The Hogwarts Express ran to London tomorrow. Classes were over. Harry, along with Hermione, Neville, and Ron, walked down the hallways to the infirmary. There was nothing wrong with them. They were just there to lend support.
Harry had decided he'd pretended long enough. His finger wasn't healing. It was now a ghastly gray color. He could barely move it and couldn't feel it if it were pricked with a needle. It was dying, slowly. The curse on it was lightened, but still present.
While Harry still had the dagger (he'd left it with Sirius at Yule-time), the reattachment of his finger had failed. The specialists from St. Mungo's had come here today to sever it for a second time.
Harry for the last few weeks had worn a dragon hide glove on his wand hand if he wasn't in Charms, Transfiguration, or Defense – or practicing on the fifth floor. He didn't like others looking at that finger.
"Thank you," Harry said to his friends. "I'll just go in from here."
"Harry, we can...," Hermione started to say.
"I'm probably going to scream. You guys don't need to hear that."
"I'm not a guy." She smiled.
"Thank you," Harry said. "But I should just do this. I waited too long. I kept telling myself to give it more time. Then I had a project due. Then it was final exams. No more excuses."
Hermione, Neville, and Ron paused in the hallway. They didn't leave. "We'll just wait here," Neville said.
"You better hope they don't try to keep me overnight."
Ron laughed.
They were okay right now.
Harry found he was okay, too. He'd done his raging long before.
He walked into the infirmary and found Madam Pomfrey, three Healers, only one of whom he'd seen before, Sirius, and both Flamels waiting for him.
"Mr. Potter." Madam Pomfrey had a chair set up for him with a small table off to the side. The chopping block as it were.
He took off the glove and watched the reactions. Sirius knew what it would be. The Flamels didn't flinch. Pomfrey and the healers almost melted with pity.
"We've exhausted the options?" Harry asked for a final time.
"We have, Mr. Potter."
Harry thought he was called Healer Jordans.
"Let's do it," Harry said.
"A spell, I should think," the healer said to his colleagues.
"Certainly I'm done with knives," Harry stage whispered to Padfoot. His godfather didn't laugh, but he did offer a smile.
"Do you require any pain relief?" Jordans asked.
"Not yet."
"A calming potion?"
"I've had half a year to get ready for this. I've just been putting it off."
"I see." The Healer pulled out his wand. He gestured at the table draped in cloth.
Harry laid his hand as directed, just so.
The Healer took care aim and the cutter-cauterizer – a spell Harry had never come across before – blinked into existence for a briefness.
Harry found his hand had only three fingers and a thumb. The grey decaying lump remained on the table. There was no blood at all.
Harry didn't cry. He didn't even feel much pain. The nerves between hand and finger had degraded that far.
"Do you wish... We could dispose of it," the Healer said, not specifying what 'it' was.
"Put it in something metal, please."
Madam Pomfrey provided a basin.
Harry pulled his wand with his alternate hand – as he'd done since receiving the wound on his wand hand – and whispered, "Ignis Solis." The room was flooded with heat and brightness. The Sunfire consumed every bit of magic, every lick of darkness, that had corrupted the finger.
The basin had melted, too.
Madam Pomfrey shrieked at that unexpected result. Headmaster Flamel had his wand out and vanished all of it. Harry needed to work on his vanishing spell some more. He doubted he could have vanished something that hot and active. Burned embers, sure. A molten mass of steel? Maybe not.
Harry then underwent twenty minutes of examination and spellwork. Whatever the corruption was, it had remained in that finger. The rest of him, even his wand hand, was completely healthy.
Sirius hugged Harry when it was all over. He said nothing until the Healers left and Madam Pomfrey grudgingly permitted Harry to leave. The Flamels were still there. As mysterious as they were, Harry was willing to trust them. He still wanted to figure out how to copy that ability of theirs to obscure their appearance. Headmaster Flamel just looked old. What color his hair color was, no idea. Did he have hair? No idea. It was a remarkable bit of magic.
"Will you ride the Express tomorrow?" Sirius asked.
"Please."
"Should I meet you in London?"
"If you like. I know how to travel around."
"I think it's better if I meet you at King's Cross."
Harry smiled.
"I'm so sorry about this."
Harry wasn't going to cry. He wasn't. Not even if Sirius pulled out all his best tricks.
"Help a guy be stoic, will you?" Harry asked.
"Help? Never."
Harry didn't quite manage to laugh.
"Your teachers wanted to speak with you. I'll head out. See you tomorrow."
"We'll have a week before, uh, the other thing." Sirius, of course, was coming with Harry to France. After all, Sirius did own the property that was being deconstructed. They were taking a tent to live in, Sirius' ridiculously fancy one, ice rink and all.
Sirius walked away.
And so Harry was left with Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel.
"Walk with us, Mr. Potter," Professor Flamel said.
"My friends are waiting in the hall."
"Don't worry. We'll bring you back to them shortly."
So Harry walked with them.