Princeps by Lomonaaeren

Chapter 7

Notes:

This is the end of the story, and the end of the series.

"You are lucky you haven't permanently drained your ability to do magic."

Most of Healer Hawken's lecture hasn't made Harry flinch, because it's all the sort of thing he's heard before: "Your life has value," "You're reckless and careless," "You should have more care for yourself." But the thought of not being able to keep his promises to his oathsworn and defend those who need defending from Voldemort makes Harry wince.

"But I haven't," Harry says, and Healer Hawken whips around to face him with such force that his own tail of hair hits him in the face.

The Healer pushes it away from his cheek with a hiss and glares at Harry. "That's the only part of my warning you're going to react to?"

Harry shrugs a little, deciding not to say anything about how it's the only new part. Then he winces again. Even a shrug hurts his shoulder. He's lying in a bed in the Hogwarts infirmary between what are essentially two huge Transfigured pillows, both of them pressing potion-soaked bandages against him. Apparently the injury to his magic means that he can't even drink potions the normal way and trust them to work with his innate power to heal him. He has to go through the slower method of absorbing them through the skin.

"You have enough people who are worried about you," Healer Hawken says in a low, deadly voice, "that I don't see any reason I should stay and scold you any longer. I'm sure they'll do it far more effectively than I will." He pauses, apparently struggling with something, and then asks, "What was so urgent that you couldn't wait a few more weeks until the magical concussion had gone away? It was healing. You were recovering."

"I had to destroy a powerful artifact that could have rendered a Dark wizard more dangerous," Harry says, and leans back to let one of the potions work more slowly into his skin. "I was afraid that he would move it somewhere else if I waited, and I would have to find it all over again."

"Better than that to destroy your magic or kill yourself."

Harry sighs. "I know."

"One of those people who think everything is all right because they're still alive," Healer Hawken announces to the air, and then turns around and walks over to the door of Madam Pomfrey's office. "I give up, he's your problem," Harry can hear him saying.

Harry, meanwhile, closes his eyes and drifts for a minute. It's not going to last long, if only because he's sure to have more visitors, but it's soothing to feel the cool press of the potions. Even the blanket that's draped over him to cover his bare skin is coated with a thin layer of soft liquid.

"Professor Salvare?"

I was right, that didn't last long, Harry thinks, and opens his eyes to see Regulus and Severus standing in the doorway of the hospital wing. They're staring at him with eyes so huge that Harry has to smile at them. "I'm all right," he says.

"You are not," Severus says, his voice a frigid snap that reminds Harry of his own future's Severus Snape for the first time since he traveled back. "I can smell—they don't use Amanita mushrooms for anything shore of desperate cases! What did you do?" He marches towards the bed and then stops and stares again, running his gaze up and down the bed and the blanket as if he can see every potion that Harry is taking. Well, absorbing.

"He had a hemorrhage in his brain," Regulus says. "The cause was magical, but it did physical damage."

While Severus gapes in silent outrage, Harry narrows his eyes at Regulus. That's too close to the exact phrasing that Healer Hawken used to content him. In fact, it is the exact phrasing. "Where did you hear that, Regulus? Were you listening at the door when Healer Hawken talked about it?"