The Heart of Gryffindor
by SJR0301
Chapter Three
Harry walked up Privet Drive and tried to decide what to do with himself for the day. He wanted to get away from his Aunt's fearful gaze and the sound of Dudley's most recent video. They were always either boxing matches now or the latest, most violent kung fu or fight movie. Harry found neither one entertaining. The sound of flesh smacking flesh in the boxing matches turned his stomach and the carelessness with which the actors killed people in the movies chilled him. He thought that if people had ever really seen someone die, right in front of them, they wouldn't find death entertaining.
He turned up toward the park and the street where Mrs. Figg lived. He hadn't seen her this summer, though he'd caught a glimpse of one of her cats slinking under Uncle Vernon's new car the other day. He'd been tempted to tease the cat out and tell him to take a message to Dumbledore that he wanted out now. But that wouldn't do. He knew quite well he had stay with the Dursleys until Dumbledore said he might go. He knew there was good reason for it. But he didn't have to like it. He thought, surely Dumbledore wouldn't insist on Harry returning here next summer.
He'd have graduated by then. He'd be of age and a fully qualified wizard. There was that sticky problem, though, that staying with his Aunt provided him with some kind of protection, though what, Harry did not understand. He thought, really, Dumbledore couldn't mean for him to stay with the Dursleys every year forever until Voldemort was defeated, could he? If Voldemort could ever be defeated.
Being preoccupied with these thoughts, Harry failed to notice that the park was unusually silent until he was at the very edge of it. He looked up and saw that many of the younger children that played there had left or were leaving and that there were five older teens there coming towards him. It was Dudley's gang, except Dudley was back at Privet Drive being a good boy so he wouldn't have to meet with the Social Workers anymore.
Harry noted as he turned away that Piers and Gordon were out front and they looked even rattier then they ever had. He decided that a confrontation with that lot was the last thing he needed just now. On the principle that hunting animals were moved to attack when any potential quarry ran, Harry turned up the street and walked as if he had always meant to go in that direction. But he didn't run. Looming up ahead now, was the large, bulky form of his cousin. Harry turned and looked back at the gang. A mistake, he thought afterwards.
"It's that sneak, Potter," Piers said loudly.
"Rat! Copper lover," Gordon yelled.
Harry debated drawing his wand, but knew that was exactly the worst thing he could do. He'd never be able to convince Fudge that a bunch of Muggles posed any real threat that deserved the use of underage magic. He ran instead, away from the gang and away from Dudley as well.
The gang was too close though and they were on him in seconds. He ducked out from under a wild swing by Piers and dodged a blow from Gordon. Another kid, whom Harry didn't know got a hold of his neck from behind and wrapped a long arm around him. Harry tried to elbow him, but the chokehold only tightened. He stamped on a foot and the hold loosened, so he rolled to the ground as Professor Ribisi had taught them last year and took the kid holding him with him. The kid let out a bellow as Harry's weight shifted on some sensitive part and Harry was up in moment.
Piers cried out, "Hey, Big D. Come and see what we do to Copper lovers! Come on. Show your true colors and help us thrash him!"
Gordon yelled out, "Yeah Dud. Show us you're not really a copper lover yourself. Give us a hand."
Harry took the opportunity to cut and run again, but he was brought down by a large hand snagging his overlarge T-shirt. He pulled away, ripping his shirt and twisted to aim a fist at Piers' ratty face. It landed on Piers' large nose and a spout of blood came out. Gordon was on him again, though, and he managed to land a punch right to Harry's chest, right over the place where Voldemort's sword had run through him. Pain seared through him and he hardly knew or cared if any other blows landed. He curled up in a ball of pain and everything went dark. He heard at the edges of his pain voices yelling and Dudley's voice saying,
"You'll get yourselves jailed again. You'll get me jalied." There was the sound of fists smacking and Dudley's voice saying again, "Get away and stay away. I'm not going to jail with the likes of you."
There was the sound of cursing and feet running away.
"You can get up now, Potter," Dudley said. But Harry couldn't have gotten up just then if Voldemort himself had arrived.
"Get up," Dudley repeated. Harry tried to open his eyes and to speak, but darkness hovered at the edge of his vision and no sound came out.
"Harry?" Dudley said. A meaty hand shifted him and the pain seared higher. A sound escaped him, but it had no meaning.
The sound of a car stopping filtered through the pain and a voice saying, "What's this? What're you doing?" Then Mark Evans' voice piping in, "He's beaten him up I bet. That's his favorite sport, beating people up."
"I didn't!" Dudley said indignantly and then, "You daren't," in tones of outrage. "You're not allowed to use that...magic out of school."
"Don't think I won't if I have to," Mark answered.
"That's enough," came Dr. Evans' sharp interruption. "What did happen, Dudley?" There was a short silence.
"The gang beat him up," was Dudley's reluctant response. "There were five of them. But I wasn't part of it. He was actually fighting quite well," Dudley said, and his tone was full of surprise, "and then, well, one them caught him a chest blow and he went down and he's been like that since."
"You watched them," Dr. Evans said.
"No," Dudley said, "I just got there in time to see that part. I chased them away. They've got me enough trouble already, that lot."
Dr. Evans had bent over while they were talking and he was feeling Harry's pulse and pulling an eyelid back to look at his eyes. Harry tried to protest at that, but still the pain prevented him from speaking.
"Can you get up lad?" Dr. Evans said. "Come on, Dudley," the doctor said, "help me get him into the van." Someone bent over and picked him up and placed him in the back seat of the van.
"He's much lighter than you'd think," came Dudley's voice, again surprised, "even for someone who's always been skinny like him."
The blackness took him then and he woke again when they shifted him out of the van into the doctor's office.
Aunt Petunia's shrill voice asked, "Dudley? Are you hurt? Tell me you're not hurt?"
"Not Dudley," Dr. Evans' voice cut in. "Harry."
"Harry?" she echoed.
"Your nephew, Harry," Dr. Evans said impatiently.
"Oh," Aunt Petunia said. "That's all right then." There was a shocked silence and then, perhaps realizing what she'd said, Petunia added, "What's wrong with him? What did he do?"
"It was Piers and Gordon," Dudley answered. "They went for him cause they think he's the one that ratted to the police on them."
"Oh," Aunt Petunia said again.
"Well, get up then," she said. "That's enough malingering."
"Malingering?" Dr. Evans said. "He's not malingering. Have you got his Insurance card in case he has to go to hospital?"
"Hospital?" Aunt Petunia said weakly. "What's wrong with him?"
"I don't know yet," Dr. Evans said grimly. "I'll have to check him for broken ribs and so forth." Cool hands turned him over on his back, and Harry couldn't help the gasp of pain that time.
"You're awake, then?" Dr. Evans asked. Harry tried to open his eyes again. He got them open and then closed them again immediately as the room was spinning uncomfortably. The hands pulled open his ripped T-shirt and again there was a silence.
"What is that?" Aunt Petunia gasped.
"It looks like a knife injury," Dr. Evans said. "A dirty great knife, I'd bet. I've seen scars like that at the Emergency room in the hospital. Only where would he get an injury like that? And it's recent, too."
"Vol-- You Know Who did it," Mark whispered, "and it was a sword, not a knife."
"Voldemort?" Aunt Petunia asked.
"Yeah," Mark answered. "Only you're not supposed to say his name. Nobody does."
"How do you know that?" Dr. Evans asked slowly.
" 'Cause," Mark answered, "I saw it. Vol-- You Know Who, he attacked Professor Dumbledore and Harry got in Voldemort's way. They had this fight with swords, magic swords, and Voldemort stabbed him, ran him right through with it."
"What are you talking about," Dudley said. "He didn't have any sword at the station. They used wands, not swords." A piece of Harry's mind thought how odd it was to hear Aunt Petunia and Dudley discussing magic swords and wands and Voldemort.
"Not at the station," Mark corrected. "This was at school, a few weeks before school let out. Harry was in hospital for almost a month. They thought he was going to die but he didn't."
"And they just let him get away? A madman like that?" Aunt Petunia asked.
"They didn't," Mark said indignantly. "Everyone thought he died. Voldemort, I mean. We all thought Harry killed him. Harry beat him, but he got hurt, too. Only I don't understand how come Vol-- You Know Who didn't die, cause there was a body an' all."
"That's impossible," Aunt Petunia said waspishly.
"Yeah, well," Mark said, "that's You Know Who. He's the most powerful evil wizard in the world practically."
"If it was weeks ago," Aunt Petunia said, "why is he still acting like that? What's wrong with him?"
"Those sorts of injuries take time to heal," Dr. Evans replied. His hands were probing Harry's chest. Harry wanted to tell him to stop, but he couldn't summon the energy to talk.
"It looks like it's healed on the outside," Dudley offered. "I mean, it's not bleeding or anything."
"Yes," Dr. Evans said absently. "But injuries like that sometimes take longer to heal internally. Let's take a look and see what we've got." Harry opened his eyes to see the table he was on being rolled inside a long tube like thing. He didn't like the look of it at all and tried to move to get up.
"Here," Dr. Evans said, "Don't move. I need to see where you've been hurt."
"I'm okay," Harry croaked. Breathing hurt. "What is this thing, anyway?"
"An MRI," Dr. Evans replied.
"Magnetic Resonance Imaging," Mark piped up. "It lets a doctor see your insides."
"Like an X-ray?" Harry asked.
"Ah," Dr. Evans said. "An x-ray just shows your bones. This will let me see much more than that. Now lie still," he admonished. "but first, tell me where it hurts." Harry bit his lip. He didn't want to admit anything hurt in front of Dudley.
"Harry?" Dr. Evans said.
"It hurts to breathe a little," he admitted.
"Right," Dr.Evans replied. "Now lie still and we'll see what's wrong."
Harry didn't like being inside the machine. It made little whirring noises and he felt trapped like he had when he'd been locked in the cupboard under the stairs as a child. Finally, just when he thought he'd have to slide out anyway, the doctor hit a button and the table was slid back out of the confines of the machine.
"Can you sit up?" Dr. Evans asked. Harry nodded. The pain had begun to subside again. Gingerly, he pulled himself to a sitting position. His head spun again, and then steadied. He breathed slowly, shallowly, to minimize the pain.
"Why," he asked abruptly, "did that happen? I mean, it was just a stupid knock in the ribs. It shouldn't have affected me like that."
"Ordinarily, no," Dr. Evans said. "but that injury you've got isn't entirely healed. And it looks like you may have a bit of scarring on your left lung."
"Just what I need," Harry muttered. "Another scar."
"You're lucky to be alive," Dr. Evans said crisply. "It'll heal right enough if you lay off the fighting for a bit."
"I wasn't looking for a fight," Harry protested. "They came after me."
"But you got in the way of this Voldemort fellow at school, didn't you?" Dr. Evans said. His sharp eyes examined Harry thoughtfully.
"Well, that was different," Harry answered. How was he supposed to explain it all to them? It really wasn't his fault that Voldemort had come after him again. Voldemort would have come after him no matter what he did. And all because of a prophecy. A stupid prophecy that might not even be true. Harry slid off the examining table and managed to stand after only a small wobble. He wanted nothing more than to hide in his room and get away from everyone's stare. His T-shirt was hanging and flapping about him and he felt as though the others had seen some private piece of his soul though all they had really seen was the new scar that decorated his chest, nearly heart-high.
"I'm all right," he said quickly, conscious of Dr. Evans' keen stare. The doctor's admonition to avoid fighting sounded so much like Madam Pomfrey's laments over his meddling in dangerous things.
"Really," he said. Dr. Evans seemed to come to some decision. He scribbled a few words down on a tablet, ripped the page off and handed it to Aunt Petunia.
"What's this," Aunt Petunia asked.
"A prescription," Dr. Evans answered, "for antibiotics."
"Is that really necessary?" Aunt Petunia asked.
Dr. Evans stared at her again and shook his head. "It may be, it might not be. I want to be sure any possible lingering infection gets killed. These kinds of injuries very often get infected. And that's as dangerous as the injury itself."
"Well, if there is some kind of infection," Aunt Petunia replied, "he ought to go to St. Mungo's. It's bound to need magic..." Then she stopped and said sourly, "Very well. We'll stop at the chemists on the way. It won't cost too much, will it?" Harry gawked at his Aunt. How did she know anything about St. Mungo's?
"Let's go," she said sharply. "I want to get back before Vernon returns. He won't like this at all." Harry closed his mouth and nodded. He turned back, though, at Dr. Evans' parting words.
"Harry," the doctor said, "If you feel ill again, you can call me or come to my house."
"Come and visit anyway," Mark said, and the doctor nodded. Harry nodded and said, "Thanks." Harry wrapped his arms around himself and followed Aunt Petunia blindly into the chemists and back home again. He opened his mouth only to say, "You don't need to get it," when she complained about the costs of the prescription.
She glared at him and bought it anyway and when he got up the nerve to ask, "How did you know about St. Mungo's?" she glared at him more furiously and said, "Shut up, and don't ask questions."
She thrust the bottle of pills in his hand and said, "Go to your room. Take one of those as the directions indicate. And stay in your room until you're told you may come out."
"But I want to know..." Aunt Petunia looked over her shoulder. Her face tightened at the sound of the door opening and she said again, "Go. Do as I say, if you want to stay in this house."
A sudden exhaustion stuck him. He wearily climbed the stairs and sank onto his bed and stared at the plastic bottle. Every bit of him ached and his head buzzed with questions.
The dragons were flying, the golden one and a great green one with red eyes. The green one was happy. It laughed triumphantly as it flew and seized its quarry... Someone was screaming...a loud NO that spoke of terror and despair. Triumph and pleasure warred with the searing pain in his scar. Harry woke and clutched his forehead and realized that the screaming was real. The great NO was in Dudley's voice.
"You can't! I didn't! I won't!"
Harry thought with terror, HE's here. His scar was still burning as he grabbed his wand from under his pillow and dashed barefoot out of his room. The morning sun was bright in the sky and he thought, as he sped out the landing toward the screaming, how bold HE'd gotten. Dudley was still yelling and Aunt Petunia was shrieking, "You can't take him!"
Without thinking, Harry jumped over the stair rail and landed in the lounge, his wand out. He yelled, "Stop!" and then as he realized there were no Death Eaters and no Voldemort, he cursed.
