Not Much To Look At

A/N: Sorry to anybody out there who might actually be following my stories. :D It's been a few months since I've last done something, but I have a good reason. In February I wrote a full novella as a nostalgic birthday present for my dad. Then I got really busy editing the crap out of my original novel--literally! But here I am again. Hope it's worth the wait.

Disclaimer: Mine? I sure wish. Am I making a profit off of it? Once again, I wish, but sadly no.

Not Much To Look At

By Islander

(Boom)

Was that the massive clock outside the infirmary, or was that her own beating heart? As her gaze followed her final patient into the room, Poppy Pomfrey lost all ability to tell. She could only gape at the mangled man that lay on the stretcher borne by Finch-Fletchley and Longbottom, like a lamb sacrificed for the lives of the survivors. He was one wounded out of many, but he was the worst--and the greatest. Even in the midst of the frantic melee (twenty professional St. Mungo Healers treating a hundred dying witches and wizards had stuffed the poor infirmary to its gills), he still stood out, even though the scar on his forehead has disappeared beneath his blossoming blood, even though the stained eyelids covered his curiously-bright green eyes, even though every other portion of his skin was tattered, torn, or disfigured in some unimaginable way.

"Quick! Bring him straight to me!" she snapped in an unprofessional panic, beckoning so frantically towards Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley that her hand was practically windmilling itself.

Will this be the time he doesn't survive?

No words were spoken after that. She shooed the two stretcher-bearers away and lay the injured man across the last free bed. With a wave of her wand she removed the remnants of his clothes; they peeled away with a wet slither and fell to the floor in a crimson heap. To be honest, the man hardly looked any different without them--he was still the same mass of torn flesh, warm and slippery fluids, and even the occasional hint of gleaming white bone where it peeked from beneath the throbbing muscles that lay ragged above it.

So this is what is means to be the Chosen One, Harry? This is what it means to return to Hogwarts in its time of greatest need and give everything you have to the school you haven't attended for over a year. This is what it means to take the chance and free yourself of that one wizard who's been holding your life captive since the age of one--to succeed, only to end out like this. . .!

(Boom)

Poppy clutched at her chest for a brief moment to still her quivering heart. Another healer came over to help her tend to Harry. She heard herself giving orders to her colleague, but she was never able to remember what they were. The next hour was on automatic--she knew nothing except that she was doing what she was supposed to do. She was saving the man who had saved them all.

**********

As the final battle fell away day by day, the Hogwarts infirmary slowly emptied of its inhabitants. The wounded became healed. Their friends and family dropped in to bear them away (often leaning them on a shoulder, or holding their hands, or encouraging their independent steps), off to yet another party to celebrated You-Know-Who's (Dumbledore always told us to say 'Vol--' Oh, but see, we never can!) downfall. Mercifully, few of the casualties ended in death.

By the seventh day, the room was empty, except for one lone patient and his three visitors. Yes, it was Harry Potter in that bed, his thin frame remarkably restored from his injuries by the skilled wandwork and potions of Poppy Pomfrey and her team of St. Mungo's Healers. His gaping wounds were healed and his skin returned from its blood-slicked tatter to its original pale complexion. His wide, green eyes, now no longer closed in unconsciousness, shone piercingly through his round spectacles. He chatted easily with his friends Granger and Weasley as he kept his arm firmly around Weasley's younger sister.

Are they together again? When did this happen?

And a strange, unexplainable feeling arose in Poppy. Something inside of her wanted everyone in the room to go away--to leave and leave her alone with her patient. She hurried to Harry's bed and barked, "Visitor's hour is over! Scat, all of you!"

"Ah, c'mon, that couldn't have been more than fifty minutes!" the Weasley boy grumbled.

"Just another ten?" his little sister wheedled.

"Please, we'll stay quiet," Granger put in, her eyes wide.

"Out, out!" Poppy insisted. "I must insist! He's my patient, and he was due for his daily examination two-and-a-half minutes ago!" She pushed them in the direction of the door, but they proved more resilient than mold on the bedpans.

"He doesn't mind us sitting through his exam," Granger said quickly. "Do you, Harry?"

"Uh, actually--" Harry stammered--

"He does, in fact, mind," Poppy corrected her curtly, "as he'll be naked. So, if you still want to stay. . ."

The Weasley brother and Granger needed no further hint; they left the infirmary without additional ado. As for Miss Weasley, it only took her longer to get rid of her, as she insisted she still wanted to stay.

In the end, Poppy and Harry were alone. Sighing with relief, she shut the infirmary door with a snap and said, with a roll of her eyes, "Don't worry, you'll see them in a little while."

But for now I have you to myself.

Where did that thought come from? Poppy gave her head a little shake to clear it and ordered Harry to disrobe. With much self-consciousness he did so, and she spent a long time checking his injuries.

Entirely too long for his comfort, I'm sure. But he's my patient, and I must make sure his wounds are all healed. Hmm, and it seems like they are! Merlin, what a fine job, if I do say so myself. Good as new, he is. Hmm, still on the skinny side, though--not much to look out. I don't know where in Merlin people get the idea that Quidditch builds up the body. All it's given Harry is a firm grip in the legs. Not that that isn't an appealing alternative to rippling muscles, but still. . .

No, it's all in the eyes. Those beautiful, green eyes he inherited from his mum. Wherever did they find their power that gives them such a curious stare, such a piercing, discerning gaze? My soul's laid bare before him, it seems. . . like I want to tell him everything about me, be it the truth and nothing but the truth.

So why don't I? I don't know Harry all that well, but I want to. I want to know him better. I want him to know me better. He's such a leader--more solid than a stone, dependable, loyal to a fault, and wise beyond his years. That's a whole list of qualities that should have the girls at his feet. . . including--

"Um, Madame Pomfrey?" This was Harry interrupting her thoughts. "Are you done yet?"

Good gracious, why had she let her mind wander? Jerking herself harshly back to reality, she said, "Y--yes, of course. Get dressed, now." And he did, more than willingly.

When he was back in his hospital-issue, striped pajamas, she made to go back to her office. But, halfway there, she stopped and turned around to survey her patient. "Is everything to your satisfaction, Harry?"

Harry nodded. "It's fine, Madame Pomfrey," he said, a little embarrassed at the attention.

Or a little embarrassed by the examination?

She hid a smile. "You gave us a real scare, you know," she said, biting back a quaver in her voice. "Just a little more and you would have died."

"I know," Harry replied, still in the same tone.

Obviously he won't take it well if I choose to be the umpteenth person who's praised him for saving the Wizarding World.

"I'm just glad you've returned to us, that's all," she whispered, her eyes inexplicably moist. When did she ever let herself cry?

Thankfully Harry didn't notice the tears--it would have only made him more uneasy than he already was. "With Voldemort gone, maybe I'll actually manage to keep out of the hospital for a full year," he joked weakly. "At least, until Ginny and I get married and start having kids."

(Boom)

Silence.

Ginny and Harry are even engaged? That I didn't know. Well. . . I don't know what to think! I--I'm happy for them, I suppose.

Wait, what did she mean, 'I suppose?'

"So when do I get to leave?"

"Tomorrow," Poppy replied, surprised to find her voice in an irritable snap.

"But I'm all better! Can't I go now?"

"I shall decide when my patients are or aren't fit to go!" she retorted before she stalked into her office and slammed the door.

This is the last time he'll ever visit this infirmary. Heck, I'm lucky to see him one more time as it is. He's not even a student anymore.

She sunk onto the chair before her desk held back a sniffle that had sneaked up and caught her at unawares.

And tomorrow he'll go traipsing out the door arm-in-arm with the Weasley girl, and they'll go off together with her brother and Granger--out into the wide world around them and away from Hogwarts. Merlin, I wish I could spend longer with him. Maybe I should have said two more nights.

**********

Speaking of nights, that one was one of the hardest for Poppy Pomfrey, resident nurse at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She had no ailing students, no broken or severed limbs, no bleeding ears, no transfigured body parts--just one patient, sleeping peacefully on the infirmary cot, his arms wrapped gently around the pillow. His messy black hair shone gently in the moonlight and fell into his eyes, closed in sleep.

She couldn't sleep herself. At midnight she got up and made herself some warm milk, then sat at the edge of Harry's bed and watched his peaceful slumber.

Merlin how peaceful he looks! After all that hardship, how could he have this calmness in him? His life has been one war after another--both literal and figurative, without fail. But inside there's still that loving, comforting Harry that makes him who he really is. Not Harry Potter, not The-Boy-Who-Lived. . . just Harry.

This was the last night he would ever spend in the infirmary. She reached out and dared to softly stroke his lustrous, raven hair.

**********

The next morning Poppy came out of her office under the guise of having gotten a refreshing night's sleep. Harry was already awake and surrounded by his three friends again. It was barely past 7:30! Were they that eager to get him out of here?

She insisted on serving him breakfast. She purposely took a long time in the preparations, and by the time Harry received his bacon, eggs, and breakfast bread, he was so impatient he ate it all in under two minutes.

"Can I go now, Madame Pomfrey?" he pleaded.

No, I'd rather you not.

She even took a long time with her sigh. After she had drawn it out as long as could be believable, she relented. "Yes, you may."

He and the Weasley brother both let out whoops of joy. Then Miss Weasley and Miss Granger took Harry by the arms, and they all headed for the infirmary door. Poppy watched them leave, her soul a mixture of bittersweet sorrow.

(Boom)

That's it, walk out of my life forever. You'll likely never see me again.

She turned around to return to her office, but she had barely taken two steps when she felt a tap on the shoulder. She turned around and saw Harry standing in front of her.

"Uh, Madame Pomfrey?" he started, a little nervous. "Uh, I just want to say. . . well, thanks. For everything. . . everything since my first year, in fact. . . you don't realize how much it's meant. Even I didn't, until now. . ."

And, obviously drawing from a deep well of nerves, he gave her a hug and a quick peck on the check. Then he scampered back to his grinning friends, a blush burning on his cheeks.

(Boom)

Was that the massive clock outside the infirmary, or was that her own beating heart? As her gaze followed her final patient out of the room, Poppy Pomfrey lost all ability to tell.

The End

A/N: Please check my other stories, including my novel length humor fic The Scarlett Letter. Oh, and don't forget to review, either.