What Lies Ahead

Eleven

Harry felt his mouth go dry. He hadn't expected Snape to still be at Hogwarts. Surely, if he was working for Voldemort he would have left; fled in fear. Instead, he had remained and was now only a few floors away. The image of his sneering face as his hand tightened around Harry's neck rose to Harry's mind and he gritted his teeth.

"He's working for Voldemort," Harry forced out, eyes locked on Dumbledore, watching for any change in emotion. "He tor…did…did this." Unable to stomach the word torture, Harry fumbled for an explanation; for the right words to explain what the Potions Master had done.

An indiscernible look passed over the old man's face before he dropped his gaze, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. Every wrinkle upon his face was outlined in the dim reddening light, showing his true age. He seemed to be lost in thought for several minutes, eyes searching his clasped hands for his next words, and then he sighed and spoke slowly.

"Harry, I need for you to tell me everything that happened."

The sun had dipped beneath the window sill now, shrouding the room in partial darkness as the shadows overtook the space. In the dimming light, Harry could see the concern staring back at him in those misty blue eyes. Swallowing hard against the rising lump in his throat, Harry searched for the courage to begin his tale.

"By the time I got into the Chamber of Secrets she was already…already…" His words failed him as a fresh wave of grief rose to the surface, overtaking everything else. How could he possibly explain what had happened when just thinking about it cut him to the core? The images of her lying pale and lifeless on the stone floor were just as vivid now, like it had happened moments ago, not weeks.

However, he was saved from continuing as a sharp rapping echoed from the office door. Seconds later Professor McGonagall entered the room with Madam Pomfrey close on her heels. As she caught sight of Harry, the Professor's hand shot to her lips, stifling a gasp; Madam Pomfrey, however, went straight to work.

Crossing the room, she deposited two oddly shaped bottles onto the bedside table; one was a bright blue colour, the other a dark rusty red. Harry had just enough time to ponder which was which before the matron swooped down upon him, examining everything in turn as she gingerly pulled him into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. She spared a second to wave her wand and flickering flames burst into life on every candle wick in the room. She started with his face; her slender fingers tracing his cheekbone, applying just enough pressure to reignite the dull ache that had been there earlier.  Muttering about deep bruises, she leaned in closer to study the purple splotches that accompanied the swelling.

"Shackles," she asked abruptly. Her hands had moved to his wrists now, cradling them gently as she looked at the lacerations along the arm. Parts of the dried blood had cracked open, making way for a fresh wave to ooze out.

Harry nodded but remained silent. Looking around, he could see that Professor Dumbledore was now standing by McGonagall and they were discussing something in a soft whisper. He strained to hear what they were saying but Madam Pomfrey was now diagnosing his condition out loud.

"Headmaster, he needs St. Mungo's," she said suddenly. Her attention had shifted to his back, and moving around to stand behind Harry, she gently pulled his shirt away. He let out a gasp of pain as her fingers brushed his burning ribs and she quickly pulled away.

"Is there nothing you can do for him, Poppy," asked Dumbledore.

"Whatever made these lashes was coated in some form of poison," she said, running her fingertips along one of the open whelps. Harry grimaced, biting back a yelp. "I could heal them, but it would take weeks and the scaring would be horrible. St. Mungo's has healers and remedies that could fix it in half the time. It would be much safer for Mr. Potter to be under their care."