Sunday morning in the Great Hall was unusually lively. Bright sunlight streamed through the high enchanted windows, reflecting off the polished silver platters lined along the house tables.
Ron was currently sitting with his chin resting in one hand, idly poking at a pile of scrambled eggs with his fork while looking thoroughly uninspired. Neville was sitting across from him, quietly spreading marmalade onto a piece of toast, while Hermione was already halfway through a thick book propped up against a juice pitcher.
"I still can't stop thinking about yesterday's dinner," Ron grumbled, letting out a heavy sigh as he stared at his plate. "I mean, breakfast is fine, but why can't we have that garlic pizza again? Or that baked lasagna from lunch? That was easily the best meal this castle has ever served."
Hermione looked up from her book, her eyebrows raised. "Well, according to Hogwarts: A History, the house-elves strictly prepare traditional British fare for the daily menus. Roasted meats, pies, stews, and puddings. Pizza and pasta have literally never been documented on the Great Hall menu before. It was a completely unexpected change."
"Unexpected or not, whoever made that happen deserves a medal," Ron said firmly, finally taking a small bite of his eggs. He looked over at Harry, who was calmly drinking his tea. "Anyway, Harry, when are you actually getting your broom? You said you wrote back to your family ages ago."
Harry set his teacup down smoothly. "I have no idea, Ron. I haven't received any letters from home about it yet."
"Right, but you'd think they'd give you an update," Neville added softly, setting his knife down. "The Nimbus 2000 shouldn't take that long for customization."
Before Harry could answer, a soft rush of wings echoed from high above as the morning post arrived. Dozens of owls flooded into the Great Hall, swooping down toward the long tables to drop letters, packages, and rolled-up copies of the Daily Prophet into their owners' laps.
A striking, snowy white owl broke away from the main flock, gliding down with effortless grace. Hedwig landed lightly directly onto Harry's shoulder, nipping his ear affectionately before holding out her leg.
"Good girl, Hedwig," Harry murmured, reaching into his pocket to give her a small piece of bacon while untying the thick parchment scroll bound to her leg.
He unrolled the letter, his eyes scanning the sharp, precise handwriting written across the page. As he reached the bottom paragraph, a wide, genuine grin broke across his face, and he let out a quiet laugh.
"Finally," Harry said, rolling the parchment back up.
Ron immediately leaned in, nearly knocking over his pumpkin juice. "What is it? What did it say?"
"Is it from home?" Hermione asked, closing her book to pay full attention.
"It's about the broom," Harry said, tucked the letter securely inside his robes. "The broom is ready, but they need me home today for final measurement and calibration."
"Wait, home?" Ron asked, confused. "Can you even get permission to go home? I mean will Dumbledore even allow it?"
"Well, I have to ask after breakfast, and it's only for about half an hour or so," Harry replied smoothly. "Maybe I can get permission to get to Hogsmeade and then I can just apparate from there."
Leaving the Great Hall behind, Harry practically skipped through the corridors, the heavy stone walls echoing with his light, hurried footsteps. Moving up the grand staircase and toward the third floor, his mood was unmistakably light.
When he reached the gargoyle guarding the headmaster's entrance, he offered the password, watching the stone creature leap aside to reveal the spiraling staircase. He took the steps two at a time, knocking twice on the heavy oak door before pushing it open.
Albus Dumbledore was seated behind his crescent-shaped desk, a silver instrument ticking softly beside a tall stack of parchment. The headmaster looked up over his half-moon spectacles, a warm, twinkling smile instantly spreading across his face as he observed Harry's energetic entrance.
"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore said, setting down his quill with a gentle rustle. "Good morning. I must say, it is rare to see a young man practically floating into my office on a Sunday morning. Am I correct in assuming this visit pertains to a certain wooden object of high speed and custom craftsmanship?"
Harry grinned, stepping up to the desk. "Good morning, Professor. Yes, it does. I just received a letter from home during breakfast. The builders need me back for about half an hour to complete the final physical measurements and core calibrations before sealing the frame. I came to ask for your permission to leave the grounds briefly."
Dumbledore rested his elbows on the desk, interlocking his long fingers as he gazed at Harry with mild amusement. "Normally, Harry, the rules regarding first-year students leaving castle grounds outside of official trips are quite absolute. It is a matter of safety and protocol."
He paused, a subtle, highly amused smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"However," Dumbledore continued softly, his eyes twinkling with undeniable mischief, "I am inclined to believe that should I refuse, you might simply decide to take a pleasant, unauthorized stroll down to Hogsmeade and Apparate from there anyway."
Harry swallowed hard, his posture going rigid for a brief fraction of a second. He did not dare test whether Dumbledore actually knew about yesterday evening's covert trip through the hump-backed witch. Harry was many things, but stupid was not one of them. He kept his face entirely neutral, offering only a small, polite smile.
Dumbledore chuckled softly at Harry's quiet composure. "Very well. Permission is granted for a brief departure. You may utilize the Floo Network directly from my fireplace to save time, provided you return promptly."
Harry immediately shook his head, holding up a hand. "Thank you for the offer, Professor, but if it is all the same to you, I would much rather walk to the village gates and Apparate from outside the wards."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow in genuine curiosity. "Oh? You prefer a brisk walk to the convenience of the hearth?"
"Professor, the Floo Network and I have a deep, mutual enmity," Harry explained with complete seriousness, though his eyes flashed with faint annoyance at the memory. "Every single time I use it, it feels as though the fireplace actively tries to reject my existence. I don't just step out of the grate; I get violently flung across the room like a misfired cannonball. And no matter how clean the chimney claims to be, I always end up looking like I spent an entire afternoon scrubbing soot out of an industrial boiler."
Dumbledore let out a rich, hearty laugh that filled the high-ceilinged office, the portraits of former headmasters along the walls stirring and smiling at the sound.
"Ah, the temperamental nature of spatial travel," Dumbledore said, still chuckling softly. "Very well, Harry. You have my permission to walk past the gates into Hogsmeade. Do enjoy the fresh air, and do be careful."
"Thank you, Professor!" Harry said hastily.
He gave a quick nod, turned on his heel, and practically rushed out of the office. He bounded down the spiraling staircase, hit the stone corridor, and broke into a swift, effortless jog.
He moved through the entrance hall and burst out into the crisp Sunday air, taking the sweeping gravel path at a rapid pace. Passing the lake and moving past the main gates, he maintained his stride until the exact boundary of the ancient Hogwarts wards thinned and faded beneath his feet.
The moment he stepped outside the protective perimeter, Harry Disapparated without a sound.
Harry materialized in the center of the living room, but the familiar quiet of home was instantly shattered. A violent, oppressive wave of dark magic slammed into him with the force of a battering ram. Instinct took over before his mind could process the threat. He snapped his wrist, a dense shimmering shield snapping into existence just in time to absorb the silent impact of the concussive pressure.
The air smelled of copper and scorched ozone.
Harry swept his gaze across the room, his pulse spiking into high gear as his analytical mind registered the absolute disaster before him. Petunia was slumped lifelessly against the far wall, her posture unnatural where she had been thrown. Higher up, suspended five feet in mid-air near the center of the room, was Abigail. Her body was completely limp, her eyes closed in deep unconsciousness, but what horrified Harry were the jagged red gashes opening across her arms and face as if invisible, vicious blades were carving into her skin.
He didn't panic. Panic was useless.
Elythral appeared in his grip, Harry flicked the wand toward his mother first, sending a soft amber pulse across the carpet to clear her head and knit whatever blunt trauma she had sustained from the wall. Without waiting to see her stir, he moved swiftly under Abigail, extending his left hand to carefully pull her floating body down into his arms before laying her flat on the hardwood floor.
"Not today," Harry muttered under his breath. He pointed his wand directly over her chest and cast his premier diagnostic and healing charm.
A brilliant, blinding emerald light burst from the tip of Elythral, illuminating the entire living room in a harsh green glow. Harry channelled his immense magical reserve into the spell, pushing the magic straight into her tissue. Normally, wounds like this would close in seconds under his power.
Nothing happened.
The cuts remained open, bleeding freely against the green light. The sinister magic tearing at her was actively fighting his healing, consuming the incoming spellwork like an hungry, invisible fire. This was not accidental magic. This was far too structured, far too malevolent, and vastly beyond anything an eleven-year-old girl could produce.
Harry grimaced, his jaw setting as he forced his magic up to maximum intensity. The green light flared brighter, filling the house with a low, vibrating hum. He felt his vast internal ocean of magical energy begin to drain at a terrifying rate, pouring down his arm and into his wand to keep the dark curse at bay.
Petunia groaned, her eyes fluttering open as the amber charm finished its work. She scrambled up from the floor, her eyes immediately locking onto the green light and the sight of her daughter lying unconscious.
"Abigail!" Petunia gasped, rushing forward with frantic steps.
"Don't come near, Mum!" Harry rasped out, his voice cracked and heavy with immense physical strain. He didn't sound angry, but the sheer effort behind the words was terrifying. "The magic on her... is too strong... I don't know what will happen if you touch it..."
Petunia froze two steps away, her hands trembling violently as she hovered over them. "Harry... what is this? What's happening to her?"
"What... happened?" Harry gritted out, his eyes locked on the bleeding gashes that were only just beginning to stall under the sheer volume of his magic.
"We were... we were getting ready to go to Diagon Alley," Petunia stammered out, tears spilling down her pale cheeks. "To meet you... for the broom... and then ten minutes ago, she just... she started screaming and floated up. I tried to pull her down, Harry, I tried! But something threw me across the room and I blacked out!"
Harry offered a single, stiff nod, unable to spare the breath for words.
The magical strain reached a critical precipice. Harry felt his natural magical core empty out completely, a sensation he had never experienced in his life. The dark curse on Abigail was still clawing its way back, trying to rip her open again.
He refused to let it win.
With a low, gut-wrenching roar of determination, Harry reached deeper, past his empty core, and forcibly burned his own blood to generate raw, desperate magic.
Petunia let out a horrified shriek. Thin streams of dark crimson blood began to trickle down from Harry's eyes, leaking down his cheeks like bloody tears.
"Harry! Stop! Oh God, Harry, stop it!" Petunia sobbed, dropping to her knees beside him. She reached out in absolute agony, her hands hovering above her son, terrified that touching him might disrupt his focus, but terrified that watching him would mean watching him die. "You're killing yourself! Harry, please!"
She was torn in two, a mother trapped in a nightmare, watching her daughter bleed on the floor while her son literally burned himself alive to save her. "Harry, no! Don't do this!"
"She's... my sister..." Harry choked out, the words wet with blood that was now spilling from his nostrils and the corners of his mouth.
He gave one final, violent surge of power, pushing the blood-magic through Elythral until the dark curse was completely smothered. The jagged wounds on Abigail's skin snapped shut, sealing smoothly into clean, unblemished pale skin.
The green light flickered once, twice, and died.
Silence fell over the living room. Abigail lay completely still, her chest rising and falling in deep, peaceful sleep, entirely whole.
Harry let Elythral slip from his numb fingers and it disappeared mid-fall. He reached up with a heavy, trembling hand, weakly wiping the warm blood from below his eyes, leaving red smears across his pale face. He turned his head slowly toward Petunia, offering her a faint, bloody smile.
"Don't worry... Mu-"
The sentence vanished. Harry's eyes rolled back into his head, his body completely giving out as he collapsed forward.
"Harry!" Petunia screamed, throwing her arms out and catching his limp body against her chest before his head hit the floor. She rocked him, holding his bloody face against her shoulder while sobbing uncontrollably.
A sharp, loud crack echoed through the room as Vernon Apparated into the foyer, carrying a cheerful grin and a small box of pastries from Diagon Alley.
"Petunia! I grabbed the extra travel papers for…"
Vernon stopped dead in his tracks. The smile vanished from his face as if erased by a rag.
His eyes took in the horror of the living room: the scorched air, Abigail lying unconscious on the rug, Petunia covered in tears, and Harry, unconscious and bleeding heavily from his eyes, nose, and ears, cradled helplessly in his wife's arms.
"Harry!" Vernon shouted, dropping the box to the floor and vaulting across the room toward his family.
Vernon didn't waste a single second asking questions. The raw terror in his wife's voice and the sight of his son covered in blood kicked his instincts into absolute overdrive.
"Get Abigail, Petunia! Now!" Vernon ordered, his voice booming through the room despite the trembling in his chest.
He leaned down, carefully gathering Harry's limp, pale form into his arms. Harry felt horrifyingly light, his head rolling back against Vernon's shoulder while dark blood continued to ooze slowly from his ears and nose, staining Vernon's shirt. Petunia scrambled across the floor, gathering an unconscious Abigail into her arms, clutching her daughter tightly against her chest while tears streamed down her face.
Vernon grabbed Petunia's shoulder, turned on his heel, and pushed through space with a loud, violent crack.
They materialized directly into the busy reception hall of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The chaotic chatter of the waiting room was instantly shattered by Vernon's bellowing voice echoing off the tiled walls.
"Healer! We need a Healer right now!" Vernon roared, carrying Harry forward while Petunia stumbled beside him. "Help my son!"
A nearby Healer in lime-green robes turned at the commotion, taking one look at Harry's bloody face and deathly pale skin before blowing a sharp whistle. Two more Healers rushed over from a side corridor pushing a floating brass gurney.
"What happened to him?" the lead Healer asked rapidly, helping Vernon transfer Harry's limp body onto the gurney.
"I don't know! He was bleeding from his face when I got home!" Vernon shouted, his hands shaking violently as he looked down at the blood coating his palms. "And my daughter was unconscious!"
Another nurse guided Petunia to a nearby examination cot with Abigail, while the main medical team hovered their wands over Harry. Glowing magical runes flashed rapidly over Harry's chest, shifting from faint blue to a alarming, violent shade of deep red.
"His magical core is completely empty," the lead Healer said, her voice laced with sharp urgency as she began casting rapid diagnostic charms. "He's suffering from severe magical exhaustion, but his blood pressure is dropping dangerously low! It's like his body pushed past the threshold of his magic and pulled from his own vital essence!"
"We need a blood-replenishing potion and a core stabilizer immediately! Move him to Trauma Ward Three!" another Healer shouted.
They pushed the gurney down the corridor at a full sprint, the double doors swinging shut behind them, leaving the family standing in the loud, chaotic hallway. Around them, the hospital was bustling with activity. Nurses rushing between rooms, patients with strange magical ailments sitting in the waiting areas, but for the Dursley family, the world had narrowed down to a suffocating point.
A secondary Healer approached Petunia, running a quick glowing wand over Abigail's body as she lay softly on a side cot.
"Your daughter is fine, Madam," the Healer said gently, checking her pulse and eyes. "She is in a deep magical sleep, but her physical body is entirely uninjured. Not a scratch on her. Whatever happened to her was completely resolved before you arrived. But your son... his condition is far more severe."
Petunia let out a choked sob, covering her mouth with her hands as she sank into a plastic chair. "He saved her... he burned himself out to save her..."
Vernon wiped his hands against his trousers, his face pale with a mix of fury and intense fear. "I'm going to get Dumbledore," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And I'm stopping by Diagon Alley first."
"Vernon, wait-" Petunia started, but with a sharp crack, Vernon vanished from the corridor.
Petunia sat alone in the cold hospital hallway, her knees pulled tight against her chest while she stared at the closed doors of Trauma Ward Three. Tears continued to fall silently down her cheeks. The thought of losing Harry, of watching him bleed out on their living room carpet after everything he had done for their family, was a terror darker than anything she had ever felt.
Less than ten minutes later, a loud flurry of footsteps echoed down the tiled corridor.
Sirius Black burst through the corner doors, his face utterly devoid of color and his hair wild. He ran down the hall, taking in the sight of Petunia sitting alone outside the ward.
"Petunia!" Sirius called out, his voice cracking as he reached her. "Vernon came to the shop! Where is he? Where's Harry? What happened?!"
Before Petunia could answer, a soft chime echoed near the entrance lift, and Albus Dumbledore stepped into the corridor alongside Vernon. The Headmaster was no longer wearing his usual gentle, amused expression. His features were set in a sharp, grim mask of absolute seriousness, his blue eyes cold and focused.
"Petunia," Dumbledore said softly, stepping up to the group. "Vernon informed me of what occurred at home. Tell me everything."
Petunia swallowed hard, wiping her eyes with the back of her trembling hand. "We were getting ready to meet Harry in Diagon Alley," she whispered, her voice shaking violently. "Suddenly, Abigail just... floated into the air. Jagged cuts started appearing all over her skin out of nowhere. I tried to pull her down, but something slammed me into the wall and knocked me out."
She looked up at Dumbledore, her eyes wide with lingering horror.
"When I woke up, Harry was there. He had his wand out, casting a green light over her. He told me not to come close because whatever magic was on her was too strong. But the wounds weren't closing, Albus. He kept pushing more and more magic into her... and then he started bleeding from his eyes and mouth. He didn't stop until she was completely healed, and then he just collapsed."
Sirius let out a breath that sounded like a punch to the chest, burying his face in his hands.
Dumbledore remained entirely silent for a long moment. His face grew even grimmer as he processed her words. He understood precisely what had happened. Harry's magical reserve was an extraordinary, vast vessel, far surpassing even his own vast capacity. For Harry to exhaust his entire core meant he had poured an unthinkable volume of power into that room. And to keep the spell going after his core ran dry, Harry had resorted to burning his own blood, using his life force as fuel to force the healing magic through his body.
Whatever had targeted Abigail in that living room was something vastly beyond the scope of normal magic. It was a force powerful enough to absorb the full, concentrated might of Harry Potter's raw magic and still demand more.
Dumbledore did not utter his thoughts aloud to the panicked family. He simply placed a calm, steady hand on Petunia's shoulder.
"Stay here with Sirius and Vernon," Dumbledore said quietly. "I will go inside."
Because of his standing as Chief Warlock and Headmaster, the Healers did not block Dumbledore as he pushed through the double doors of Trauma Ward Three.
Inside, the room was a storm of focused medical activity. Three Healers were hovering over Harry's bed, pouring glowing golden and green diagnostic fields across his body while feeding a clear, glowing potion into his arm through a delicate glass tube.
Harry lay still on the elevated bed. The blood had been wiped from his face, but he was unnaturally pale, his chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths.
Dumbledore walked silently to the side of the bed, drawing his wand. He cast a specialized, deep-level diagnostic charm, watching as intricate golden arithmetic grids expanded in the air above Harry's chest. He analyzed the flow of Harry's internal energy, examining the depleted core and the physical strain on his organs.
After several minutes of careful observation, Dumbledore lowered his wand, stepping back as the Healers continued their work. He turned around and walked back out into the waiting corridor, where Petunia, Vernon, and Sirius instantly stood up.
"How is he?" Sirius demanded desperately, stepping forward. "Albus, tell us!"
"He is stable," Dumbledore announced softly, allowing a tiny, reassuring warmth to return to his eyes for the family's sake. "The Healers have successfully stabilized his blood pressure and are actively replenishing his vital fluids. His core is completely empty, which has placed his body into a profound magical coma to protect itself while it regenerates."
Petunia let out a massive sigh of relief, sagging against Vernon, who caught her firmly around the waist.
"Will he be alright?" Vernon asked, his voice rough.
"He will recover," Dumbledore replied, looking between Vernon and Petunia. "Harry possesses an extraordinary resilience. However, regenerating a core that has been burned to absolute zero, combined with physical blood loss, takes time. He will need to remain here under strict care for at least two days before he is fit to wake."
Sirius leaned his back against the hospital wall, running a hand down his face as he let out a long, ragged breath. "Only two days...thank goodness."
"You may visit him shortly once the Healers finish transferring him to a private room," Dumbledore added gently, though his eyes flicked back toward the closed doors of the ward with a heavy, unresolved shadow behind them.
Dumbledore motioned for the three of them to step aside into a quieter alcove of the hallway, away from the bustling corridor of Healers and visitors. The gentle, twinkling warmth that usually defined the old headmaster was entirely gone, replaced by a cold, sharp stillness.
He looked at Petunia, Vernon, and Sirius, letting the silence heavy between them for a long moment before speaking.
"I need you all to understand something," Dumbledore said, his voice dropping into a low, resonant tone that cut through the background noise of the hospital. "And I say this not to alarm you further, but because we must be entirely clear about what transpired in your home today."
Petunia tightened her grip on Vernon's arm, her chest heaving slightly. Sirius straightened up, his eyes locked onto the Headmaster.
"I was not there," Dumbledore began quietly, looking directly at Petunia. "I can only piece together the events from your account, Petunia, and from the physical state in which Harry was brought through these doors. But the evidence written into Harry's body tells a profoundly troubling story."
He paused, choosing his words with deliberate precision.
"Harry possesses a magical capacity that is extraordinarily vast. To exhaust his core entirely under normal circumstances would require hours of continuous, high-level spellcasting. Yet, from what you described, Harry arrived, evaluated the room, and poured his energy into Abigail for only a few minutes."
Dumbledore turned his head slightly toward the ward doors where Harry lay.
"Whatever force had attached itself to Abigail, whatever was actively rending her skin, was not a simple surge of lingering accidental magic. Accidental magic is volatile and unpredictable, but it yields when met with a superior, structured counter-charm. What acted upon Abigail did not yield. It consumed Harry's magic. It demanded everything he had to offer, forcing him past his absolute limit until his core was empty, and then continued to demand more, driving his body to consume its own blood to keep the spell active."
Sirius swallowed hard, his face turning pale. "Are you saying... someone targeted her?"
"I am saying I do not know," Dumbledore replied plainly, withholding any speculation. "I cannot identify the nature of the magic without having observed it directly. But I do know the sheer magnitude of force required to resist Harry's effort in that manner. For a spell or entity to hold its ground against a reserve of that scale, and to require a wizard to bleed himself dry just to sever its grip... that is a terrifying threshold."
He looked back at Vernon and Petunia, his expression unreadable and grim.
"Abigail was not merely caught in a sudden accident. She was subjected to something remarkably powerful and distinctly hostile. Whatever took hold of her in that living room was designed to tear her apart, and it took an unimaginable, destructive toll on Harry to undo it. We are very fortunate that both of your children are alive right now."
Silence settled heavily over the corridor. Neither Vernon nor Sirius spoke, the reality of Dumbledore's assessment sinking in like lead.
—-----
The private room on the fourth floor of St. Mungo's was stiflingly quiet, save for the rhythmic, low hum of magical monitoring charms hovering over the bed. Sunlight filtered weakly through the tall windows, illuminating the pale face of Harry, who lay perfectly still beneath a thick linen blanket. The dark blood had long been cleaned from his skin, but his complexion remained a ghostly, translucent white.
Petunia sat in the heavy armchair pressed directly against the side of the bed. Her hands wrapped tightly around Harry's cool, motionless fingers, her eyes red-rimmed and hollowed out from a complete lack of sleep. She hadn't left the room in over twenty-four hours. She hadn't changed her clothes, and she certainly hadn't eaten. Every time she closed her eyes, she didn't see the hospital wall; she saw Harry's green eyes bleeding, hearing his ragged, strained voice telling her to stay back.
On the small sofa across the room sat Abigail.
The eleven-year-old girl was curled into a small ball, her knees pulled tight against her chest as she stared blankly at the rug. Physically, she was entirely unharmed. The Healers had checked her three times, declaring her completely whole, without a single scar left on her skin. But ever since she had awoken early that morning, she hadn't spoken a single word.
She didn't remember the attack. She didn't remember floating in the air, nor did she remember the agonizing gashes that had sliced through her skin. All she knew was what she had woken up to: her brother lying in a magical coma, his core completely burned to zero, his life having hung by a thread simply because he refused to let her die. The weight of that knowledge was a crushing, suffocating blanket that paralyzed her tongue.
A quiet tap at the heavy oak door broke the silence.
Petunia didn't turn her head, assuming it was another Healer coming to check the glowing golden runes above Harry's chest. But when the door swung open, the sweeping rustle of heavy black robes made her look up.
Severus Snape stepped smoothly into the room.
His dark eyes immediately swept across the scene, taking in the unconscious boy on the bed, the silent girl on the sofa, and the exhausted mother sitting in the chair. He did not possess his usual sharp, sneering posture. His expression was entirely unreadable, though his jaw was set in a firm, rigid line.
"Severus," Petunia whispered, her voice rasping from disuse.
"Petunia," Snape replied quietly, his low voice cutting through the hum of the room. He stepped closer to the bed, drawing his wand in a swift, practiced motion.
Without asking, he began running a series of complex diagnostic sweeps over Harry. Slender ribbons of silver light poured from the tip of his wand, weaving through the golden monitoring runes set by the hospital staff. Snape watched the silver light closely, his dark eyes narrowing as he read the subtle magical feedback.
"The Healers are competent," Snape said after a long moment, stowing his wand back into his sleeve. "His core is regenerating, albeit slowly. The blood-replenishing potions have taken hold. The danger of total systemic collapse has passed."
Petunia swallowed hard, a fresh tear slipping down her cheek. "He almost died, Severus. He burned his own blood."
Snape looked down at Harry's still face. There was a flick of something intense and deeply complex in the Potions Master's eyes, a rare crack in his stoic armor.
"Potter is foolishly reckless," Snape said softly, though the usual bite in his tone was completely absent. "He possesses an absurd capacity for magical output, and an equally absurd disregard for his own physical limits when pushed. But he is alive. And he is brave enough to gamble his life for his loved ones."
Snape turned his head toward Abigail, his gaze softening just a fraction as he took in her pale, terrified state. He reached into the inner pocket of his robes, pulling out two small, crystal vials filled with a pale lavender liquid. He set them quietly on the bedside table.
"Dreamless Sleep for you and the girl tonight," Snape said to Petunia, his tone leaving no room for argument. "If you collapse from exhaustion, you will be of no use to him when he wakes. Albus has secured the perimeter of your home. You are safe here."
Petunia offered a faint, trembling nod. "Thank you, Severus."
Snape gave a single, curt nod, cast one last lingering look at Harry, and swept back out of the room as quietly as he had entered.
Not twenty minutes after Snape's departure, the door opened again, this time bringing a wave of noise, warmth, and the distinct aroma of fresh, home-cooked food.
Molly Weasley bustled into the room, carrying a large, heavy wicker basket covered with a red-checked cloth. Behind her came Arthur, looking tired but deeply concerned, and Ginny, whose bright brown eyes immediately scanned the room until they landed on Abigail.
"Oh, Petunia, love," Molly breathed, setting the heavy basket down on a side table and hurrying straight over to the bedside. She didn't hesitate to wrap her arms around Petunia's slumping shoulders, pulling the exhausted woman into a firm, motherly embrace. "Vernon told us everything. We came as soon as the visiting hours opened."
Arthur walked over to the other side of the bed, placing a steady, supportive hand on Harry's shoulder while looking down at the sleeping boy with deep respect and sadness. "He's a brave lad, Petunia. A remarkably brave lad."
Petunia tried to pull back, looking down at her hands. "I haven't... I couldn't leave him, Molly. If I leave, what if..."
"Nonsense," Molly interrupted firmly, her voice carrying that unyielding, comforting authority only a mother of seven could muster. She reached into her basket, pulling out a thick ceramic bowl steaming with hot chicken broth, along with freshly baked bread and a flask of tea. "You are going to eat this right now. Harry is stable, the Healers are right outside, and you burning yourself into the ground isn't going to help him wake up any faster."
Molly pushed the bowl directly into Petunia's hands. Petunia looked at the warm food, the guilt surging back up into her throat. "I should have protected them," Petunia sobbed quietly, the dam finally breaking. "I'm their mother. I was supposed to keep them safe. Instead, my eleven-year-old son had to destroy himself to save my daughter because I was lying helpless on the floor!"
"Stop that right now," Molly said fiercely, though her eyes were shining with tears as she took Petunia's hands. "You were hit with magic no parent could have anticipated. You did not fail them, Petunia. Harry fought for his sister because that is who he is. He loves her. You raised a boy who didn't hesitate to protect his family. Don't you dare tarnish his sacrifice by drowning yourself in guilt."
Petunia let out a shaky, shuddering breath, looking from Molly's intense, loving eyes back down to the soup. Slowly, agonizingly, she picked up the spoon and took a small sip. Molly let out a satisfied nod, sitting down right beside her to make sure she finished every last drop.
Meanwhile, across the room, Ginny had quietly walked over to the sofa.
She didn't offer a dramatic gasp or a loud greeting. Knowing Abigail as well as she did, Ginny simply sat down on the edge of the cushions, leaving a comfortable distance between them.
Abigail didn't look up. Her eyes remained glued to her own hands, which were trembling slightly in her lap.
"Hey, Abby," Ginny said softly, her usual energetic voice toned down to a gentle whisper.
Abigail didn't answer. A heavy, painful silence stretched between the two best friends.
Ginny reached out, pulling a small, hand-carved wooden miniature dragon out of her coat pocket. It was one of the small toys Charlie had sent her from Romania last month. She set it down on the cushion between them, where it let out a tiny puff of harmless white smoke.
"It's not your fault, you know," Ginny said directly, her tone dropping all pretense.
Abigail's breath hitched. She finally turned her head, her eyes wide, bloodshot, and swimming with immense, agonizing guilt.
"He almost died, Ginny," Abigail whispered, her voice cracking violently on the words. It was the first time she had spoken all day, and the sound was raw and broken. "He... he burned his own blood. Look at him! He's not moving! He's lying there like a corpse because of me!"
Tears spilled over Abigail's cheeks, hot and fast. She buried her face in her hands, her small shoulders shaking with silent, violent sobs.
"I didn't even do anything!" Abigail wept into her hands, her voice muffled and trembling. "I just floated there like an idiot while he killed himself to fix me! He shouldn't have done it! He should have just let... he shouldn't have done that for me!"
Ginny didn't hesitate. She slid across the cushion and wrapped her arms tightly around Abigail, pulling her best friend into a fierce hug. Abigail stiffened for a second before collapsing against Ginny's shoulder, crying freely into her coat.
"Listen to me, Abigail Dursley," Ginny said fiercely, her own eyes tearing up as she held her friend tight. "Harry didn't do that because he had to. He did it because you're his little sister. If it was the other way around, or if it was anyone else he cared about, he wouldn't have hesitated for a second. He didn't care about the magic, or his blood, or the hospital. He just cared about you."
"I feel so sick," Abigail sobbed, clutching the back of Ginny's robes. "I feel so guilty, Ginny. Every time I look at his face on that bed, I feel like I did this to him."
"You didn't do this to him," Ginny insisted, pulling back just enough to look Abigail dead in the eyes. "Whoever threw that horrible magic at your house did this. Harry just kicked their teeth in and brought you back. You feeling guilty isn't going to help him. When he wakes up, he's going to want to see you safe and whole. If you sit here blaming yourself, you're just making his sacrifice hurt more."
Abigail sniffled hard, wiping her nose with her sleeve. She looked across the room at Harry. His face was still deathly pale, the monitoring runes glowing softly above his chest, but his breathing was steady.
"He's really going to wake up?" Abigail asked, her voice tiny and fragile.
"He's Harry," Ginny said with absolute conviction, offering a small, brave smile. "Of course he's going to wake up. Probably just to complain that the hospital healers are taking too much time to heal him."
A tiny, wet laugh escaped Abigail's lips before she could stop it. She quickly wiped her eyes, leaning her head against Ginny's shoulder, her hand reaching out to squeeze the wooden dragon on the cushion.
Across the room, Petunia had finished the bowl of soup under Molly's watchful eye. For the first time in twenty-four hours, a little bit of color had returned to Petunia's face. She looked over at the two young girls on the sofa, then back at Harry, reaching out to stroke his messy black hair away from his forehead.
"Thank you, Molly," Petunia whispered genuinely.
"We'll leave you to rest a bit," Molly said gently, taking the empty bowl back and placing it in her basket. "We'll be back tomorrow morning. And I'm bringing more soup, so don't you think you're skipping meals again."
"I won't," Petunia promised softly.
Arthur and Molly gathered their things, while Ginny gave Abigail one last, tight squeeze.
"I'll come back tomorrow," Ginny whispered to her friend. "Hang in there, Abby."
Abigail nodded quietly, her hand holding tightly onto the carved wooden dragon Ginny had left in her palm. "Thanks, Ginny."
As the Weasley family quietly exited the room, closing the door behind them, the soft, rhythmic hum of the medical charms returned to fill the space. But the heavy, suffocating darkness that had gripped the room all morning had thinned.
Petunia sat back in her chair, holding Harry's hand, while Abigail finally slid off the sofa, walking slowly across the floor to stand on the opposite side of her brother's bed. She reached out, her small, trembling hand taking Harry's free fingers.
"You're an idiot, brother Abigail whispered softly into the quiet room, tears swimming in her eyes, though a faint, genuine warmth finally touched her voice. "A total, reckless idiot. Now please, wake up."
Harry remained asleep, his breath slow and deep, his core steadily rebuilding itself in the quiet sanctuary of the hospital room.