checks on you, Mother?”

“No, Draco. No.” Father’s tone is final, but his son looks at him defiantly.

“In return, Professor Dumbledore,” Draco drawls with much Malfoy confidence, while keeping his eyes on his father’s, unblinking. “give them the portkey.”

“Mr. Malfoy, you know I cannot do that.”

“Keeping your priority safe also entails those who are closely related, surely that is a concept you have learned before getting your group of bargaining chips?” Draco continues, “Negotiations require incentives, you may keep me here, and I want my parents safe.”

He can feel Dumbledore glaring holes onto the back of his head, but the astonishment and worry in his family’s eyes push him further.

“Besides,” Draco forcefully turns around facing the old man, without making eye contact, “ father risked going against our ancestor’s wish for putting the family in danger, to give the leader of the opposing faction a forewarning, hence doing a favor for a non-aligned individual.” he pauses to let it sink in, and for dramatic effect, “Professor Snape is for reasons, incapacitated for your cause, regardless of his stance, he is one of us, and I think Sirius Black over there, should understand the significance of a godfather in a family. Though I must ask, why is he here instead of Azkaban? And moreover, Aurors are under the Ministry’s authority, why are you, the headmaster of Hogwarts school, supposedly autonomous from the ministry, commanding them, let alone not taking action with an escaped convict in a School of children?”

Sirius Black is frothing at the mouth with rage but doesn’t make a move, the Aurors are smart enough to stay silent.

“My boy —”

Before Dumbledore can finish, a ball of flame suddenly burst into existence above the table, a melodic trill reverberates across the great hall, and a familiar bird emerges from the blinding light.

“Fawkes?” instead of reaching the old coot’s extended arm, the Pheonix gracefully lands in front of the father instead, much to the surprise of everyone.

“What the hell!” Sirius Black yells.

The bird continues to sing, its tail gently sweeping on the table, onyx eyes looking questioningly at McGonagall.

The transfiguration professor lets out a sigh, and with a flick of her wand, the phoenix stretches and twists until it morphs back into the portkey they used to come here.

“Minerva!”

“Shush Albus!”

Draco does his best to remain stoic at the turn of events. “Thank you, Professors.”

“Draco…” Mother pleads worryingly.

“Mother, please just go home first, you shall see me very soon,” he gives her the smile that usually gets him away from things, “I am not a Malfoy for nothing.”

Uncaring how the Auror is still by her side, she pulls her son into a tight embrace. “Still —”

“You have always been the ones to handle matters, let me aid you for once, as a worthy heir.”

He sees the pride glittering in his father’s eyes, “Narcissa, Draco will be fine here, you need to be safe too.” he lands his warm hands on each of their shoulders.

Dumbledore is merciful enough to allow Draco to see his parents off, looking at how his mother smooths the wrinkles on father’s black coat just two steps outside the gates, outside the wards, like it’s just another day sending him off to the ministry in the morning, except how his parents cling on each other longer than usual in public, and the Aurors standing right next to their son.

The pair gives Draco one final look and disappears into the night.

Lingering his eyes on the now empty space, he could only feel the cold wind brushing across his back, and nothing more.

“Mr. Malfoy, do come with me, it’s getting late.” McGonagall walks up to him.

“Yes, professor.”

“You will be staying at the Gryffindor common room for the night.”

Being taken hostage is worse than I expected.

“May I go to the hospital wing first?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Malfoy.” Dumbledore cuts in rather rudely with feigned concern, “Severus is still recovering, it will be best to let him rest.”

And whose fault is that?

“The Headmaster is correct, but you can always visit professor Snape tomorrow.” McGonagall says, steering him toward the direction leading to Gryffindor's common room.

The moment he steps into the red and gold decorated space, the occupants' face either turns to disgust or wary, well except for the Weasley twins, who look like they have found a new specimen.

Potter is curling up between the younger Weasleys and granger on a large velvet sofa, a steaming cup in his hand, and wrapped in a duvet, looking scrawny as ever.

Their eyes meet, Draco puts up his best sneer, while Potter just looks back onto his cup, eyes filled with… guilt?

Coward.

“Alert! Alert!”

“Little snake in the lion’s den!”

“What is he doing here?”

“Mr. Weasleys,” McGonagall raises a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, “Mr. Malfoy will stay here, for the time being, it will be delightful if you two don’t cause more of a ruckus than you normally do.”

“He’s a Slytherin!” Weasel yells, Draco cannot help but roll his eyes at the statement.

“And you are a Gryffindor Mr. Weasley.”

Ok, Draco admits that he is starting to like her a bit.

“No offense, professor, but why not the dungeons?” Granger inquires, eyes darting between him and Potter.

“Accessing the Slytherin dormitory during holidays requires the Slytherin Head of house to unlock the door manually.”

Thankfully, that shut them up.

“I too will stay until further notice, so do behave around each other, or I will take points from all of you before the term even start.”

“Umm professor,” Potter looks up from his cup, “where are the others?”

“In a meeting with the headmaster. That is all you need to know”

“Meeting?”

Oh, Draco recalls, the bird club.

“I’m afraid I cannot divulge much information to you, Mr. Potter.”

While Potter looks disappointed, Granger and the Weasleys seem rather suspicious, as they look at each other intently, seemingly debating something.

Deciding that it is none of his business, Draco simply walks to the very corner of the common room, looking through the pathetically small bookshelf to see anything worthy enough to read through the torture. He knows they are still discussing him at his back, but in these circumstances, he must stay silent, revenge will come later.

At some point, he must have fallen asleep, as he is still apparently on the page about Falmouth Falcons’ “ Possible curse started by Karl Broadmoor because he once punch the opposing team’s manager which lead to a fight between beaters.” from a ridiculous book on Arthrimancy and its link with quidditch. The sound of the flaring floo wakes him up almost immediately, but instead of seeing his parents safe and sound, the school nurse steps in, breathing heavily.

“Merlin!” Granger shrieks.

“Poppy! What happened!” McGonagall rounds up from the coffee table, walking towards her.

Draco sheaths the book back into the gap on the bookshelf and calmly walks towards the commotion. There stood Madame Pomfrey, her cap almost falling off, and almost half of the white parts in her uniform are stained with crimson. She’s holding a wet towel in her blood-matted hands, blood dripping and melting into the common room’s color palette. Dried blood smearing across her cheek and sleeves, her expression is manic, and frankly looks like she murdered someone, her hand is rhythmically squeezing the wet cloth, blood streaming down onto the already soaked patch of carpet.

“Minnie.” She breathes between the labored breath, relieved to see the professor. “I—”

She stumbles towards McGonagall and quickly grasps her by the arm, deep red quickly spreads onto her green sleeves.

“Poppy, calm down. What’s wrong?” McGonagall asks again, holding the nurse up.

“No time.” Madame Pomfrey’s legs are trembling by now, “Just come with me.”

“What—”

“I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU DO, I DON’T CARE WHAT ALBUS SAID! JUST COME THROUGH AND BY MERLIN HELP ME KEEP THAT DAMNED MAN AWAKE!”