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Tonks was bored out of her mind. Two weeks of watching the Dursley house, and not a single sign of Harry Potter. Her wand twirled between her fingers as she suppressed a yawn, her hair shifting from its usual bubblegum pink to a dull brown that better matched her mood.
"This is rubbish," she muttered, shifting her weight against the tree she'd been leaning on for the past three hours. "Kid's probably having the time of his life somewhere while I'm stuck here watching his git relatives sleep."
She'd drawn the short straw again tonight—midnight to dawn surveillance on the most boring street in Britain. Dumbledore was convinced Harry would return to his relatives' home eventually, but after two weeks of round-the-clock Order surveillance, even Mad-Eye was beginning to question the headmaster's certainty.
A flash of golden light from an upstairs window caught her attention, so bright it momentarily illuminated the entire street. Tonks straightened immediately, her wand at the ready, all traces of boredom vanishing.
"What the—" She was already moving across the street, her Auror training kicking in. That light had come from Harry's bedroom window—she knew the layout of the house by heart after two weeks of surveillance.
Tonks cast a quick Disillusionment Charm on herself and a Silencing Charm on her boots as she approached the front door. A simple "Alohomora" and she was inside, moving swiftly through the darkened house toward the stairs.
As she reached the second floor, a metallic clatter echoed from behind Harry's bedroom door. Drawing her wand, Tonks pushed the door open, ready for anything.
What she found stopped her cold.
Harry Potter lay sprawled on the floor in a growing pool of blood. He was barely recognizable—his body covered in what looked like leather armor, now shredded and soaked crimson. Beside him lay a massive sword, its blade notched and bloodied.
"Merlin's saggy left—" Tonks cut herself off, dropping to her knees beside him. "Harry? Harry, can you hear me?"
The boy's face was deathly pale, his breathing shallow and irregular. Multiple slash wounds crossed his chest and arms, and what looked like a burn mark covered part of his shoulder. His right arm was bent at an unnatural angle—clearly broken.
"Episkey," Tonks whispered, pointing her wand at the most severe-looking gash across his chest. Nothing happened. "Vulnera Sanentur," she tried again, more forcefully.
Still nothing. The wounds continued bleeding steadily.
"Shit, shit, shit," Tonks hissed, panic rising in her chest. Whatever had happened to Harry, these weren't ordinary injuries. They were resisting magical healing.
With shaking hands, she conjured her Patronus—a silvery jackrabbit that hopped impatiently in midair.
"To Albus Dumbledore," she instructed. "Harry's back at Privet Drive. Severely injured. Wounds resist healing magic. Preparing emergency transport to St. Mungo's. Need immediate assistance."
The rabbit bounded away, disappearing through the wall. Tonks turned back to Harry, whose breathing was becoming more labored.
"Hang on, Harry," she muttered, pulling out her emergency kit. "Don't you dare die on my watch."
St. Mungo's was the only option now, but Apparition with injuries this severe was too dangerous. She'd have to make a Portkey—highly illegal without Ministry authorization, but to hell with regulations when the Boy Who Lived was bleeding out on the floor.
Tonks grabbed a broken quill from her pocket and began the complex spellwork to transform it into a Portkey. She was halfway through the incantation when thunderous footsteps in the hallway announced the arrival of the Dursleys.
"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?" Vernon Dursley's voice boomed from the doorway. He stood there in striped pajamas that strained against his massive girth, his face rapidly cycling through shades of red to purple. Behind him, Petunia peered over his shoulder, her horse-like face twisted in alarm.
"Get out of my house this instant!" Vernon bellowed, advancing into the room.
Tonks didn't even look up as she pointed her wand directly at his chest, her hair flaring crimson. "Back off or I'll show you what real magic can do. Your nephew is dying!"
Vernon sputtered, his mustache quivering with indignation, but he stopped advancing.
Petunia pushed past her husband, her eyes widening as she took in the scene—Harry's broken body, the blood soaking into her carpet, the strange sword lying beside him.
"What happened to him?" she asked.
"I don't know," Tonks replied curtly, returning to her Portkey creation. "Found him like this. Normal healing spells aren't working."
"But... he's been missing for two weeks," Petunia said weakly. "Where has he—"
"Later," Tonks snapped. The Portkey spell was nearly complete. She turned her attention to the strange sword lying beside Harry. If she was taking him to St. Mungo's, she couldn't leave such an obvious magical artifact behind.
"Reducio," she cast, attempting to shrink the sword to a more manageable size.
The spell hit the blade—and dissipated like water on hot metal. Not even a flicker of effect.
"What the hell?" Tonks tried again. "Reducio!"
Nothing. The sword remained stubbornly full-sized.
That's not normal, Tonks thought, a chill running down her spine. What kind of sword is immune to shrinking charms?
She didn't have time to puzzle it out. Harry's breathing was growing more ragged by the second, and the Portkey was ready. She'd have to come back for the sword later.
"I'm taking him to a magical hospital," she told the Dursleys, who were still hovering in the doorway. "I'll send someone to explain later."
"Now see here—" Vernon began, but Tonks had already turned her attention back to Harry.
Just as Tonks was about to activate the Portkey, a strange noise—something between a gurgle and a hiss—came from the center of the room. Her head snapped up, wand immediately trained on the source of the sound.
The floor was... melting? No, not melting exactly. A pool of viscous, dark yellow liquid was forming, seeming to seep upward from between the floorboards rather than spilling down onto them. The substance bubbled and pulsed. The sight made Tonks's skin crawl.
"What the bloody hell is that?" she whispered, rising slowly to her feet, positioning herself between Harry and the growing puddle.
Vernon and Petunia remained frozen in the doorway, their faces masks of confusion and fear.
"Is... is this more of your freakish magic?" Vernon demanded, though his usual bluster had evaporated, replaced by a quavering uncertainty.
"Not mine," Tonks replied, not taking her eyes off the strange phenomenon. "And not any magic I've ever seen before."
The yellow liquid began to bulge upward in the center, forming a column that twisted and writhed as it rose. Long, thin appendages began to extrude from the mass—limbs that were unmistakably human arms, but too many, far too many, sprouting at impossible angles.
"Sweet Merlin," Tonks breathed, tightening her grip on her wand. "What in the hells..."
The mass continued to take shape, resolving into something vaguely humanoid, but with a torso that bent at unnatural angles and at least eight limbs—some arms, some legs, all moving with a sickening, jerky coordination. The head, if one could call it that, was mostly featureless save for a gaping, circular maw lined with what looked like human teeth.
Petunia's scream shattered the horrified silence. It was high and thin, the sound of someone whose mind was struggling to process what their eyes were seeing. Vernon made a strangled noise that might have been an attempt at speech, but nothing intelligible emerged.
The creature's head swiveled toward the sound, that horrible mouth opening wider. Then it let out a shriek that sent Tonks staggering back a step—not just from the volume, but from the sheer wrongness of it, like the sound of a hundred voices screaming in pain, compressed into a single, impossible note.
As it shrieked, bursts of the same yellow liquid sprayed from its mouth, splattering across the floor. Where the droplets landed, the wood began to dissolve, disappearing like ice under a hot sun.
"Stupefy!" Tonks shouted, sending a jet of red light directly at the creature's center mass. The spell hit square on—and simply disappeared, absorbed without effect. "Impedimenta! Incarcerous!"
Nothing. Each spell was swallowed by the creature's strange form as if it were firing into a black hole.
The thing's attention shifted, its eyeless face turning toward the prone form of Harry Potter. It let out another unearthly shriek and began to move, its many limbs propelling it across the room with a speed that belied its ungainly appearance.
"Oh no you don't—Bombarda!" Tonks fired the blasting curse directly at the floor beneath the creature. Wood splintered and exploded upward, but the creature simply flowed around the damage, those many arms reaching out toward Harry.
"What in Merlin's name is that thing?" Tonks yelled, diving for Harry's unconscious form. Her fingers closed around his wrist while her other hand clutched the makeshift Portkey.
The Dursleys had backed fully into the hallway now, Vernon pulling Petunia behind him in a rare display of protective instinct.
"GET OUT!" Tonks shouted at them. "RUN!"
She didn't have time to see if they heeded her warning. The creature was nearly upon them, close enough that she could smell it—a nauseating mixture of rot and something chemical, like burning plastic.
One elongated arm stretched toward Harry's face, fingers unnaturally long and tipped with what looked like human fingernails.
"Portus activate!" Tonks cried, clutching both Harry and the quill.
The familiar hook-behind-the-navel sensation of Portkey travel seized her just as the creature's fingers were about to brush her sleeve. The bedroom of Privet Drive dissolved around them in a whirl of color and sound.
The last thing Tonks saw before they were pulled away was the creature's mouth opening impossibly wide, revealing row upon row of mismatched human teeth, all screaming in silent fury as its prey escaped.
Tonks and Harry landed hard on the pavement about fifty yards from the entrance to St. Mungo's—the visitor's entrance disguised as an abandoned department store. The Portkey, never her strong suit even under ideal circumstances, had deposited them slightly off-target. Tonks cursed as her knee slammed against the concrete, but immediately turned her attention to Harry.
"Still breathing," she muttered, checking his pulse. "Though barely. Hang in there, Potter."
The street was mercifully empty at this hour, no Muggles around to witness a pink-haired witch and a bloodied teenager appearing out of thin air. Tonks hoisted Harry into her arms with a grunt—the kid was heavier than he looked—and staggered toward the hospital entrance.
First, though, she had to warn Kingsley. Whatever that thing was back at Privet Drive, the Dursleys were in danger. Tonks shifted Harry's weight and conjured her Patronus again, the silver jackrabbit materializing obediently.
"To Kingsley Shacklebolt," she instructed. "Emergency at Dursley residence, Number Four Privet Drive. Unknown creature, humanoid, multiple limbs, impervious to stunning spells. The Dursleys are in immediate danger. I've evacuated Harry Potter to St. Mungo's—he's critically injured. Send backup NOW."
The rabbit bounded away into the night. Tonks adjusted her grip on Harry and hurried toward the mannequin-filled window that concealed the entrance to St. Mungo's.
"Emergency," she gasped at the mannequin. "Auror Tonks with Harry Potter. Critical condition."
The mannequin nodded almost imperceptibly, and Tonks stepped through the glass, emerging into the reception area of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
"I need a trauma team now!" she shouted, her voice echoing in the nearly empty reception area. A startled witch behind the welcome desk leapt to her feet, her eyes widening as she recognized both Tonks and her unconscious charge.
"Merlin's beard—is that—"
"Yes, it's Harry Potter, and he's dying, so MOVE!" Tonks barked.
The welcome witch slammed her hand on a large crystal bell, which emitted not a sound but a pulse of blue light. Almost instantly, a team of healers in lime-green robes burst through a set of double doors, a floating stretcher hovering between them.
"Auror Tonks," one of them greeted her briskly—Healer Pye, she thought his name was. "What happened?"
"Unknown," Tonks replied as they transferred Harry to the stretcher. "Found him like this. Multiple lacerations, broken arm, burn on the shoulder. Conventional healing spells had no effect at the scene."
The healers exchanged glances at this last bit of information, their expressions grim.
"Trauma Room Three," ordered the lead healer, a severe-looking witch with steel-gray hair pulled into a tight bun. "Full diagnostic panel, blood replenishing potion stat, and prepare wound-cleaning solution."
The team moved with efficiency, whisking Harry through another set of doors with Tonks following close behind. No one tried to stop her—perhaps recognizing the determined set of her jaw, or perhaps simply too focused on their critical patient to bother.
Trauma Room Three was a stark, bright space dominated by a central examination table. The healers transferred Harry from the stretcher, and immediately began cutting away his strange leather armor.
"What in Hippocrates' name is he wearing?" muttered one of the younger healers as she struggled with the unfamiliar material.
"Focus, Smethwyck," snapped the lead healer. "Diagnostics first, fashion critique later."
As the healers cut away Harry's strange leather armor, exposing his chest, Tonks noticed something that made her breath catch in her throat.
"Healer Alderton," she called out, stepping closer. "What is that?"
On the right side of Harry's chest was an unusual marking—as if someone had carved half a circle into his skin, with jagged, branching lines radiating outward like lightning. It wasn't bleeding like his other wounds, nor did it appear to be a fresh injury. The marking was black as midnight, with an almost ethereal quality, as though it went deeper than mere flesh.
"I've never seen anything like this," Healer Alderton murmured, leaning in to examine the strange marking. Her wand hovered over it, casting diagnostic spells. "It's not a tattoo, nor any magical brand I recognize."
The marking seemed to absorb the light from her diagnostic spells, the tendrils briefly pulsing with an inner darkness before settling again.
"Is it... moving?" asked one of the younger healers, his face pale.
Tonks squinted, and for a moment she could have sworn the black lines shifted slightly, as though alive beneath Harry's skin.
"It's not responding to any of our diagnostic spells," Alderton said, her voice betraying a rare hint of uncertainty. "Whatever this is, it's beyond our current understanding."
She gestured to another healer. "Take detailed images for the records and alert the Department of Mysteries. They might have encountered something similar." Her expression grew even more serious. "And restrict this information to essential personnel only. The last thing we need is the Prophet getting wind of mysterious markings on Harry Potter's body."
Wands moved in complicated patterns over Harry's body, projecting glowing symbols and charts into the air above him. The head healer's frown deepened as she studied the results.
"Multiple slash wounds to the torso and limbs, third-degree burn on the right shoulder, comminuted fracture of the right humerus, three broken ribs, moderate concussion," she rattled off. "Begin with the standard healing charms for the fractures and burn."
The team moved into action, wands weaving complex patterns as they chanted healing incantations. The burn on Harry's shoulder began to fade almost immediately, angry red skin smoothing and returning to its normal color. Similarly, the broken arm straightened as the fractured bone knit itself back together.
But the slash wounds...
"The lacerations aren't responding," one of the healers reported, his voice tight with concern. "Vulnera Sanentur having minimal effect."
"Try Cicatrix Remedio," ordered the head healer.
The spell produced a brief golden glow around the wounds, which faded almost immediately.
"No response," reported the healer. "The wounds are actively resisting magical closure."
The head healer stepped forward, pushing aside a younger team member to examine the largest wound herself—a diagonal slash across Harry's chest that continued to ooze blood despite their efforts.
"These wounds..." she murmured, her brow furrowed in concentration. "They're resisting our magic. I've never seen anything like this."
She straightened, her expression decisive. "Prepare a dose of Clausura Sanguinem."
A shocked silence fell over the room.
"But Healer Alderton," ventured one of the younger healers, "that potion is restricted—"
"I'm quite aware of the restrictions, Healer Smethwyck," Alderton cut him off sharply. "I'm also aware we have Harry Potter bleeding out on my table. Now prepare the potion or step aside for someone who will."
Healer Smethwyck swallowed visibly but nodded, hurrying to a locked cabinet in the corner of the room.
Tonks, who had been watching from the doorway, stepped forward. "What's Clausura Sanguinem?"
"Blood-sealing potion," Healer Alderton replied without looking up from her examination of Harry's wounds. "Restricted because of its dark origins and potential for misuse. It won't heal the wounds, but it will prevent further blood loss while we figure out what we're dealing with."
Smethwyck returned with a small vial of midnight-blue liquid, his hands shaking slightly as he handed it to Alderton. The head healer uncorked it and carefully applied three drops directly to the largest wound on Harry's chest.
The effect was immediate—the blood flow stopped, the edges of the wound taking on a silvery sheen. Healer Alderton proceeded to apply the potion to each of Harry's wounds in turn, until all bleeding had ceased.
"Vital signs?" she demanded.
"Stabilizing," reported another healer. "Blood pressure rising, heart rate normalizing. He's no longer in immediate danger of exsanguination."
A collective sigh of relief swept through the room, which Tonks found herself echoing. But the head healer's expression remained grave.
"This is a stopgap measure only," she warned. "The wounds remain open, merely sealed against blood loss. We need to determine why they're resisting magical healing."
"Could it be Dark magic?" Tonks suggested. "Like a curse wound?"
"Possibly," Alderton conceded, "though it's unlike any curse damage I've encountered in forty years of healing. The magic in these wounds is fighting against our treatment. It's like nothing we've ever encountered."
She turned to the rest of the team. "Continue monitoring his condition. I want a full toxicology workup, magical residue analysis, and prepare a consultation with the Spell Damage specialists."
As the healers bustled about carrying out her orders, Alderton approached Tonks. "Where did you find him, Auror Tonks?"
"His relatives' home in Surrey," Tonks replied. "He's been missing for two weeks. Showed up in his bedroom tonight looking like... well, like this."
The healer's eyes narrowed. "Those are not two-week-old wounds. Whatever happened to Mr. Potter happened very recently." She glanced back at Harry's unconscious form. "And those burns—we were able to heal them because they're simply burns, albeit unusually intense ones. But the slash wounds..."
She shook her head, frustration evident in her expression. "Something is very wrong here. Very wrong indeed."
Tonks could only nod in agreement, watching helplessly as the healers continued their futile efforts to close Harry's wounds. Whatever had happened to the Boy Who Lived during his mysterious absence, it was clearly beyond the experience of even St. Mungo's finest healers.
And that, Tonks thought grimly, was perhaps the most terrifying realization of all.
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Tonks was pacing the corridor outside Harry's room, her hair cycling through anxious colors without her conscious control—pink to blue to purple to an alarming shade of orange. The healers had stabilized Harry as best they could, but "stable" was a relative term when half your body was covered in wounds that refused to close properly.
The sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor made her look up. Albus Dumbledore was striding toward her, his midnight-blue robes swirling around him, his face set in lines of grave concern. Beside him walked Kingsley Shacklebolt.
"Professor Dumbledore," Tonks said, relieved. If anyone could make sense of this mess, it would be the greatest wizard of the age. "Thank Merlin you're here."
"Nymphadora Tonks," Dumbledore acknowledged with a slight nod, ignoring her wince at her full name. "What is Harry's condition?"
"Stable, but critical," she replied, gesturing toward the room. "They've managed to stop the bleeding and heal his broken bones and burns, but the slash wounds won't close. They're using some restricted potion to keep him from bleeding out."
Dumbledore's bushy eyebrows rose slightly at this news. "Indeed? Most concerning." He turned to Kingsley. "And the situation at Privet Drive?"
"Whatever Tonks encountered was gone by the time I arrived with the team. The house was secure, though there was significant damage to Potter's bedroom—some kind of corrosive substance had eaten through parts of the floor."
"And the Dursleys?" Dumbledore asked.
"Unharmed, though severely shaken," Kingsley replied. "The large one—Vernon—was particularly vocal about 'freakish creatures' and 'irresponsible pink-haired weirdos.' The woman, Petunia, was more coherent. She described the creature as 'disappearing back into the floor, like it was melting downward' after Tonks and Harry departed."
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "And did they see where Harry came from? How he appeared in his room?"
Tonks ran a hand through her hair, which had settled on a worried shade of mousy brown. "I was on surveillance duty, as ordered. Around two in the morning, I saw a bright golden flash from Harry's bedroom window. I entered the house and found Harry on the floor, unconscious and bleeding heavily."
She described the scene in detail—Harry's injuries, the strange armor he was wearing, and the massive sword lying beside him.
"This sword," Dumbledore interrupted, his blue eyes suddenly intense behind his half-moon spectacles. "Where is it now?"
"Still at Privet Drive, I think," Tonks said, feeling a twinge of guilt. "I tried to shrink it to bring it along, but my magic had no effect on it whatsoever. When that... thing appeared, I had to choose between grabbing Harry or the sword."
"You made the correct choice," Dumbledore assured her, though his expression remained troubled. "This sword interests me greatly. You say magic had no effect on it?"
"None," Tonks confirmed. "It was like casting spells at a brick wall—they just dissipated on contact."
Dumbledore exchanged a meaningful look with Kingsley. "Most unusual. Very few objects are completely resistant to magic."
Healer Alderton emerged from Harry's room at that moment, looking exhausted. "Professor Dumbledore," she greeted him with evident relief. "Perhaps you might shed some light on Mr. Potter's condition. We're at a loss."
Dumbledore inclined his head. "I shall certainly try, Healer Alderton. May I see him?"
The healer led them into the room where Harry lay unconscious, his chest rising and falling with shallow, labored breaths. The slash wounds across his torso and arms were clearly visible, their edges sealed with that silvery sheen from the blood-sealing potion, but otherwise looking raw and angry.
Dumbledore approached the bed slowly, his gaze sweeping over Harry's injuries with methodical attention. His eyes lingered on the strange half-circle marking on Harry's chest.
"What is this marking?" he asked quietly.
"We were hoping you might tell us," Healer Alderton replied. "It doesn't respond to any diagnostic spells. It's not a tattoo or any magical brand we recognize."
Dumbledore leaned closer, studying the mark without touching it. "Most curious," he murmured. "I have seen many things in my long life, but never anything quite like this."
His attention shifted to the remnants of Harry's armor, which had been cut away and placed on a side table. Dumbledore picked up a piece, running his fingers over the strange leather-like material.
"These are no ordinary injuries," he muttered, half to himself, "and this is no ordinary armor."
Tonks watched him carefully, surprised to see something she rarely associated with Albus Dumbledore—uncertainty.
The headmaster straightened, his expression resolute once more. "Kingsley, please return to Privet Drive and retrieve the sword Tonks described. Use all necessary precautions—if it resists magic, you may need to physically transport it."
Kingsley nodded. "Should I bring it here or to Hogwarts?"
"Here, directly," Dumbledore replied. "I wish to examine it as soon as possible."
He then produced his wand and conjured his Patronus—a magnificent phoenix that hovered before him, awaiting instructions.
"To Arthur and Molly Weasley," Dumbledore told the silvery bird. "Harry Potter has been found and is currently at St. Mungo's receiving treatment for serious injuries. His condition is stable but requires specialized care. You may wish to inform Miss Granger as well. More details when you arrive."
The phoenix soared away, passing through the wall as if it were smoke.
"Now," Dumbledore said, turning back to Harry's unconscious form, "I believe we have much to discover about young Mr. Potter's mysterious absence and even more mysterious return."
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Tonks had taken up her post beside Harry's bed, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest while Dumbledore conferred quietly with Healer Alderton near the door. The blood-sealing potion was holding, but Harry's color hadn't improved—if anything, he seemed paler than before, dark circles forming beneath his closed eyes.
The doors to the treatment room burst open with a bang that made Tonks jump, her hand automatically reaching for her wand. Kingsley Shacklebolt staggered in, his normally dignified posture compromised by the massive sword he was carrying. His shoulders were hunched with the effort, arms straining as he lugged the weapon across the room.
"Merlin's saggy Y-fronts," Tonks breathed, eyeing the sword. It looked even more imposing in the stark hospital lighting—a massive blade of strange, dark metal with subtle golden details along its length. The hilt was wrapped in worn leather, designed for a two-handed grip.
"This thing," Kingsley grunted, carefully lowering the sword onto an empty gurney that creaked under its weight, "weighs a bloody ton." He straightened, rolling his shoulders with a wince. "And I couldn't shrink it or store it. Tried every spatial compression charm I know—my expandable pouch just spat it right back out."
Dumbledore approached the sword with evident fascination, peering at it over his half-moon spectacles. "Most extraordinary," he murmured, drawing his wand to cast a series of diagnostic spells.
Nothing happened. No magical aura revealed itself, no runes or enchantments became visible. The sword simply lay there, stubbornly ordinary to magical examination while being decidedly extraordinary in every other way.
"Wingardium Leviosa," Dumbledore tried, making the precise swish and flick motion. The sword didn't so much as twitch.
Tonks had never seen Dumbledore fail at a spell before. It was like watching McGonagall trip over her own feet—something that simply shouldn't happen in a properly functioning universe.
"In all my years," Dumbledore said softly, his voice tinged with genuine wonder, "I've never encountered an object so resistant to magic." He reached out a weathered hand and touched the sword's hilt, then attempted to lift it. For all his magical might, Albus Dumbledore was still a man well past his prime, and the sword remained stubbornly in place.
"How did Harry even wield this thing?" Tonks wondered aloud, stepping closer. "He's just a scrawny kid."
"Perhaps not as scrawny as we remember," Dumbledore observed, gesturing to Harry's unconscious form. "His physical development appears to have accelerated significantly during his absence."
Tonks studied Harry with fresh eyes. Now that Dumbledore mentioned it, his arms and shoulders were defined. Not bulky by any means, but lean and muscled in a way that spoke of intensive physical training.
"Let me try," she said, approaching the sword. Bracing herself, Tonks gripped the hilt with both hands and pulled upward.
To her shock, the sword lifted—not easily, but it moved. She managed to raise it about a foot off the gurney before the weight became too much, and she carefully lowered it back down.
"Blimey," she gasped, flexing her fingers. "That's not normal."
"No indeed," Dumbledore agreed, watching her with that piercing gaze. "Most curious that you were able to lift it when I could not."
Before Tonks could respond, Healer Alderton rushed towards Harry. She quickly used several spells, and even used the same potion again. Tonks knew something bad was happening.
"Professor Dumbledore, Mr. Potter's condition is deteriorating," she reported briskly. "His vital signs are weakening, and the wounds are beginning to seep through the blood-sealing potion. We've administered a second dose, but it's showing diminished effectiveness."
"Any idea why?" Kingsley asked.
The healer shook her head, frustration evident in every line of her body. "None. We've tried everything in our standard protocols and several experimental treatments. Nothing's working." She glanced at Harry, her professional detachment slipping to reveal genuine concern. "If we can't find a solution soon..."
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.
Tonks felt cold dread pooling in her stomach. Harry Potter had survived the Killing Curse as a baby, and escaped from heaven-knows-what during his two-week absence—only to possibly die in a hospital bed from wounds that refused magical healing.
Suddenly, the treatment room doors burst open with the distinctive chaos that could only herald the arrival of the Weasley clan.
Molly Weasley led the charge, her face pale. Behind her came Arthur, along with Ron, Ginny, and the twins. Bill was there too, his long hair tied back. And bringing up the rear, her bushy hair even more frantic than usual, was Hermione Granger, her eyes wild with panic.
"Oh, Harry!" Molly cried upon seeing the unconscious boy, rushing to his bedside.
Tonks stepped back, giving the family room. She caught Kingsley's eye and they shared a look of mingled sympathy and discomfort.
"What happened to him?" Arthur asked Dumbledore quietly, as the rest of the Weasleys gathered around Harry's bed. The twins were uncharacteristically silent.
"We're not entirely certain," Dumbledore admitted, his voice low. "He was found in this condition at his relatives' home after being missing for two weeks."
Ron had moved to Harry's side, his freckles standing out starkly against his pale face. "Bloody hell," he whispered, taking in the silvery-sealed wounds crisscrossing his best friend's torso. "What did this to him?"
It was the bushy-haired girl, however, who really caught Tonks's attention. The young witch hadn't approached the bed immediately. Instead, she stood frozen near the doorway, her eyes fixed on Harry.
After what seemed like a long moment, Hermione moved to Harry's bedside, walking in a way as if she were forcing herself to maintain control. She reached out a trembling hand to touch his arm, then drew back at the last moment.
"What happened to him?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Then, more forcefully, "Where has he been all this time?"
"We don't know, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said gently. "That is what we are trying to determine."
"What about this?" Ginny asked, pointing to the strange half-circle mark on Harry's chest. "Is it a curse?"
"We are uncertain," Dumbledore replied. "It appears to be resistant to all magical examination."
Hermione's attention snapped to the mark, her analytical mind visibly kicking into gear despite her emotional state. "I've never seen anything like it in any of my books," she said, leaning closer to examine it."
"And the sword?" Hermione continued, noticing the massive weapon on the nearby gurney. "Is that Harry's? Where did he get it?"
"We found it beside him," Tonks explained. "It seems to be immune to magic—can't be shrunk, levitated, nothing."
Healer Alderton rushed back into the room, shoving past Fred and George to reach Harry. "His vitals are dropping rapidly," she announced, her wand moving in complex diagnostic patterns. "The blood-sealing potion is failing—the wounds are beginning to bleed again."
"Do something!" Molly demanded.
"We're trying everything we can, Mrs. Weasley," Alderton said, her professional calm slipping. "But nothing is working. The magic in these wounds is actively fighting our treatments."
A team of healers burst into the room, surrounding Harry's bed and forcing the Weasleys to step back. Tonks found herself standing next to Ron and Hermione.
"He can't die," Hermione whispered, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. "Not after everything he's survived."
"He won't," Ron said with a conviction that his pale face belied. "He's Harry bloody Potter. He always makes it through."
But even as he spoke, the monitoring charms gave another ominous alert, and the healers' movements became more urgent, their voices sharper as they called for additional potions and specialized equipment.
Tonks felt a cold weight in her stomach. She'd seen enough emergency situations in her Auror career to recognize when medical professionals were running out of options. One used a small, tiny flask filled with Phoenix tears and dropped it into the largest wound, but he might as well have dropped water for all the good that it did.
Dumbledore stood slightly apart, his aged face grave as he watched the healers work. For once, the greatest wizard of the age seemed entirely powerless, and that, more than anything, filled Tonks with a sense of dread.
The healers were working frantically around Harry's bed, their lime-green robes swirling as they cast increasingly desperate spells. Tonks watched with growing dread as vial after vial of potions was administered with little effect. The blood-sealing potion had failed completely now, and fresh crimson was soaking through the bandages they'd applied as a last resort.
"We're losing him," Healer Alderton said, her professional veneer cracking.
Molly Weasley was sobbing quietly into Arthur's shoulder. Ron stood rigid, his face ashen, while Hermione had pressed her fist against her mouth to stifle her own cries.
Tonks felt utterly useless. As an Auror, she was trained to act, to protect, to solve problems—but here, she could do nothing but watch as Harry Potter's life literally bled away before her eyes.
"I can help him."
The voice—female, calm, and utterly unfamiliar—came from behind them.
Tonks reacted instantly, spinning around with her wand raised. She wasn't alone; in the blink of an eye, every conscious witch and wizard in the room except Dumbledore had their wands pointed at the source of the voice.
Standing near the doorway was a young woman unlike any Tonks had ever seen. She appeared to be in her early twenties, dressed in a simple, floor-length dress of deep purple that seemed oddly archaic in its design. Her right eye was closed, seemingly permanently, with a wolf scar running across the left eyelid. But her left eye—Merlin's beard, her left eye was golden. Not brown or amber, but a true, metallic gold that seemed to glow with an inner light.
"Who the bloody hell are you?" Tonks demanded, not lowering her wand even slightly. "And how did you get in here? This floor is restricted!"
The mysterious woman didn't even glance at the array of wands pointed her way. Her golden eye was fixed solely on Harry's unconscious form.
"Only I can save him," she said, her voice carrying an accent Tonks couldn't quite place. "If I don't, he will die."
There was such quiet certainty in her voice that Tonks felt a chill run down her spine.
"Lower your wands," Dumbledore said quietly, his eyes fixed on the newcomer with intense curiosity rather than hostility.
"But Headmaster—" Kingsley began.
"Lower them," Dumbledore repeated more firmly. "I believe this young lady may indeed be able to help where our magic has failed."
Reluctantly, Tonks lowered her wand, though she kept it ready in her hand. The others followed suit, albeit with obvious reluctance.
Without waiting for further invitation, the woman approached Harry's bed. The healers stepped back uncertainly, looking to Dumbledore for guidance. He nodded slightly, and they withdrew further, giving the strange woman access to their patient.
"Who are you?" Hermione asked.
The woman didn't answer. Instead, she placed one pale hand on Harry's forehead and the other over the strange dark mark on his chest. Her golden eye seemed to glow more intensely as she closed it in concentration.
"Minor Erdtree," she whispered.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, from the floor beneath her feet, golden light began to bloom. It spread upward, taking shape—a trunk, branches, leaves—until a luminous tree of pure golden energy stretched toward the ceiling. The room filled with a warm, comforting light that seemed to pulse with a heartbeat of its own.
Tonks had seen a lot of impressive magic in her time, but nothing like this. It wasn't just the visual display that was extraordinary—it was the feel of it. This magic felt ancient, somehow fundamentally different from the magic she knew.
Golden dust, like pollen caught in sunlight, began to drift down from the ethereal tree's branches, settling on Harry's wounds. Where it touched, the angry red gashes began to close—not just the bleeding stopping, but the skin actually knitting itself back together before their eyes.
"Impossible," breathed Healer Alderton, her professional skepticism warring with the evidence of her own eyes.
"Bloody brilliant," whispered Fred—or possibly George—his voice tinged with awe.
Tonks couldn't tear her eyes away from the spectacle. One by one, Harry's wounds closed completely, leaving behind only faint silver scars where moments before there had been life-threatening gashes. Even the dark, branching mark on his chest seemed less pronounced, though it didn't disappear entirely.
As the last wound sealed, the golden tree gradually faded, its light dimming until only the memory of its warmth remained. The strange woman removed her hands from Harry, straightening up with a slight sway that suggested the healing had taken a toll on her as well.
"Why isn't he waking up?" Hermione asked immediately, stepping forward to check Harry's now-healed chest with trembling fingers.
"He needs rest after defeating Godrick," the woman replied, as if this explained everything. "The battle drained him completely."
"Godrick?" Ron repeated, bewildered. "Who the bloody hell is Godrick?"
The golden-eyed woman shook her head slightly. "The one who wounded Harry," she said simply, offering no further explanation.
Dumbledore stepped forward, his blue eyes twinkling with that peculiar mix of wariness and curiosity that Tonks had seen only when he encountered something truly novel.
"I believe," he said softly, "that introductions are in order. Who might you be, young lady?"
The woman opened her mouth to reply, but then frowned, looking down at her own hands. Tonks followed her gaze and felt her Auror instincts snap to full alert—the strange woman's fingers were beginning to shimmer with golden light, similar to the healing tree she'd conjured. The glow spread quickly up her arms and across her body.
The woman looked genuinely surprised, perhaps even alarmed. "This shouldn't be happening," she murmured, examining her glowing hands. "Not yet."
The golden light intensified, and for a brief moment, Tonks could have sworn she saw what looked like branches or roots extending from the woman's back—not physical ones, but patterns of light that mimicked the structure of the magical tree she'd summoned.
"Protect him until I can return," the woman said urgently, her single golden eye fixed on Dumbledore. "The worlds are connected. The dangers of the Lands Between may follow him here."
"Wait!" Hermione cried, stepping forward. "Who are you? What happened to Harry?"
But the mysterious woman was already changing, her form dissolving. The golden light fractured and shifted, transforming before their eyes into a swarm of tiny, luminescent blue butterflies. They hovered for a brief moment in the shape of a woman, then scattered in all directions, passing through the solid walls of the hospital room as if they were mist.
And she was gone.
The room fell into stunned silence. Tonks realized her mouth was hanging open, and she closed it with an audible click.
"What," she finally managed, "in Merlin's saggy left testicle was that?"
"Language, dear," Molly Weasley murmured automatically, though her rebuke lacked any real force as she stared at the space where the golden-eyed woman had been.
"I believe," Dumbledore said carefully, "we have just encountered someone from beyond our normal realms of experience."
"Beyond our—" Kingsley started, then shook his head in disbelief. "Albus, people don't just turn into butterflies and vanish through solid walls."
"Apparently, they do," Fred (or was it George?) said, sounding more impressed than alarmed.
"And what did she mean about 'the worlds are connected'?" Ginny asked, her freckles standing out against her pale face. "What worlds?"
Healer Alderton had recovered enough to approach Harry, casting diagnostic charms with shaking hands. "His wounds are completely healed," she reported, unable to keep the astonishment from her voice. "I've never seen anything like it. Even the scarring is minimal."
"But what about that mark on his chest?" Ron asked, pointing to the half-circle pattern that remained despite the healing. "She didn't fix that."
"Perhaps it cannot be fixed," Dumbledore mused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Or perhaps it is not meant to be."
Tonks watched as Hermione cautiously took Harry's hand, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. "She said he needed rest," the bushy-haired witch said quietly. "After defeating someone called Godrick."
"Godrick?" Arthur Weasley repeated. "Never heard of any dark wizard by that name."
"Nor have I," Dumbledore admitted.
"Albus," Kingsley said, his deep voice hushed, "what do we do now?"
Dumbledore turned to look at Harry's peacefully sleeping form. "We wait," he said simply. "And we remain vigilant." He turned to Tonks. "Nymphadora, I'd like you to stay with Harry. Your Auror training makes you best equipped to respond if any... unusual visitors arrive."
Tonks nodded, ignoring the use of her full name for once. "You think more of those things might show up? Like that creature at the Dursleys'?"
"What creature?" one of the Weasleys asked.
"I think," Dumbledore said carefully, "that we are dealing with matters beyond our current understanding. Caution would be wise."
The Weasleys and Hermione clustered around Harry's bed, their expressions a mix of relief that he was healed and confusion about everything else. The healers huddled near the door, whispering amongst themselves and casting occasional bewildered glances at their patient.
Tonks gripped her wand a little tighter, settling into a guard position near the door. The sword—that massive, magic-resistant weapon—still lay on the gurney nearby, whatever had happened to Harry Potter was far from ordinary, even by wizarding standards.
Harry himself remained still, his breathing now deep and regular, the color slowly returning to his face. He looked peaceful, perhaps for the first time since Tonks had found him bleeding on his bedroom floor.
Whatever journey Harry Potter had been on, it was clear to everyone present that it was far from over.
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