Chapter 117: Chapter 117
"Such extensive wounds would have killed him, should have killed him, and yet not only is he alive, but his injuries are healing without my aid at a speed which baffles me. Already his organs have healed. The bones embedded in them are gone. His ribcage and spinal cord are currently on the mend. In short, he is well on the way to recovery, and all of this was done without my help."
"I... see..."
Dumbledore really didn't see. He simply said that for lack of having anything else to say.
Albus would freely admit that he knew very little about healing magic. It was one of those branches he only studied enough to be decent in, but never excel at, meaning he knew more than most but less than a professional. He knew many healing spells and counter curses and could brew a decent potion to cure most wounds and poisons, but the intricacies and theoretical knowledge of that particular branch of magic was lost on him.
"No Albus, you don't see," Madam Pomfrey told him. She was probably one of the few who ever spoke to him like that. "Harry Potter is healing himself on his own without any aid from an outside source! While it is true that a wizards magic is capable of dealing with minor wounds and bruises over time, what is happening here is far beyond anything that should be possible. It defies the very laws of magic!"
Dumbledore did not respond to Madam Pomfrey's rant with words. He merely closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked at Harry with his mage sight.
The boy's magic was greatly diminished from what it had been before. No longer was it blindingly radiant to the point where he could not even look at it for fear of going blind. No longer did his magic saturate his body to the point where he couldn't even see the child's magical core. Now it merely looked like an inferno centered around a gaseous ball of green energy that crackled with power. Still strong, but not like before.
Yet as he watched, Dumbledore saw tendrils of that energy emitting outward from the boy's core. It slithered along his body, latching onto specific areas that he could only assume were places Harry had been injured. It was fascinating to watch, unlike anything he had ever seen.
"His core is surprisingly resilient for one so young," the Headmaster commented. He was musing out loud, both for himself and for the school nurse. "If I did not know any better, I would almost say I was looking at the core of an adult wizard rather than the core of a young eleven-year old boy."
Madam Pomfrey frowned.
"And what does this mean?"
"It means, Poppy," Albus Dumbledore said with a smile, "that there is much more to young Harry then first meets the eye."
XoX
I could feel my magic beginning to leave me as my consciousness started to slip away. The last thing I saw before succumbing to oblivion was that of the troll's head exploding in a spray of blood and brain matter that splattered along the floor, walls and ceiling.
The first thing Harry Potter did upon returning to full consciousness was jerk up from where he lay into a sitting position.
The second thing he did was vomit all over the once perfectly white bed sheets covering him. He continued to throw up long after he'd gotten rid of everything and there was nothing left inside of his stomach to release. Despite attempts to desist, he found himself incapable of doing anything other than dry heaving as his stomach continued to reject something that was not even there.
His mind and body rebelled against him as the last thing he saw before passing out embedded itself into his mind, forcing him to watch it over and over and over again in a constant, never ending sequence, taunting him in ways he had not experienced since learning the art of meditation.
The sight of the trolls head as it exploded, gore splattering across his face and body, the troll without its head as it crumbled to the floor, and the knowledge that he was the one who killed it.
Harry Potter had seen a number of horrifying events in his life, things that would have made adults twice his age cower in fear at or cringe at the sight of. The night Voldemort attacked his home, his father's yelling to get him to safety while he held the man off, cruel laughter as James Potter's life was extinguished by a bright green flash of light and the killing curse being called out by the hissing voice of Voldemort. His mother's death, her willing sacrifice to save him. The look in Voldemort's eyes when the man had tried to kill him. The first five years of his life with the Dursleys. He had seen much, and he had dealt with much. Cruelties that would have broken most children, that would have turned them into lifeless shells of their former selves or monsters whose rage had long since consumed them.
Death. Murder. Violence. Hatred. Isolation. Demeaning insults meant to cower him. To make him weak. Yes, he had dealt with much, and he was stronger for it.
But never before had he killed another. He had seen death when he was but a child of one, but never had he been the one who raised his hand and dealt the killing blow. Now he had. Yes, it was a troll. Yes, it was not human, but that hardly mattered. He had killed. He felt sick, stained, dirty. Tainted. All he could see was the sight of the troll's head exploding in front of him. All he could feel was the blood and pink fleshy bits of brain matter splashing against his face when he killed the troll who attacking his friends.
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